english men of letters edited by john morley goldsmith by william black london macmillan and co 1878 * * * * * contents. chapter i. introductory chapter ii. school and college chapter iii. idleness, and foreign travel chapter iv. early struggles.--hack-writing chapter v. beginning of authorship.--the bee chapter vi. personal traits chapter vii. the citizen of the world.--beau nash chapter viii. the arrest chapter ix. the traveller chapter x. miscellaneous writing chapter xi. the vicar of wakefield chapter xii. the good-natured man chapter xiii. goldsmith in society chapter xiv. the deserted village chapter xv. occasional writings chapter xvi. she stoops to conquer chapter xvii. increasing difficulties.--the end * * * * * goldsmith chapter i. introductory. "innocently to amuse the imagination in this dream of life is wisdom." so wrote oliver goldsmith; and surely among those who have earned the world's gratitude by this ministration he must be accorded a conspicuous place. if, in these delightful writings of his, he mostly avoids the darker problems of existence--if the mystery of the tragic and apparently unmerited and unrequited suffering in the world is rarely touched upon--we can pardon the omission for the sake of the gentle optimism that would rather look on the kindly side of life. "you come hot and tired from the day's battle, and this sweet minstrel sings to you," says mr. thackeray. "who could harm the kind vagrant harper? whom did he ever hurt? he carries no weapon save the harp on which he plays to you; and with which he delights great and humble, young and old, the captains in the tents, or the soldiers round the fire, or the women and children in the villages, at whose porches he stops and sings his simple songs of love and beauty." and it is to be suspected--it is to be hoped, at least--that the cheerfulness which shines like sunlight through goldsmith's writings, did not altogether desert himself even in the most trying hours of his wayward and troubled career. he had, with all his sensitiveness, a fine happy-go-lucky disposition; was ready for a frolic when he had a guinea, and, when he had none, could turn a sentence on the humorous side of starvation; and certainly never attributed to the injustice or neglect of society misfortunes the origin of which lay nearer home. of course, a very dark picture might be drawn of goldsmith's life; and the sufferings that he undoubtedly endured have been made a whip with which to lash the ingratitude of a world not too quick to recognise the claims of genius. he has been put before us, without any brighter lights to the picture, as the most unfortunate of poor devils; the heart-broken usher; the hack ground down by sordid booksellers; the starving occupant of successive garrets. this is the aspect of goldsmith's career which naturally attracts mr. forster. mr. forster seems to have been haunted throughout his life by the idea that providence had some especial spite against literary persons; and that, in a measure to compensate them for their sad lot, society should be very kind to them, while the government of the day might make them companions of the bath or give them posts in the civil service. in the otherwise copious, thorough, and valuable _life and times of oliver goldsmith_, we find an almost humiliating insistance on the complaint that oliver goldsmith did not receive greater recognition and larger sums of money from his contemporaries. goldsmith is here "the poor neglected sizar"; his "marked ill-fortune" attends him constantly; he shares "the evil destinies of men of letters"; he was one of those who "struggled into fame without the aid of english institutions"; in short, "he wrote, and paid the penalty." nay, even christianity itself is impeached on account of the persecution suffered by poor goldsmith. "there had been a christian religion extant for seventeen-hundred and fifty-seven years," writes mr. forster, "the world having been acquainted, for even so long, with its spiritual necessities and responsibilities; yet here, in the middle of the eighteenth century, was the eminence ordinarily conceded to a spiritual teacher, to one of those men who come upon the earth to lift their fellow-men above its miry ways. he is up in a garret, writing for bread he cannot get, and dunned for a milkscore he cannot pay." that christianity might have been worse employed than in paying the milkman's score is true enough, for then the milkman would have come by his own; but that christianity, or the state, or society should be scolded because an author suffers the natural consequences of his allowing his expenditure to exceed his income, seems a little hard. and this is a sort of writing that is peculiarly inappropriate in the case of goldsmith, who, if ever any man was author of his own misfortunes, may fairly have the charge brought against him. "men of genius," says mr. forster, "can more easily starve, than the world, with safety to itself, can continue to neglect and starve them." perhaps so; but the english nation, which has always had a regard and even love for oliver goldsmith, that is quite peculiar in the history of literature, and which has been glad to overlook his faults and follies, and eager to sympathise with him in the many miseries of his career, will be slow to believe that it is responsible for any starvation that goldsmith may have endured. however, the key-note has been firmly struck, and it still vibrates. goldsmith was the unluckiest of mortals, the hapless victim of circumstances. "yielding to that united pressure of labour, penury, and sorrow, with a frame exhausted by unremitting and ill-rewarded drudgery, goldsmith was indebted to the forbearance of creditors for a peaceful burial." but what, now, if some foreigner strange to the traditions of english literature--some japanese student, for example, or the new zealander come before his time--were to go over the ascertained facts of goldsmith's life, and were suddenly to announce to us, with the happy audacity of ignorance, that he, goldsmith, was a quite exceptionally fortunate person? "why," he might say, "i find that in a country where the vast majority of people are born to labour, oliver goldsmith was never asked to do a stroke of work towards the earning of his own living until he had arrived at man's estate. all that was expected of him, as a youth and as a young man, was that he should equip himself fully for the battle of life. he was maintained at college until he had taken his degree. again and again he was furnished with funds for further study and foreign travel; and again and again he gambled his opportunities away. the constant kindness of his uncle only made him the best begging-letter-writer the world has seen. in the midst of his debt and distress as a bookseller's drudge, he receives £400 for three nights' performance of _the good-natured man_; he immediately purchases chambers in brick court for £400; and forthwith begins to borrow as before. it is true that he died owing £2000, and was indebted to the forbearance of creditors for a peaceful burial; but it appears that during the last seven years of his life he had been earning an annual income equivalent to £800 of english currency.[1] he was a man liberally and affectionately brought up, who had many relatives and many friends, and who had the proud satisfaction--which has been denied to many men of genius--of knowing for years before he died that his merits as a writer had been recognised by the great bulk of his countrymen. and yet this strange english nation is inclined to suspect that it treated him rather badly; and christianity is attacked because it did not pay goldsmith's milkscore." [footnote 1: the calculation is lord macaulay's: see his _biographical_ _essays_.] our japanese friend may be exaggerating; but his position is after all fairly tenable. it may at least be looked at, before entering on the following brief _résumé_ of the leading facts in goldsmith's life, if only to restore our equanimity. for, naturally, it is not pleasant to think that any previous generation, however neglectful of the claims of literary persons (as compared with the claims of such wretched creatures as physicians, men of science, artists, engineers, and so forth) should so cruelly have ill-treated one whom we all love now. this inheritance of ingratitude is more than we can bear. is it true that goldsmith was so harshly dealt with by those barbarian ancestors of ours? chapter ii. school and college. the goldsmiths were of english descent; goldsmith's father was a protestant clergyman in a poor little village in the county of longford; and when oliver, one of several children, was born in this village of pallas, or pallasmore, on the 10th november, 1728, the rev. charles goldsmith was passing rich on £40 a year. but a couple of years later mr. goldsmith succeeded to a more lucrative living; and forthwith removed his family to the village of lissoy, in the county of westmeath. here at once our interest in the story begins: is this lissoy the sweet auburn that we have known and loved since our childhood? lord macaulay, with a great deal of vehemence, avers that it is not; that there never was any such hamlet as auburn in ireland; that _the deserted village_ is a hopelessly incongruous poem; and that goldsmith, in combining a description of a probably kentish village with a description of an irish ejectment, "has produced something which never was, and never will be, seen in any part of the world." this criticism is ingenious and plausible, but it is unsound, for it happens to overlook one of the radical facts of human nature--the magnifying delight of the mind in what is long remembered and remote. what was it that the imagination of goldsmith, in his life-long banishment, could not see when he looked back to the home of his childhood, and his early friends, and the sports and occupations of his youth? lissoy was no doubt a poor enough irish village; and perhaps the farms were not too well cultivated; and perhaps the village preacher, who was so dear to all the country round, had to administer many a thrashing to a certain graceless son of his; and perhaps paddy byrne was something of a pedant; and no doubt pigs ran over the "nicely sanded floor" of the inn; and no doubt the village statesmen occasionally indulged in a free fight. but do you think that was the lissoy that goldsmith thought of in his dreary lodgings in fleet-street courts? no. it was the lissoy where the vagrant lad had first seen the "primrose peep beneath the thorn"; where he had listened to the mysterious call of the bittern by the unfrequented river; it was a lissoy still ringing with the glad laughter of young people in the twilight hours; it was a lissoy for ever beautiful, and tender, and far away. the grown-up goldsmith had not to go to any kentish village for a model; the familiar scenes of his youth, regarded with all the wistfulness and longing of an exile, became glorified enough. "if i go to the opera where signora colomba pours out all the mazes of melody," he writes to mr. hodson, "i sit and sigh for lissoy's fireside, and _johnny armstrong's last good night_ from peggy golden." there was but little in the circumstances of goldsmith's early life likely to fit him for, or to lead him into, a literary career; in fact, he did not take to literature until he had tried pretty nearly everything else as a method of earning a living. if he was intended for anything, it was no doubt his father's wish that he should enter the church; and he got such education as the poor irish clergyman--who was not a very provident person--could afford. the child goldsmith was first of all taught his alphabet at home, by a maid-servant, who was also a relation of the family; then, at the age of six, he was sent to that village school which, with its profound and learned master, he has made familiar to all of us; and after that he was sent further a-field for his learning, being moved from this to the other boarding-school as the occasion demanded. goldsmith's school-life could not have been altogether a pleasant time for him. we hear, indeed, of his being concerned in a good many frolics--robbing orchards, and the like; and it is said that he attained proficiency in the game of fives. but a shy and sensitive lad like goldsmith, who was eagerly desirous of being thought well of, and whose appearance only invited the thoughtless but cruel ridicule of his schoolmates, must have suffered a good deal. he was little, pitted with the small-pox, and awkward; and schoolboys are amazingly frank. he was not strong enough to thrash them into respect of him; he had no big brother to become his champion; his pocket-money was not lavish enough to enable him to buy over enemies or subsidise allies. in similar circumstances it has sometimes happened that a boy physically inferior to his companions has consoled himself by proving his mental prowess--has scored off his failure at cricket by the taking of prizes, and has revenged himself for a drubbing by writing a lampoon. but even this last resource was not open to goldsmith. he was a dull boy; "a stupid, heavy blockhead," is dr. strean's phrase in summing up the estimate formed of young goldsmith by his contemporaries at school. of course, as soon as he became famous, everybody began to hunt up recollections of his having said or done this or that, in order to prove that there were signs of the coming greatness. people began to remember that he had been suspected of scribbling verses, which he burned. what schoolboy has not done the like? we know how the biographers of great painters point out to us that their hero early showed the bent of his mind by drawing the figures of animals on doors and walls with a piece of chalk; as to which it may be observed that, if every schoolboy who scribbled verses and sketched in chalk on a brick wall, were to grow up a genius, poems and pictures would be plentiful enough. however, there is the apparently authenticated anecdote of young goldsmith's turning the tables on the fiddler at his uncle's dancing-party. the fiddler, struck by the odd look of the boy who was capering about the room, called out "æsop!" whereupon goldsmith is said to have instantly replied, "our herald hath proclaimed this saying, see æsop dancing and his monkey playing!" but even if this story be true, it is worth nothing as an augury; for quickness of repartee was precisely the accomplishment which the adult goldsmith conspicuously lacked. put a pen into his hand, and shut him up in a room: then he was master of the situation--nothing could be more incisive, polished, and easy than his playful sarcasm. but in society any fool could get the better of him by a sudden question followed by a horse-laugh. all through his life--even after he had become one of the most famous of living writers--goldsmith suffered from want of self-confidence. he was too anxious to please. in his eager acquiescence, he would blunder into any trap that was laid for him. a grain or two of the stolid self-sufficiency of the blockheads who laughed at him would not only have improved his character, but would have considerably added to the happiness of his life. as a natural consequence of this timidity, goldsmith, when opportunity served, assumed airs of magnificent importance. every one knows the story of the mistake on which _she stoops to conquer_ is founded. getting free at last from all the turmoil, and anxieties, and mortifications of school-life, and returning home on a lent hack, the released schoolboy is feeling very grand indeed. he is now sixteen, would fain pass for a man, and has a whole golden guinea in his pocket. and so he takes the journey very leisurely until, getting benighted in a certain village, he asks the way to the "best house," and is directed by a facetious person to the house of the squire. the squire by good luck falls in with the joke; and then we have a very pretty comedy indeed--the impecunious schoolboy playing the part of a fine gentleman on the strength of his solitary guinea, ordering a bottle of wine after his supper, and inviting his landlord and his landlord's wife and daughter to join him in the supper-room. the contrast, in _she stoops to conquer_, between marlow's embarrassed diffidence on certain occasions and his audacious effrontery on others, found many a parallel in the incidents of goldsmith's own life; and it is not improbable that the writer of the comedy was thinking of some of his own experiences, when he made miss hardcastle say to her timid suitor: "a want of courage upon some occasions assumes the appearance of ignorance, and betrays us when we most want to excel." it was, perhaps, just as well that the supper, and bottle of wine, and lodging at squire featherston's had not to be paid for out of the schoolboy's guinea; for young goldsmith was now on his way to college, and the funds at the disposal of the goldsmith family were not over abundant. goldsmith's sister having married the son of a well-to do man, her father considered it a point of honour that she should have a dowry: and in giving her a sum of £400 he so crippled the means of the family, that goldsmith had to be sent to college not as a pensioner but as a sizar. it appears that the young gentleman's pride revolted against this proposal; and that he was won over to consent only by the persuasions of his uncle contarine, who himself had been a sizar. so goldsmith, now in his eighteenth year, went to dublin; managed somehow or other--though he was the last in the list--to pass the necessary examination; and entered upon his college career (1745.) how he lived, and what he learned, at trinity college, are both largely matters of conjecture; the chief features of such record as we have are the various means of raising a little money to which the poor sizar had to resort; a continual quarrelling with his tutor, an ill-conditioned brute, who baited goldsmith and occasionally beat him; and a chance frolic when funds were forthcoming. it was while he was at trinity college that his father died; so that goldsmith was rendered more than ever dependent on the kindness of his uncle contarine, who throughout seems to have taken much interest in his odd, ungainly nephew. a loan from a friend or a visit to the pawnbroker tided over the severer difficulties; and then from time to time the writing of street-ballads, for which he got five shillings a-piece at a certain repository, came in to help. it was a happy-go-lucky, hand-to-mouth sort of existence, involving a good deal of hardship and humiliation, but having its frolics and gaieties notwithstanding. one of these was pretty near to putting an end to his collegiate career altogether. he had, smarting under a public admonition for having been concerned in a riot, taken seriously to his studies and had competed for a scholarship. he missed the scholarship, but gained an exhibition of the value of thirty shillings; whereupon he collected a number of friends of both sexes in his rooms, and proceeded to have high jinks there. in the midst of the dancing and uproar, in comes his tutor, in such a passion that he knocks goldsmith down. this insult, received before his friends, was too much for the unlucky sizar, who, the very next day, sold his books, ran away from college, and ultimately, after having been on the verge of starvation once or twice, made his way to lissoy. here his brother got hold of him; persuaded him to go back; and the escapade was condoned somehow. goldsmith remained at trinity college until he took his degree (1749.) he was again lowest in the list; but still he had passed; and he must have learned something. he was now twenty-one, with all the world before him; and the question was as to how he was to employ such knowledge as he had acquired. chapter iii. idleness, and foreign travel. but goldsmith was not in any hurry to acquire either wealth or fame. he had a happy knack of enjoying the present hour--especially when there were one or two boon companions with him, and a pack of cards to be found; and, after his return to his mother's house, he appears to have entered upon the business of idleness with much philosophical satisfaction. if he was not quite such an unlettered clown as he has described in tony lumpkin, he had at least all tony lumpkin's high spirits and love of joking and idling; and he was surrounded at the ale-house by just such a company of admirers as used to meet at the famous three pigeons. sometimes he helped in his brother's school; sometimes he went errands for his mother; occasionally he would sit and meditatively play the flute--for the day was to be passed somehow; then in the evening came the assemblage in conway's inn, with the glass, and the pipe, and the cards, and the uproarious jest or song. "but scripture saith an ending to all fine things must be," and the friends of this jovial young "buckeen" began to tire of his idleness and his recurrent visits. they gave him hints that he might set about doing something to provide himself with a living; and the first thing they thought of was that he should go into the church--perhaps as a sort of purification-house after george conway's inn. accordingly goldsmith, who appears to have been a most good-natured and compliant youth, did make application to the bishop of elphin. there is some doubt about the precise reasons which induced the bishop to decline goldsmith's application, but at any rate the church was denied the aid of the young man's eloquence and erudition. then he tried teaching, and through the good offices of his uncle he obtained a tutorship which he held for a considerable time--long enough, indeed, to enable him to amass a sum of thirty pounds. when he quarrelled with his patron, and once more "took the world for his pillow," as the gaelic stories say, he had this sum in his pocket and was possessed of a good horse. he started away from ballymahon, where his mother was now living, with some vague notion of making his fortune as casual circumstance might direct. the expedition came to a premature end; and he returned without the money, and on the back of a wretched animal, telling his mother a cock-and-bull story of the most amusing simplicity. "if uncle contarine believed those letters," says mr. thackeray, "---if oliver's mother believed that story which the youth related of his going to cork, with the purpose of embarking for america; of his having paid his passage-money, and having sent his kit on board; of the anonymous captain sailing away with oliver's valuable luggage, in a nameless ship, never to return; if uncle contarine and the mother at ballymahon believed his stories, they must have been a very simple pair; as it was a very simple rogue indeed who cheated them." indeed, if any one is anxious to fill up this hiatus in goldsmith's life, the best thing he can do is to discard goldsmith's suspicious record of his adventures, and put in its place the faithful record of the adventures of mr. barry lyndon, when that modest youth left his mother's house and rode to dublin, with a certain number of guineas in his pocket. but whether uncle contarine believed the story or no, he was ready to give the young gentleman another chance; and this time it was the legal profession that was chosen. goldsmith got fifty pounds from his uncle, and reached dublin. in a remarkably brief space of time he had gambled away the fifty pounds, and was on his way back to ballymahon, where his mother's reception of him was not very cordial, though his uncle forgave him, and was once more ready to start him in life. but in what direction? teaching, the church, and the law had lost their attractions for him. well, this time it was medicine. in fact, any sort of project was capable of drawing forth the good old uncle's bounty. the funds were again forthcoming; goldsmith started for edinburgh, and now (1752) saw ireland for the last time. he lived, and he informed his uncle that he studied, in edinburgh for a year and a half; at the end of which time it appeared to him that his knowledge of medicine would be much improved by foreign travel. there was albinus, for example, "the great professor of leyden," as he wrote to the credulous uncle, from whom he would doubtless learn much. when, having got another twenty pounds for travelling expenses, he did reach leyden (1754), he mentioned gaubius, the chemical professor. gaubius is also a good name. that his intercourse with these learned persons, and the serious nature of his studies, were not incompatible with a little light relaxation in the way of gambling is not impossible. on one occasion, it is said, he was so lucky that he came to a fellow student with his pockets full of money; and was induced to resolve never to play again--a resolution broken about as soon as made. of course he lost all his winnings, and more; and had to borrow a trifling sum to get himself out of the place. then an incident occurs which is highly characteristic of the better side of goldsmith's nature. he had just got this money, and was about to leave leyden, when, as mr. forster writes, "he passed a florist's garden on his return, and seeing some rare and high-priced flower, which his uncle contarine, an enthusiast in such things, had often spoken and been in search of, he ran in without other thought than of immediate pleasure to his kindest friend, bought a parcel of the roots, and sent them off to ireland." he had a guinea in his pocket when he started on the grand tour. of this notable period in goldsmith's life (1755-6) very little is known, though a good deal has been guessed. a minute record of all the personal adventures that befell the wayfarer as he trudged from country to country, a diary of the odd humours and fancies that must have occurred to him in his solitary pilgrimages, would be of quite inestimable value; but even the letters that goldsmith wrote home from time to time are lost; while _the traveller_ consists chiefly of a series of philosophical reflections on the government of various states, more likely to have engaged the attention of a fleet-street author, living in an atmosphere of books, than to have occupied the mind of a tramp anxious about his supper and his night's lodging. boswell says he "disputed" his way through europe. it is much more probable that he begged his way through europe. the romantic version, which has been made the subject of many a charming picture, is that he was entertained by the peasantry whom he had delighted with his playing on the flute. it is quite probable that goldsmith, whose imagination had been captivated by the story of how baron von holberg had as a young man really passed through france, germany, and holland in this orpheus-like manner, may have put a flute in his pocket when he left leyden; but it is far from safe to assume, as is generally done, that goldsmith was himself the hero of the adventures described in chapter xx. of the _vicar of wakefield_. it is the more to be regretted that we have no authentic record of these devious wanderings, that by this time goldsmith had acquired, as is shown in other letters, a polished, easy, and graceful style, with a very considerable faculty of humorous observation. those ingenious letters to his uncle (they usually included a little hint about money) were, in fact, a trifle too literary both in substance and in form; we could even now, looking at them with a pardonable curiosity, have spared a little of their formal antithesis for some more precise information about the writer and his surroundings. the strangest thing about this strange journey all over europe was the failure of goldsmith to pick up even a common and ordinary acquaintance with the familiar facts of natural history. the ignorance on this point of the author of the _animated nature_ was a constant subject of jest among goldsmith's friends. they declared he could not tell the difference between any two sorts of barndoor fowl until he saw them cooked and on the table. but it may be said prematurely here that, even when he is wrong as to his facts or his sweeping generalisations, one is inclined to forgive him on account of the quaint gracefulness and point of his style. when mr. burchell says, "this rule seems to extend even to other animals: the little vermin race are ever treacherous, cruel, and cowardly, whilst those endowed with strength and power are generous, brave, and gentle," we scarcely stop to reflect that the merlin, which is not much bigger than a thrush, has an extraordinary courage and spirit, while the lion, if all stories be true, is, unless when goaded by hunger, an abject skulker. elsewhere, indeed, in the _animated nature_, goldsmith gives credit to the smaller birds for a good deal of valour, and then goes on to say, with a charming freedom,--"but their contentions are sometimes of a gentler nature. two male birds shall strive in song till, after a long struggle, the loudest shall entirely silence the other. during these contentions the female sits an attentive silent auditor, and often rewards the loudest songster with her company during the season." yet even this description of the battle of the bards, with the queen of love as arbiter, is scarcely so amusing as his happy-go-lucky notions with regard to the variability of species. the philosopher, flute in hand, who went wandering from the canals of holland to the ice-ribbed falls of the rhine, may have heard from time to time that contest between singing-birds which he so imaginatively describes; but it was clearly the fleet-street author, living among books, who arrived at the conclusion that intermarriage of species is common among small birds and rare among big birds. quoting some lines of addison's which express the belief that birds are a virtuous race--that the nightingale, for example, does not covet the wife of his neighbour, the blackbird--goldsmith goes on to observe,--"but whatever may be the poet's opinion, the probability is against this fidelity among the smaller tenants of the grove. the great birds are much more true to their species than these; and, of consequence, the varieties among them are more few. of the ostrich, the cassowary, and the eagle, there are but few species; and no arts that man can use could probably induce them to mix with each other." what he did bring back from his foreign travels was a medical degree. where he got it, and how he got it, are alike matters of pure conjecture; but it is extremely improbable that--whatever he might have been willing to write home from padua or louvain, in order to coax another remittance from his irish friends--he would afterwards, in the presence of such men as johnson, burke, and reynolds, wear sham honours. it is much more probable that, on his finding those supplies from ireland running ominously short, the philosophic vagabond determined to prove to his correspondents that he was really at work somewhere, instead of merely idling away his time, begging or borrowing the wherewithal to pass him from town to town. that he did see something of the foreign universities is evident from his own writings; there are touches of description here and there which he could not well have got from books. with this degree, and with such book-learning and such knowledge of nature and human nature as he had chosen or managed to pick up during all those years, he was now called upon to begin life for himself. the irish supplies stopped altogether. his letters were left unanswered. and so goldsmith somehow or other got back to london (february 1, 1756), and had to cast about for some way of earning his daily bread. chapter iv. early struggles.--hack-writing. here ensued a very dark period in his life. he was alone in london, without friends, without money, without introductions; his appearance was the reverse of prepossessing; and, even despite that medical degree and his acquaintance with the learned albinus and the learned gaubius, he had practically nothing of any value to offer for sale in the great labour-market of the world. how he managed to live at all is a mystery: it is certain that he must have endured a great deal of want; and one may well sympathise with so gentle and sensitive a creature reduced to such straits, without inquiring too curiously into the causes of his misfortunes. if, on the one hand, we cannot accuse society, or christianity, or the english government of injustice and cruelty because goldsmith had gambled away his chances and was now called on to pay the penalty, on the other hand, we had better, before blaming goldsmith himself, inquire into the origin of those defects of character which produced such results. as this would involve an _excursus_ into the controversy between necessity and free-will, probably most people would rather leave it alone. it may safely be said in any case that, while goldsmith's faults and follies, of which he himself had to suffer the consequences, are patent enough, his character on the whole was distinctly a lovable one. goldsmith was his own enemy, and everybody else's friend: that is not a serious indictment, as things go. he was quite well aware of his weaknesses; and he was also--it may be hinted--aware of the good-nature which he put forward as condonation. if some foreigner were to ask how it is that so thoroughly a commercial people as the english are--strict in the acknowledgment and payment of debt--should have always betrayed a sneaking fondness for the character of the good-humoured scapegrace whose hand is in everybody's pocket, and who throws away other people's money with the most charming air in the world, goldsmith might be pointed to as one of many literary teachers whose own circumstances were not likely to make them severe censors of the charles surfaces, or lenient judges of the joseph surfaces of the world. be merry while you may; let to-morrow take care of itself; share your last guinea with any one, even if the poor drones of society--the butcher, and baker, and milkman with his score--have to suffer; do anything you like, so long as you keep the heart warm. all this is a delightful philosophy. it has its moments of misery--its periods of reaction--but it has its moments of high delight. when we are invited to contemplate the "evil destinies of men of letters," we ought to be shown the flood-tides as well as the ebb-tides. the tavern gaiety; the brand new coat and lace and sword; the midnight frolics, with jolly companions every one--these, however brief and intermittent, should not be wholly left out of the picture. of course it is very dreadful to hear of poor boyse lying in bed with nothing but a blanket over him, and with his arms thrust through two holes in the blanket, so that he could write--perhaps a continuation of his poem on the _deity_. but then we should be shown boyse when he was spending the money collected by dr. johnson to get the poor scribbler's clothes out of pawn; and we should also be shown him, with his hands through the holes in the blanket, enjoying the mushrooms and truffles on which, as a little garniture for "his last scrap of beef," he had just laid out his last half-guinea. there were but few truffles--probably there was but little beef--for goldsmith during this sombre period. "his threadbare coat, his uncouth figure, and hibernian dialect caused him to meet with repeated refusals." but at length he got some employment in a chemist's shop, and this was a start. then he tried practising in a small way on his own account in southwark. here he made the acquaintance of a printer's workman; and through him he was engaged as corrector of the press in the establishment of mr. samuel richardson. being so near to literature, he caught the infection; and naturally began with a tragedy. this tragedy was shown to the author of _clarissa harlowe_; but it only went the way of many similar first inspiritings of the muse. then goldsmith drifted to peckham, where we find him (1757) installed as usher at dr. milner's school. goldsmith as usher has been the object of much sympathy; and he would certainly deserve it, if we are to assume that his description of an usher's position in the _bee_, and in george primrose's advice to his cousin, was a full and accurate description of his life at peckham. "browbeat by the master, hated for my ugly face by the mistress, worried by the boys"--if that was his life, he was much to be pitied. but we cannot believe it. the milners were exceedingly kind to goldsmith. it was at the intercession of young milner, who had been his fellow-student at edinburgh, that goldsmith got the situation, which at all events kept him out of the reach of immediate want. it was through the milners that he was introduced to griffiths, who gave him a chance of trying a literary career--as a hack-writer of reviews and so forth. when, having got tired of that, goldsmith was again floating vaguely on the waves of chance, where did he find a harbour but in that very school at peckham? and we have the direct testimony of the youngest of dr. milner's daughters, that this irish usher of theirs was a remarkably cheerful, and even facetious person, constantly playing tricks and practical jokes, amusing the boys by telling stories and by performances on the flute, living a careless life, and always in advance of his salary. any beggars, or group of children, even the very boys who played back practical jokes on him, were welcome to a share of what small funds he had; and we all know how mrs. milner good-naturedly said one day, "you had better, mr. goldsmith, let me keep your money for you, as i do for some of the young gentlemen;" and how he answered with much simplicity, "in truth, madam, there is equal need." with goldsmith's love of approbation and extreme sensitiveness he no doubt suffered deeply from many slights, now as at other times; but what we know of his life in the peckham school does not incline us to believe that it was an especially miserable period of his existence. his abundant cheerfulness does not seem to have at any time deserted him; and what with tricks, and jokes, and playing of the flute, the dull routine of instructing the unruly young gentlemen at dr. milner's was got through somehow. when goldsmith left the peckham school to try hack-writing in paternoster row, he was going further to fare worse. griffiths the bookseller, when he met goldsmith at dr. milner's dinner-table and invited him to become a reviewer, was doing a service to the english nation--for it was in this period of machine-work that goldsmith discovered that happy faculty of literary expression that led to the composition of his masterpieces--but he was doing little immediate service to goldsmith. the newly-captured hack was boarded and lodged at griffiths' house in paternoster row (1757); he was to have a small salary in consideration of remorselessly constant work; and--what was the hardest condition of all--he was to have his writings revised by mrs. griffiths. mr. forster justly remarks that though at last goldsmith had thus become a man-of-letters, he "had gratified no passion and attained no object of ambition." he had taken to literature, as so many others have done, merely as a last resource. and if it is true that literature at first treated goldsmith harshly, made him work hard, and gave him comparatively little for what he did, at least it must be said that his experience was not a singular one. mr. forster says that literature was at that time in a transition state: "the patron was gone, and the public had not come." but when goldsmith began to do better than hack-work, he found a public speedily enough. if, as lord macaulay computes, goldsmith received in the last seven years of his life what was equivalent to £5,600 of our money, even the villain booksellers cannot be accused of having starved him. at the outset of his literary career he received no large sums, for he had achieved no reputation; but he got the market-rate for his work. we have around us at this moment plenty of hacks who do not earn much more than their board and lodging with a small salary. for the rest, we have no means of knowing whether goldsmith got through his work with ease or with difficulty; but it is obvious, looking over the reviews which he is believed to have written for griffiths' magazine, that he readily acquired the professional critic's airs of superiority, along with a few tricks of the trade, no doubt taught him by griffiths. several of these reviews, for example, are merely epitomes of the contents of the books reviewed, with some vague suggestion that the writer might, if he had been less careful, have done worse, and, if he had been more careful, might have done better. who does not remember how the philosophic vagabond was taught to become a cognoscento? "the whole secret consisted in a strict adherence to two rules: the one always to observe that the picture might have been better if the painter had taken more pains; and the other to praise the works of pietro perugino." it is amusing to observe the different estimates formed of the function of criticism by goldsmith the critic, and by goldsmith the author. goldsmith, sitting at griffiths' desk, naturally magnifies his office, and announces his opinion that "to direct our taste, and conduct the poet up to perfection, has ever been the true critic's province." but goldsmith the author, when he comes to inquire into the existing state of polite learning in europe, finds in criticism not a help but a danger. it is "the natural destroyer of polite learning." and again, in the _citizen of the world_, he exclaims against the pretensions of the critic. "if any choose to be critics, it is but saying they are critics; and from that time forward they become invested with full power and authority over every caitiff who aims at their instruction or entertainment." this at least may be said, that in these early essays contributed to the _monthly review_ there is much more of goldsmith the critic than of goldsmith the author. they are somewhat laboured performances. they are almost devoid of the sly and delicate humour that afterwards marked goldsmith's best prose work. we find throughout his trick of antithesis; but here it is forced and formal, whereas afterwards he lent to this habit of writing the subtle surprise of epigram. they have the true manner of authority, nevertheless. he says of home's _douglas_--"those parts of nature, and that rural simplicity with which the author was, perhaps, best acquainted, are not unhappily described; and hence we are led to conjecture, that a more universal knowledge of nature will probably increase his powers of description." if the author had written otherwise, he would have written differently; had he known more, he would not have been so ignorant; the tragedy is a tragedy, but why did not the author make it a comedy?--this sort of criticism has been heard of even in our own day. however, goldsmith pounded away at his newly-found work, under the eye of the exacting bookseller and his learned wife. we find him dealing with scandinavian (here called celtic) mythology, though he does not adventure on much comment of his own; then he engages smollett's _history of england_, but mostly in the way of extract; anon we find him reviewing _a journal of eight days' journey_, by jonas hanway, of whom johnson said that he made some reputation by travelling abroad, and lost it all by travelling at home. then again we find him writing a disquisition on _some enquiries concerning the first inhabitants, language, religion, learning, and letters of europe_, by a mr. wise, who, along with his critic, appears to have got into hopeless confusion in believing basque and armorican to be the remains of the same ancient language. the last phrase of a note appended to this review by goldsmith probably indicates his own humble estimate of his work at this time. "it is more our business," he says, "to exhibit the opinions of the learned than to controvert them." in fact he was employed to boil down books for people who did not wish to spend more on literature than the price of a magazine. though he was new to the trade, it is probable he did it as well as any other. at the end of five months, goldsmith and griffiths quarrelled and separated. griffiths said goldsmith was idle; goldsmith said griffiths was impertinent; probably the editorial supervision exercised by mrs. griffiths had something to do with the dire contention. from paternoster row goldsmith removed to a garret in fleet street; had his letters addressed to a coffee-house; and apparently supported himself by further hack-work, his connection with griffiths not being quite severed. then he drifted back to peckham again; and was once more installed as usher, dr. milner being in especial want of an assistant at this time. goldsmith's lingering about the gates of literature had not inspired him with any great ambition to enter the enchanted land. but at the same time he thought he saw in literature a means by which a little ready money might be made, in order to help him on to something more definite and substantial; and this goal was now put before him by dr. milner, in the shape of a medical appointment on the coromandel coast. it was in the hope of obtaining this appointment, that he set about composing that _enquiry into the present state of polite learning in europe_, which is now interesting to us as the first of his more ambitious works. as the book grew under his hands, he began to cast about for subscribers; and from the fleet-street coffee-house--he had again left the peckham school--he addressed to his friends and relatives a series of letters of the most charming humour, which might have drawn subscriptions from a millstone. to his brother-in-law, mr. hodson, he sent a glowing account of the great fortune in store for him on the coromandel coast. "the salary is but trifling," he writes, "namely £100 per annum, but the other advantages, if a person be prudent, are considerable. the practice of the place, if i am rightly informed, generally amounts to not less than £1,000 per annum, for which the appointed physician has an exclusive privilege. this, with the advantages resulting from trade, and the high interest which money bears, viz. 20 per cent., are the inducements which persuade me to undergo the fatigues of sea, the dangers of war, and the still greater dangers of the climate; which induce me to leave a place where i am every day gaining friends and esteem, and where i might enjoy all the conveniences of life." the surprising part of this episode in goldsmith's life is that he did really receive the appointment; in fact he was called upon to pay £10 for the appointment-warrant. in this emergency he went to the proprietor of the _critical review_, the rival of the _monthly_, and obtained some money for certain anonymous work which need not be mentioned in detail here. he also moved into another garret, this time in green-arbour court, fleet street, in a wilderness of slums. the coromandel project, however, on which so many hopes had been built, fell through. no explanation of the collapse could be got from either goldsmith himself, or from dr. milner. mr. forster suggests that goldsmith's inability to raise money for his outfit may have been made the excuse for transferring the appointment to another; and that is probable enough; but it is also probable that the need for such an excuse was based on the discovery that goldsmith was not properly qualified for the post. and this seems the more likely, that goldsmith immediately afterwards resolved to challenge examination at surgeons' hall. he undertook to write four articles for the _monthly review_; griffiths became surety to a tailor for a fine suit of clothes; and thus equipped, goldsmith presented himself at surgeons' hall. he only wanted to be passed as hospital mate; but even that modest ambition was unfulfilled. he was found not qualified; and returned, with his fine clothes, to his fleet-street den. he was now thirty years of age (1758); and had found no definite occupation in the world. chapter v. beginning of authorship.--the bee. during the period that now ensued, and amid much quarrelling with griffiths and hack-writing for the _critical review_, goldsmith managed to get his _enquiry into the present state of polite learning in europe_ completed; and it is from the publication of that work, on the 2nd of april, 1759, that we may date the beginning of goldsmith's career as an author. the book was published anonymously; but goldsmith was not at all anxious to disclaim the parentage of his first-born; and in grub street and its environs, at least, the authorship of the book was no secret. moreover there was that in it which was likely to provoke the literary tribe to plenty of fierce talking. the _enquiry_ is neither more nor less than an endeavour to prove that criticism has in all ages been the deadly enemy of art and literature; coupled with an appeal to authors to draw their inspiration from nature rather than from books, and varied here and there by a gentle sigh over the loss of that patronage, in the sunshine of which men of genius were wont to bask. goldsmith, not having been an author himself, could not have suffered much at the hands of the critics; so that it is not to be supposed that personal feeling dictated this fierce onslaught on the whole tribe of critics, compilers, and commentators. they are represented to us as rank weeds, growing up to choke all manifestations of true art. "ancient learning," we are told at the outset, "may be distinguished into three periods: its commencement, or the age of poets; its maturity, or the age of philosophers; and its decline, or the age of critics." then our guide carries us into the dark ages; and, with lantern in hand, shows us the creatures swarming there in the sluggish pools--"commentators, compilers, polemic divines, and intricate metaphysicians." we come to italy: look at the affectations with which the virtuosi and filosofi have enchained the free spirit of poetry. "poetry is no longer among them an imitation of what we see, but of what a visionary might wish. the zephyr breathes the most exquisite perfume; the trees wear eternal verdure; fawns, and dryads, and hamadryads, stand ready to fan the sultry shepherdess, who has forgot, indeed, the prettiness with which guarini's shepherdesses have been reproached, but is so simple and innocent as often to have no meaning. happy country, where the pastoral age begins to revive!--where the wits even of rome are united into a rural group of nymphs and swains, under the appellation of modern arcadians!--where in the midst of porticoes, processions, and cavalcades, abbés turned shepherds and shepherdesses without sheep indulge their innocent _divertimenti_!" in germany the ponderous volumes of the commentators next come in for animadversion; and here we find an epigram, the quaint simplicity of which is peculiarly characteristic of goldsmith. "were angels to write books," he remarks, "they never would write folios." but germany gets credit for the money spent by her potentates on learned institutions; and it is perhaps england that is delicately hinted at in these words: "had the fourth part of the immense sum above-mentioned been given in proper rewards to genius, in some neighbouring countries, it would have rendered the name of the donor immortal, and added to the real interests of society." indeed, when we come to england, we find that men of letters are in a bad way, owing to the prevalence of critics, the tyranny of booksellers, and the absence of patrons. "the author, when unpatronized by the great, has naturally recourse to the bookseller. there cannot perhaps be imagined a combination more prejudicial to taste than this. it is the interest of the one to allow as little for writing, and of the other to write as much as possible. accordingly, tedious compilations and periodical magazines are the result of their joint endeavours. in these circumstances the author bids adieu to fame, writes for bread, and for that only. imagination is seldom called in. he sits down to address the venal muse with the most phlegmatic apathy; and, as we are told of the russian, courts his mistress by falling asleep in her lap. his reputation never spreads in a wider circle than that of the trade, who generally value him, not for the fineness of his compositions, but the quantity he works off in a given time. "a long habit of writing for bread thus turns the ambition of every author at last into avarice. he finds that he has written many years, that the public are scarcely acquainted even with his name; he despairs of applause, and turns to profit, which invites him. he finds that money procures all those advantages, that respect, and that ease which he vainly expected from fame. thus the man who, under the protection of the great, might have done honour to humanity, when only patronized by the bookseller, becomes a thing little superior to the fellow who works at the press." nor was he afraid to attack the critics of his own day, though he knew that the two reviews for which he had recently been writing would have something to say about his own _enquiry_. this is how he disposes of the _critical_ and the _monthly_: "we have two literary reviews in london, with critical newspapers and magazines without number. the compilers of these resemble the commoners of rome; they are all for levelling property, not by increasing their own, but by diminishing that of others. the man who has any good-nature in his disposition must, however, be somewhat displeased to see distinguished reputations often the sport of ignorance,--to see, by one false pleasantry, the future peace of a worthy man's life disturbed, and this only because he has unsuccessfully attempted to instruct or amuse us. though ill-nature is far from being wit, yet it is generally laughed at as such. the critic enjoys the triumph, and ascribes to his parts what is only due to his effrontery. i fire with indignation, when i see persons wholly destitute of education and genius indent to the press, and thus turn book-makers, adding to the sin of criticism the sin of ignorance also; whose trade is a bad one, and who are bad workmen in the trade." indeed there was a good deal of random hitting in the _enquiry_, which was sure to provoke resentment. why, for example, should he have gone out of his way to insult the highly respectable class of people who excel in mathematical studies? "this seems a science," he observes, "to which the meanest intellects are equal. i forget who it is that says 'all men might understand mathematics if they would.'" there was also in the first edition of the _enquiry_ a somewhat ungenerous attack on stage-managers, actors, actresses, and theatrical things in general; but this was afterwards wisely excised. it is not to be wondered at that, on the whole, the _enquiry_ should have been severely handled in certain quarters. smollett, who reviewed it in the _critical review_, appears to have kept his temper pretty well for a scotchman; but kenrick, a hack employed by griffiths to maltreat the book in the _monthly review_, flourished his bludgeon in a brave manner. the coarse personalities and malevolent insinuations of this bully no doubt hurt goldsmith considerably; but, as we look at them now, they are only remarkable for their dulness. if griffiths had had another goldsmith to reply to goldsmith, the retort would have been better worth reading: one can imagine the playful sarcasm that would have been dealt out to this new writer, who, in the very act of protesting against criticism, proclaimed himself a critic. but goldsmiths are not always to be had when wanted; while kenricks can be bought at any moment for a guinea or two a head. goldsmith had not chosen literature as the occupation of his life; he had only fallen back on it, when other projects failed. but it is quite possible that now, as he began to take up some slight position as an author, the old ambition of distinguishing himself--which had flickered before his imagination from time to time--began to enter into his calculations along with the more pressing business of earning a livelihood. and he was soon to have an opportunity of appealing to a wider public than could have been expected for that erudite treatise on the arts of europe. mr. wilkie, a bookseller in st. paul's churchyard, proposed to start a weekly magazine, price threepence, to contain essays, short stories, letters on the topics of the day, and so forth, more or less after the manner of the _spectator_. he asked goldsmith to become sole contributor. here, indeed, was a very good opening; for, although there were many magazines in the field, the public had just then a fancy for literature in small doses; while goldsmith, in entering into the competition, would not be hampered by the dulness of collaborateurs. he closed with wilkie's offer; and on the 6th of october, 1759, appeared the first number of the _bee_. for us now there is a curious autobiographical interest in the opening sentences of the first number; but surely even the public of the day must have imagined that the new writer who was now addressing them, was not to be confounded with the common herd of magazine-hacks. what could be more delightful than this odd mixture of modesty, humour, and an anxious desire to please?--"there is not, perhaps, a more whimsically dismal figure in nature than a man of real modesty, who assumes an air of impudence--who, while his heart beats with anxiety, studies ease and affects good-humour. in this situation, however, a periodical writer often finds himself upon his first attempt to address the public in form. all his power of pleasing is damped by solicitude, and his cheerfulness dashed with apprehension. impressed with the terrors of the tribunal before which he is going to appear, his natural humour turns to pertness, and for real wit he is obliged to substitute vivacity. his first publication draws a crowd; they part dissatisfied; and the author, never more to be indulged with a favourable hearing, is left to condemn the indelicacy of his own address or their want of discernment. for my part, as i was never distinguished for address, and have often even blundered in making my bow, such bodings as these had like to have totally repressed my ambition. i was at a loss whether to give the public specious promises, or give none; whether to be merry or sad on this solemn occasion. if i should decline all merit, it was too probable the hasty reader might have taken me at my word. if, on the other hand, like labourers in the magazine trade, i had, with modest impudence, humbly presumed to promise an epitome of all the good things that ever were said or written, this might have disgusted those readers i most desire to please. had i been merry, i might have been censured as vastly low; and had i been sorrowful, i might have been left to mourn in solitude and silence; in short, whichever way i turned, nothing presented but prospects of terror, despair, chandlers' shops, and waste paper." and it is just possible that if goldsmith had kept to this vein of familiar _causerie_, the public might in time have been attracted by its quaintness. but no doubt mr. wilkie would have stared aghast; and so we find goldsmith, as soon as his introductory bow is made, setting seriously about the business of magazine-making. very soon, however, both mr. wilkie and his editor perceived that the public had not been taken by their venture. the chief cause of the failure, as it appears to any one who looks over the magazine now, would seem to be the lack of any definite purpose. there was no marked feature to arrest public attention, while many things were discarded on which the popularity of other periodicals had been based. there was no scandal to appeal to the key-hole and back-door element in human nature; there were no libels and gross personalities to delight the mean and envious; there were no fine airs of fashion to charm milliners anxious to know how the great talked, and posed, and dressed; and there was no solemn and pompous erudition to impress the minds of those serious and sensible people who buy literature as they buy butter, by its weight. at the beginning of no. iv. he admits that the new magazine has not been a success; and, in doing so, returns to that vein of whimsical, personal humour with which he had started: "were i to measure the merit of my present undertaking by its success or the rapidity of its sale, i might be led to form conclusions by no means favourable to the pride of an author. should i estimate my fame by its extent, every newspaper and magazine would leave me far behind. their fame is diffused in a very wide circle--that of some as far as islington, and some yet farther still; while mine, i sincerely believe, has hardly travelled beyond the sound of bow bell; and, while the works of others fly like unpinioned swans, i find my own move as heavily as a new-plucked goose. still, however, i have as much pride as they who have ten times as many readers. it is impossible to repeat all the agreeable delusions in which a disappointed author is apt to find comfort. i conclude, that what my reputation wants in extent is made up by its solidity. _minus juvat gloria lata quam magna._ i have great satisfaction in considering the delicacy and discernment of those readers i have, and in ascribing my want of popularity to the ignorance or inattention of those i have not. all the world may forsake an author, but vanity will never forsake him. yet, notwithstanding so sincere a confession, i was once induced to show my indignation against the public, by discontinuing my endeavours to please; and was bravely resolved, like raleigh, to vex them by burning my manuscript in a passion. upon recollection, however, i considered what set or body of people would be displeased at my rashness. the sun, after so sad an accident, might shine next morning as bright as usual; men might laugh and sing the next day, and transact business as before, and not a single creature feel any regret but myself." goldsmith was certainly more at home in this sort of writing, than in gravely lecturing people against the vice of gambling; in warning tradesmen how ill it became them to be seen at races; in demonstrating that justice is a higher virtue than generosity; and in proving that the avaricious are the true benefactors of society. but even as he confesses the failure of his new magazine, he seems determined to show the public what sort of writer this is, whom as yet they have not regarded too favourably. it is in no. iv. of the _bee_ that the famous _city night piece_ occurs. no doubt that strange little fragment of description was the result of some sudden and aimless fancy, striking the occupant of the lonely garret in the middle of the night. the present tense, which he seldom used--and the abuse of which is one of the detestable vices of modern literature--adds to the mysterious solemnity of the recital:-"the clock has just struck two, the expiring taper rises and sinks in the socket, the watchman forgets the hour in slumber, the laborious and the happy are at rest, and nothing wakes but meditation, guilt, revelry, and despair. the drunkard once more fills the destroying bowl, the robber walks his midnight round, and the suicide lifts his guilty arm against his own sacred person. "let me no longer waste the night over the page of antiquity or the sallies of contemporary genius, but pursue the solitary walk, where vanity, ever changing, but a few hours past walked before me--where she kept up the pageant, and now, like a froward child, seems hushed with her own importunities. "what a gloom hangs all around! the dying lamp feebly emits a yellow gleam; no sound is heard but of the chiming clock, or the distant watch-dog. all the bustle of human pride is forgotten; an hour like this may well display the emptiness of human vanity. "there will come a time, when this temporary solitude may be made continual, and the city itself, like its inhabitants, fade away, and leave a desert in its room. "what cities, as great as this, have once triumphed in existence, had their victories as great, joy as just and as unbounded; and, with short-sighted presumption, promised themselves immortality! posterity can hardly trace the situation of some; the sorrowful traveller wanders over the awful ruins of others; and, as he beholds, he learns wisdom, and feels the transience of every sublunary possession. "'here,' he cries, 'stood their citadel, now grown over with weeds; there their senate-house, but now the haunt of every noxious reptile; temples and theatres stood here, now only an undistinguished heap of ruin. they are fallen, for luxury and avarice first made them feeble. the rewards of the state were conferred on amusing, and not on useful, members of society. their riches and opulence invited the invaders, who, though at first repulsed, returned again, conquered by perseverance, and at last swept the defendants into undistinguished destruction.'" chapter vi. personal traits. the foregoing extracts will sufficiently show what were the chief characteristics of goldsmith's writing at this time--the grace and ease of style, a gentle and sometimes pathetic thoughtfulness, and, above all, when he speaks in the first person, a delightful vein of humorous self-disclosure. moreover, these qualities, if they were not immediately profitable to the booksellers, were beginning to gain for him the recognition of some of the well-known men of the day. percy, afterwards bishop of dromore, had made his way to the miserable garret of the poor author. smollett, whose novels goldsmith preferred to his history, was anxious to secure his services as a contributor to the forthcoming _british magazine_. burke had spoken of the pleasure given him by goldsmith's review of the _enquiry into the origin of our ideas of the sublime and beautiful_. but, to crown all, the great cham himself sought out this obscure author, who had on several occasions spoken with reverence and admiration of his works; and so began what is perhaps the most interesting literary friendship on record. at what precise date johnson first made goldsmith's acquaintance, is not known; mr. forster is right in assuming that they had met before the supper in wine-office court, at which mr. percy was present. it is a thousand pities that boswell had not by this time made his appearance in london. johnson, goldsmith, and all the rest of them are only ghosts until the pertinacious young laird of auchinleck comes on the scene to give them colour, and life, and form. it is odd enough that the very first remarks of goldsmith's which boswell jotted down in his notebook, should refer to johnson's systematic kindness towards the poor and wretched. "he had increased my admiration of the goodness of johnson's heart by incidental remarks in the course of conversation, such as, when i mentioned mr. levett, whom he entertained under his roof, 'he is poor and honest, which is recommendation enough to johnson'; and when i wondered that he was very kind to a man of whom i had heard a very bad character, 'he is now become miserable, and that ensures the protection of johnson.'" for the rest, boswell was not well-disposed towards goldsmith, whom he regarded with a jealousy equal to his admiration of johnson; but it is probable that his description of the personal appearance of the awkward and ungainly irishman is in the main correct. and here also it may be said that boswell's love of truth and accuracy compelled him to make this admission: "it has been generally circulated and believed that he (goldsmith) was a mere fool in conversation; but, in truth, this has been greatly exaggerated." on this exaggeration--seeing that the contributor to the _british magazine_ and the _public ledger_ was now becoming better known among his fellow authors--a word or two may fitly be said here. it pleased goldsmith's contemporaries, who were not all of them celebrated for their ready wit, to regard him as a hopeless and incurable fool, who by some strange chance could produce literature, the merits of which he could not himself understand. to horace walpole we owe the phrase which describes goldsmith as an "inspired idiot." innumerable stories are told of goldsmith's blunders; of his forced attempts to shine in conversation; of poor poll talking nonsense, when all the world was wondering at the beauty of his writing. in one case we are told he was content to admit, when dictated to, that this, and not that, was what he really had meant in a particular phrase. now there can be no question that goldsmith, conscious of his pitted face, his brogue, and his ungainly figure, was exceedingly nervous and sensitive in society, and was anxious, as such people mostly are, to cover his shyness by an appearance of ease, if not even of swagger; and there can be as little question that he occasionally did and said very awkward and blundering things. but our japanese friend, whom we mentioned in our opening pages, looking through the record that is preserved to us of those blunders which are supposed to be most conclusive as to this aspect of goldsmith's character, would certainly stare. "good heavens," he would cry, "did men ever live who were so thick-headed as not to see the humour of this or that 'blunder'; or were they so beset with the notion that goldsmith was only a fool, that they must needs be blind?" take one well-known instance. he goes to france with mrs. horneck and her two daughters, the latter very handsome young ladies. at lille the two girls and goldsmith are standing at the window of the hotel, overlooking the square in which are some soldiers; and naturally the beautiful young englishwomen attract some attention. thereupon goldsmith turns indignantly away, remarking that elsewhere he also has his admirers. now what surgical instrument was needed to get this harmless little joke into any sane person's head? boswell may perhaps be pardoned for pretending to take the incident _au sérieux_; for as has just been said, in his profound adoration of johnson, he was devoured by jealousy of goldsmith; but that any other mortal should have failed to see what was meant by this little bit of humorous flattery is almost incredible. no wonder that one of the sisters afterwards referring to this "playful jest," should have expressed her astonishment at finding it put down as a proof of goldsmith's envious disposition. but even after that disclaimer, we find mr. croker, as quoted by mr. forster, solemnly doubting "whether the vexation so seriously exhibited by goldsmith was real or assumed"! of course this is an extreme case; but there are others very similar. "he affected," says hawkins, "johnson's style and manner of conversation, and, when he had uttered, as he often would, a laboured sentence, so tumid as to be scarce intelligible, would ask if that was not truly johnsonian?" is it not truly dismal to find such an utterance coming from a presumably reasonable human being? it is not to be wondered at that goldsmith grew shy--and in some cases had to ward off the acquaintance of certain of his neighbours as being too intrusive--if he ran the risk of having his odd and grave humours so densely mistranslated. the fact is this, that goldsmith was possessed of a very subtle quality of humour, which is at all times rare, but which is perhaps more frequently to be found in irishmen than among other folks. it consists in the satire of the pretence and pomposities of others by means of a sort of exaggerated and playful self-depreciation. it is a most delicate and most delightful form of humour; but it is very apt to be misconstrued by the dull. who can doubt that goldsmith was good-naturedly laughing at himself, his own plain face, his vanity, and his blunders, when he professed to be jealous of the admiration excited by the miss hornecks; when he gravely drew attention to the splendid colours of his coat; or when he no less gravely informed a company of his friends that he had heard a very good story, but would not repeat it, because they would be sure to miss the point of it? this vein of playful and sarcastic self-depreciation is continually cropping up in his essay writing, as, for example, in the passage already quoted from no. iv. of the _bee_: "i conclude, that what my reputation wants in extent, is made up by its solidity. _minus juvat gloria lata quam magna_. i have great satisfaction in considering the delicacy and discernment of those readers i have, and in ascribing my want of popularity to the ignorance or inattention of those i have not." but here, no doubt, he remembers that he is addressing the world at large, which contains many foolish persons; and so, that the delicate raillery may not be mistaken, he immediately adds, "all the world may forsake an author, but vanity will never forsake him." that he expected a quicker apprehension on the part of his intimates and acquaintances, and that he was frequently disappointed, seems pretty clear from those very stories of his "blunders." we may reasonably suspect, at all events, that goldsmith was not quite so much of a fool as he looked; and it is far from improbable that when the ungainly irishman was called in to make sport for the philistines--and there were a good many philistines in those days, if all stories be true--and when they imagined they had put him out of countenance, he was really standing aghast, and wondering how it could have pleased providence to create such helpless stupidity. chapter vii. the citizen of the world.--beau nash. meanwhile, to return to his literary work, the _citizen of the world_ had grown out of his contributions to the _public ledger_, a daily newspaper started by mr. newbery, another bookseller in st. paul's churchyard. goldsmith was engaged to write for this paper two letters a week at a guinea a-piece; and these letters were, after a short time (1760), written in the character of a chinese who had come to study european civilisation. it may be noted that goldsmith had in the _monthly review_, in mentioning voltaire's memoirs of french writers, quoted a passage about montesquieu's _lettres persanes_ as follows: "it is written in imitation of the _siamese letters_ of du freny and of the _turkish spy_; but it is an imitation which shows what the originals should have been. the success their works met with was, for the most part, owing to the foreign air of their performances; the success of the _persian letters_ arose from the delicacy of their satire. that satire which in the mouth of an asiatic is poignant, would lose all its force when coming from an european." and it must certainly be said that the charm of the strictures of the _citizen of the world_ lies wholly in their delicate satire, and not at all in any foreign air which the author may have tried to lend to these performances. the disguise is very apparent. in those garrulous, vivacious, whimsical, and sometimes serious papers, lien chi altangi, writing to fum hoam in pekin, does not so much describe the aspects of european civilisation which would naturally surprise a chinese, as he expresses the dissatisfaction of a european with certain phases of the civilisation visible everywhere around him. it is not a chinaman, but a fleet-street author by profession, who resents the competition of noble amateurs whose works--otherwise bitter pills enough--are gilded by their titles:--"a nobleman has but to take a pen, ink, and paper, write away through three large volumes, and then sign his name to the title-page; though the whole might have been before more disgusting than his own rent-roll, yet signing his name and title gives value to the deed, title being alone equivalent to taste, imagination, and genius. as soon as a piece, therefore, is published, the first questions are--who is the author? does he keep a coach? where lies his estate? what sort of a table does he keep? if he happens to be poor and unqualified for such a scrutiny, he and his works sink into irremediable obscurity, and too late he finds, that having fed upon turtle is a more ready way to fame than having digested tully. the poor devil against whom fashion has set its face vainly alleges that he has been bred in every part of europe where knowledge was to be sold; that he has grown pale in the study of nature and himself. his works may please upon the perusal, but his pretensions to fame are entirely disregarded. he is treated like a fiddler, whose music, though liked, is not much praised, because he lives by it; while a gentleman performer, though the most wretched scraper alive, throws the audience into raptures. the fiddler, indeed, may in such a case console himself by thinking, that while the other goes off with all the praise, he runs away with all the money. but here the parallel drops; for while the nobleman triumphs in unmerited applause, the author by profession steals off with--nothing." at the same time it must be allowed that the utterance of these strictures through the mouth of a chinese admits of a certain _naïveté_, which on occasion heightens the sarcasm. lien chi accompanies the man in black to a theatre to see an english play. here is part of the performance:--"i was going to second his remarks, when my attention was engrossed by a new object; a man came in balancing a straw upon his nose, and the audience were clapping their hands in all the raptures of applause. 'to what purpose,' cried i, 'does this unmeaning figure make his appearance? is he a part of the plot?'--'unmeaning do you call him?' replied my friend in black; 'this is one of the most important characters of the whole play; nothing pleases the people more than seeing a straw balanced: there is a great deal of meaning in a straw: there is something suited to every apprehension in the sight; and a fellow possessed of talents like these is sure of making his fortune.' the third act now began with an actor who came to inform us that he was the villain of the play, and intended to show strange things before all was over. he was joined by another who seemed as much disposed for mischief as he; their intrigues continued through this whole division. 'if that be a villain,' said i, 'he must be a very stupid one to tell his secrets without being asked; such soliloquies of late are never admitted in china.' the noise of clapping interrupted me once more; a child six years old was learning to dance on the stage, which gave the ladies and mandarins infinite satisfaction. 'i am sorry,' said i, 'to see the pretty creature so early learning so bad a trade; dancing being, i presume, as contemptible here as in china.'--'quite the reverse,' interrupted my companion; 'dancing is a very reputable and genteel employment here; men have a greater chance for encouragement from the merit of their heels than their heads. one who jumps up and nourishes his toes three times before he comes to the ground may have three hundred a year: he who flourishes them four times, gets four hundred; but he who arrives at five is inestimable, and may demand what salary he thinks proper. the female dancers, too, are valued for this sort of jumping and crossing; and it is a cant word amongst them, that she deserves most who shows highest. but the fourth act is begun; let us be attentive.'" the man in black here mentioned is one of the notable features of this series of papers. the mysterious person whose acquaintance the chinaman made in westminster abbey, and who concealed such a wonderful goodness of heart under a rough and forbidding exterior, is a charming character indeed; and it is impossible to praise too highly the vein of subtle sarcasm in which he preaches worldly wisdom. but to assume that any part of his history which he disclosed to the chinaman was a piece of autobiographical writing on the part of goldsmith, is a very hazardous thing. a writer of fiction must necessarily use such materials as have come within his own experience; and goldsmith's experience--or his use of those materials--was extremely limited: witness how often a pet fancy, like his remembrance of _johnny armstrong's last good night_, is repeated. "that of these simple elements," writes professor masson, in his _memoir of goldsmith_, prefixed to an edition of his works, "he made so many charming combinations, really differing from each other, and all, though suggested by fact, yet hung so sweetly in an ideal air, proved what an artist he was, and was better than much that is commonly called invention. in short, if there is a sameness of effect in goldsmith's writings, it is because they consist of poetry and truth, humour and pathos, from his own life, and the supply from such a life as his was not inexhaustible." the question of invention is easily disposed of. any child can invent a world transcending human experience by the simple combination of ideas which are in themselves incongruous--a world in which the horses have each five feet, in which the grass is blue and the sky green, in which seas are balanced on the peaks of mountains. the result is unbelievable and worthless. but the writer of imaginative literature uses his own experiences and the experiences of others, so that his combination of ideas in themselves compatible shall appear so natural and believable that the reader--although these incidents and characters never did actually exist--is as much interested in them as if they had existed. the mischief of it is that the reader sometimes thinks himself very clever, and, recognising a little bit of the story as having happened to the author, jumps to the conclusion that such and such a passage is necessarily autobiographical. hence it is that goldsmith has been hastily identified with the philosophic vagabond in the _vicar of wakefield_, and with the man in black in the _citizen of the world_. that he may have used certain experiences in the one, and that he may perhaps have given in the other a sort of fancy sketch of a person suggested by some trait in his own character, is possible enough; but further assertion of likeness is impossible. that the man in black had one of goldsmith's little weaknesses is obvious enough: we find him just a trifle too conscious of his own kindliness and generosity. the vicar of wakefield himself is not without a spice of this amiable vanity. as for goldsmith, every one must remember his reply to griffiths' accusation: "no, sir, had i been a sharper, _had i been possessed of less good nature and native generosity_, i might surely now have been in better circumstances." the man in black, in any case, is a delightful character. we detect the warm and generous nature even in his pretence of having acquired worldly wisdom: "i now therefore pursued a course of uninterrupted frugality, seldom wanted a dinner, and was consequently invited to twenty. i soon began to get the character of a saving hunks that had money, and insensibly grew into esteem. neighbours have asked my advice in the disposal of their daughters; and i have always taken care not to give any. i have contracted a friendship with an alderman, only by observing, that if we take a farthing from a thousand pounds it will be a thousand pounds no longer. i have been invited to a pawnbroker's table, by pretending to hate gravy; and am now actually upon treaty of marriage with a rich widow, for only having observed that the bread was rising. if ever i am asked a question, whether i know it or not, instead of answering, i only smile and look wise. if a charity is proposed i go about with the hat, but put nothing in myself. if a wretch solicits my pity, i observe that the world is filled with impostors, and take a certain method of not being deceived by never relieving. in short, i now find the truest way of finding esteem, even from the indigent, is to give away nothing, and thus have much in our power to give." this is a very clever piece of writing, whether it is in strict accordance with the character of the man in black, or not. but there is in these _public ledger_ papers another sketch of character, which is not only consistent in itself, and in every way admirable, but is of still further interest to us when we remember that at this time the various personages in the _vicar of wakefield_ were no doubt gradually assuming definite form in goldsmith's mind. it is in the figure of mr. tibbs, introduced apparently at haphazard, but at once taking possession of us by its quaint relief, that we find goldsmith showing a firmer hand in character-drawing. with a few happy dramatic touches mr. tibbs starts into life; he speaks for himself; he becomes one of the people whom we know. and yet, with this concise and sharp portraiture of a human being, look at the graceful, almost garrulous, ease of the style:- "our pursuer soon came up and joined us with all the familiarity of an old acquaintance. 'my dear drybone,' cries he, shaking my friend's hand, 'where have you been hiding this half a century? positively i had fancied you were gone to cultivate matrimony and your estate in the country.' during the reply i had an opportunity of surveying the appearance of our new companion: his hat was pinched up with peculiar smartness; his looks were pale, thin, and sharp; round his neck he wore a broad black riband, and in his bosom a buckle studded with glass; his coat was trimmed with tarnished twist; he wore by his side a sword with a black hilt; and his stockings of silk, though newly washed, were grown yellow by long service. i was so much engaged with the peculiarity of his dress, that i attended only to the latter part of my friend's reply, in which he complimented mr. tibbs on the taste of his clothes and the bloom in his countenance. 'pshaw, pshaw, will,' cried the figure, 'no more of that, if you love me: you know i hate flattery,--on my soul i do; and yet, to be sure, an intimacy with the great will improve one's appearance, and a course of venison will fatten; and yet, faith, i despise the great as much as you do; but there are a great many damn'd honest fellows among them, and we must not quarrel with one half, because the other wants weeding. if they were all such as my lord mudler, one of the most good-natured creatures that ever squeezed a lemon, i should myself be among the number of their admirers. i was yesterday to dine at the duchess of piccadilly's. my lord was there. "ned," says he to me, "ned," says he, "i'll hold gold to silver, i can tell you where you were poaching last night." "poaching, my lord?" says i: "faith, you have missed already; for i staid at home and let the girls poach for me. that's my way: i take a fine woman as some animals do their prey--stand still, and, swoop, they fall into my mouth."' 'ah, tibbs, thou art a happy fellow,' cried my companion, with looks of infinite pity; 'i hope your fortune is as much improved as your understanding, in such company?' 'improved!' replied the other: 'you shall know,--but let it go no farther--a great secret--five hundred a year to begin with--my lord's word of honour for it. his lordship took me down in his own chariot yesterday, and we had a _tête-à-tête_ dinner in the country, where we talked of nothing else.'--'i fancy you forget, sir,' cried i; 'you told us but this moment of your dining yesterday in town.'--'did i say so?' replied he, coolly; 'to be sure, if i said so, it was so. dined in town! egad, now i do remember, i did dine in town; but i dined in the country too; for you must know, my boys, i ate two dinners. by the bye, i am grown as nice as the devil in my eating. i'll tell you a pleasant affair about that: we were a select party of us to dine at lady grogram's,--an affected piece, but let it go no farther--a secret.--well, there happened to be no asafoetida in the sauce to a turkey, upon which, says i, i'll hold a thousand guineas, and say done, first, that--but, dear drybone, you are an honest creature; lend me half-a-crown for a minute or two, or so, just till ----; but hearkee, ask me for it the next time we meet, or it may be twenty to one but i forget to pay you.'" returning from those performances to the author of them, we find him a busy man of letters, becoming more and more in request among the booksellers, and obtaining recognition among his fellow-writers. he had moved into better lodgings in wine office court (1760-2); and it was here that he entertained at supper, as has already been mentioned, no less distinguished guests than bishop, then mr., percy, and dr., then mr., johnson. every one has heard of the surprise of percy, on calling for johnson, to find the great cham dressed with quite unusual smartness. on asking the cause of this "singular transformation," johnson replied, "why, sir, i hear that goldsmith, who is a very great sloven, justifies his disregard of cleanliness and decency by quoting my practice; and i am desirous this night to show him a better example." that goldsmith profited by this example--though the tailors did not--is clear enough. at times, indeed, he blossomed out into the splendours of a dandy; and laughed at himself for doing so. but whether he was in gorgeous or in mean attire, he remained the same sort of happy-go-lucky creature; working hard by fits and starts; continually getting money in advance from the booksellers; enjoying the present hour; and apparently happy enough when not pressed by debt. that he should have been thus pressed was no necessity of the case; at all events we need not on this score begin now to abuse the booksellers or the public of that day. we may dismiss once for all the oft-repeated charges of ingratitude and neglect. when goldsmith was writing those letters in the _public ledger_--with "pleasure and instruction for others," mr. forster says, "though at the cost of suffering to himself"--he was receiving for them alone what would be equivalent in our day to £200 a year. no man can affirm that £200 a year is not amply sufficient for all the material wants of life. of course there are fine things in the world that that amount of annual wage cannot purchase. it is a fine thing to sit on the deck of a yacht on a summer's day, and watch the far islands shining over the blue; it is a fine thing to drive four-in-hand to ascot--if you can do it; it is a fine thing to cower breathless behind a rock and find a splendid stag coming slowly within sure range. but these things are not necessary to human happiness: it is possible to do without them and yet not "suffer." even if goldsmith had given half of his substance away to the poor, there was enough left to cover all the necessary wants of a human being; and if he chose so to order his affairs as to incur the suffering of debt, why, that was his own business, about which nothing further needs be said. it is to be suspected, indeed, that he did not care to practise those excellent maxims of prudence and frugality which he frequently preached; but the world is not much concerned about that now. if goldsmith had received ten times as much money as the booksellers gave him, he would still have died in debt. and it is just possible that we may exaggerate goldsmith's sensitiveness on this score. he had had a life-long familiarity with duns and borrowing; and seemed very contented when the exigency of the hour was tided over. an angry landlady is unpleasant, and an arrest is awkward; but in comes an opportune guinea, and the bottle of madeira is opened forthwith. in these rooms in wine office court, and at the suggestion or entreaty of newbery, goldsmith produced a good deal of miscellaneous writing--pamphlets, tracts, compilations, and what not--of a more or less marketable kind. it can only be surmised that by this time he may have formed some idea of producing a book not solely meant for the market, and that the characters in the _vicar of wakefield_ were already engaging his attention; but the surmise becomes probable enough when we remember that his project of writing the _traveller_, which was not published till 1764, had been formed as far back as 1755, while he was wandering aimlessly about europe, and that a sketch of the poem was actually forwarded by him then to his brother henry in ireland. but in the meantime this hack-work, and the habits of life connected with it, began to tell on goldsmith's health; and so, for a time, he left london (1762), and went to tunbridge and then to bath. it is scarcely possible that his modest fame had preceded him to the latter place of fashion; but it may be that the distinguished folk of the town received this friend of the great dr. johnson with some small measure of distinction; for we find that his next published work, _the life of richard nash, esq._, is respectfully dedicated to the right worshipful the mayor, recorder, aldermen, and common council of the city of bath. the life of the recently deceased master of ceremonies was published anonymously (1762); but it was generally understood to be goldsmith's; and indeed the secret of the authorship is revealed in every successive line. among the minor writings of goldsmith there is none more delightful than this: the mock-heroic gravity, the half-familiar contemptuous good-nature with which he composes this funeral march of a marionette, are extremely whimsical and amusing. and then what an admirable picture we get of fashionable english society in the beginning of the eighteenth century, when bath and nash were alike in the heyday of their glory--the fine ladies with their snuff-boxes, and their passion for play, and their extremely effective language when they got angry; young bucks come to flourish away their money, and gain by their losses the sympathy of the fair; sharpers on the look-out for guineas, and adventurers on the look-out for weak-minded heiresses; duchesses writing letters in the most doubtful english, and chair-men swearing at any one who dared to walk home on foot at night. no doubt the _life of beau nash_ was a bookseller's book; and it was made as attractive as possible by the recapitulation of all sorts of romantic stories about miss s----n, and mr. c----e, and captain k----g; but throughout we find the historian very much inclined to laugh at his hero, and only refraining now and again in order to record in serious language traits indicative of the real goodness of disposition of that fop and gambler. and the fine ladies and gentlemen, who lived in that atmosphere of scandal, and intrigue, and gambling, are also from time to time treated to a little decorous and respectful raillery. who does not remember the famous laws of polite breeding written out by mr. nash--goldsmith hints that neither mr. nash nor his fair correspondent at blenheim, the duchess of marlborough, excelled in english composition--for the guidance of the ladies and gentlemen who were under the sway of the king of bath? "but were we to give laws to a nursery, we should make them childish laws," goldsmith writes gravely. "his statutes, though stupid, were addressed to fine gentlemen and ladies, and were probably received with sympathetic approbation. it is certain they were in general religiously observed by his subjects, and executed by him with impartiality; neither rank nor fortune shielded the refractory from his resentment." nash, however, was not content with prose in enforcing good manners. having waged deadly war against the custom of wearing boots, and having found his ordinary armoury of no avail against the obduracy of the country squires, he assailed them in the impassioned language of poetry, and produced the following "invitation to the assembly," which, as goldsmith remarks, was highly relished by the nobility at bath on account of its keenness, severity, and particularly its good rhymes. "come, one and all, to hoyden hall, for there's the assembly this night; none but prude fools mind manners and rules; we hoydens do decency slight. come, trollops and slatterns, cocked hats and white aprons, this best our modesty suits; for why should not we in dress be as free as hogs-norton squires in boots?" the sarcasm was too much for the squires, who yielded in a body; and when any stranger through inadvertence presented himself in the assembly-rooms in boots, nash was so completely master of the situation that he would politely step up to the intruder and suggest that he had forgotten his horse. goldsmith does not magnify the intellectual capacity of his hero; but he gives him credit for a sort of rude wit that was sometimes effective enough. his physician, for example, having called on him to see whether he had followed a prescription that had been sent him the previous day, was greeted in this fashion: "followed your prescription? no. egad, if i had, i should have broken my neck, for i flung it out of the two pair of stairs window." for the rest, this diverting biography contains some excellent warnings against the vice of gambling; with a particular account of the manner in which the government of the day tried by statute after statute to suppress the tables at tunbridge and bath, thereby only driving the sharpers to new subterfuges. that the beau was in alliance with sharpers, or, at least, that he was a sleeping partner in the firm, his biographer admits; but it is urged on his behalf that he was the most generous of winners, and again and again interfered to prevent the ruin of some gambler by whose folly he would himself have profited. his constant charity was well known; the money so lightly come by was at the disposal of any one who could prefer a piteous tale. moreover he made no scruple about exacting from others that charity which they could well afford. one may easily guess who was the duchess mentioned in the following story of goldsmith's narration:- "the sums he gave and collected for the hospital were great, and his manner of doing it was no less admirable. i am told that he was once collecting money in wiltshire's room for that purpose, when a lady entered, who is more remarkable for her wit than her charity, and not being able to pass by him unobserved, she gave him a pat with her fan, and said, 'you must put down a trifle for me, nash, for i have no money in my pocket.' 'yes, madam,' says he, 'that i will with pleasure, if your grace will tell me when to stop;' then taking an handful of guineas out of his pocket, he began to tell them into his white hat--' one, two, three, four, five ----' 'hold, hold!' says the duchess, 'consider what you are about.' 'consider your rank and fortune, madam,' says nash, and continues telling--'six, seven, eight, nine, ten.' here the duchess called again, and seemed angry. 'pray compose yourself, madam,' cried nash, 'and don't interrupt the work of charity,--eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.' here the duchess stormed, and caught hold of his hand. 'peace, madam,' says nash, 'you shall have your name written in letters of gold, madam, and upon the front of the building, madam,--sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.' 'i won't pay a farthing more,' says the duchess. 'charity hides a multitude of sins,' replies nash,--'twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five.' 'nash,' says she, 'i protest you frighten me out of my wits. l--d, i shall die!' 'madam, you will never die with doing good; and if you do, it will be the better for you,' answered nash, and was about to proceed; but perceiving her grace had lost all patience, a parley ensued, when he, after much altercation, agreed to stop his hand and compound with her grace for thirty guineas. the duchess, however, seemed displeased the whole evening, and when he came to the table where she was playing, bid him, 'stand farther, an ugly devil, for she hated the sight of him.' but her grace afterwards having a run of good luck, called nash to her. 'come,' says she, 'i will be friends with you, though you are a fool; and to let you see i am not angry, there is ten guineas more for your charity. but this i insist on, that neither my name nor the sum shall be mentioned.'" at the ripe age of eighty-seven the "beau of three generations" breathed his last (1761); and, though he had fallen into poor ways, there were those alive who remembered his former greatness, and who chronicled it in a series of epitaphs and poetical lamentations. "one thing is common almost with all of them," says goldsmith, "and that is that venus, cupid, and the graces are commanded to weep, and that bath shall never find such another." these effusions are forgotten now; and so would beau nash be also, but for this biography, which, no doubt meant merely for the book-market of the day, lives and is of permanent value by reason of the charm of its style, its pervading humour, and the vivacity of its descriptions of the fashionable follies of the eighteenth century. _nullum fere genus scribendi non tetigit. nullum quod tetigit non ornavit._ who but goldsmith could have written so delightful a book about such a poor creature as beau nash? chapter viii. the arrest. it was no doubt owing to newbery that goldsmith, after his return to london, was induced to abandon, temporarily or altogether, his apartments in wine office court, and take lodgings in the house of a mrs. fleming, who lived somewhere or other in islington. newbery had rooms in canonbury house, a curious old building that still exists; and it may have occurred to the publisher that goldsmith, in this suburban district, would not only be nearer him for consultation and so forth, but also might pay more attention to his duties than when he was among the temptations of fleet street. goldsmith was working industriously in the service of newbery at this time (1763-4); in fact, so completely was the bookseller in possession of the hack, that goldsmith's board and lodging in mrs. fleming's house, arranged for at £50 a year, was paid by newbery himself. writing prefaces, revising new editions, contributing reviews--this was the sort of work he undertook, with more or less content, as the equivalent of the modest sums mr. newbery disbursed for him or handed over as pocket-money. in the midst of all this drudgery he was now secretly engaged on work that aimed at something higher than mere payment of bed and board. the smooth lines of the _traveller_ were receiving further polish; the gentle-natured _vicar_ was writing his simple, quaint, tender story. and no doubt goldsmith was spurred to try something better than hack-work by the associations that he was now forming, chiefly under the wise and benevolent friendship of johnson. anxious always to be thought well of, he was now beginning to meet people whose approval was worthy of being sought. he had been introduced to reynolds. he had become the friend of hogarth. he had even made the acquaintance of mr. boswell, from scotland. moreover, he had been invited to become one of the original members of the famous club of which so much has been written; his fellow-members being reynolds, johnson, burke, hawkins, beauclerk, bennet langton, and dr. nugent. it is almost certain that it was at johnson's instigation that he had been admitted into this choice fellowship. long before either the _traveller_ or the _vicar_ had been heard of, johnson had perceived the literary genius that obscurely burned in the uncouth figure of this irishman; and was anxious to impress on others goldsmith's claims to respect and consideration. in the minute record kept by boswell of his first evening with johnson at the mitre tavern, we find johnson saying, "dr. goldsmith is one of the first men we now have as an author, and he is a very worthy man too. he has been loose in his principles, but he is coming right." johnson took walks with goldsmith; did him the honour of disputing with him on all occasions; bought a copy of the _life of nash_ when it appeared--an unusual compliment for one author to pay another, in their day or in ours; allowed him to call on miss williams, the blind old lady in bolt court; and generally was his friend, counsellor, and champion. accordingly, when mr. boswell entertained the great cham to supper at the mitre--a sudden quarrel with his landlord having made it impossible for him to order the banquet at his own house--he was careful to have dr. goldsmith of the company. his guests that evening were johnson, goldsmith, davies (the actor and bookseller who had conferred on boswell the invaluable favour of an introduction to johnson), mr. eccles, and the rev. mr. ogilvie, a scotch poet who deserves our gratitude because it was his inopportune patriotism that provoked, on this very evening, the memorable epigram about the high-road leading to england. "goldsmith," says boswell, who had not got over his envy at goldsmith's being allowed to visit the blind old pensioner in bolt-court, "as usual, endeavoured with too much eagerness to _shine_, and disputed very warmly with johnson against the well-known maxim of the british constitution, 'the king can do no wrong.'" it was a dispute not so much about facts as about phraseology; and, indeed, there seems to be no great warmth in the expressions used on either side. goldsmith affirmed that "what was morally false could not be politically true;" and that, in short, the king could by the misuse of his regal power do wrong. johnson replied, that, in such a case, the immediate agents of the king were the persons to be tried and punished for the offence. "the king, though he should command, cannot force a judge to condemn a man unjustly; therefore it is the judge whom we prosecute and punish." but when he stated that the king "is above everything, and there is no power by which he can be tried," he was surely forgetting an important chapter in english history. "what did cromwell do for his country?" he himself asked, during his subsequent visit to scotland, of old auchinleck, boswell's father. "god, doctor," replied the vile whig, "_he garred kings ken they had a lith in their necks_." for some time after this evening goldsmith drops out of boswell's famous memoir; perhaps the compiler was not anxious to give him too much prominence. they had not liked each other from the outset. boswell, vexed by the greater intimacy of goldsmith with johnson, called him a blunderer, a feather-brained person; and described his appearance in no flattering terms. goldsmith, on the other hand, on being asked who was this scotch cur that followed johnson's heels, answered, "he is not a cur: you are too severe--he is only a bur. tom davies flung him at johnson in sport, and he has the faculty of sticking." boswell would probably have been more tolerant of goldsmith as a rival, if he could have known that on a future day he was to have johnson all to himself--to carry him to remote wilds and exhibit him as a portentous literary phenomenon to highland lairds. it is true that johnson, at an early period of his acquaintance with boswell, did talk vaguely about a trip to the hebrides; but the young scotch idolater thought it was all too good to be true. the mention of sir james macdonald, says boswell, "led us to talk of the western islands of scotland, to visit which he expressed a wish that then appeared to me a very romantic fancy, which i little thought would be afterwards realised. he told me that his father had put martin's account of those islands into his hands when he was very young, and that he was highly pleased with it; that he was particularly struck with the st. kilda man's notion that the high church of glasgow had been hollowed out of a rock; a circumstance to which old mr. johnson had directed his attention." unfortunately goldsmith not only disappears from the pages of boswell's biography at this time, but also in great measure from the ken of his companions. he was deeply in debt; no doubt the fine clothes he had been ordering from mr. filby in order that he might "shine" among those notable persons, had something to do with it; he had tried the patience of the booksellers; and he had been devoting a good deal of time to work not intended to elicit immediate payment. the most patient endeavours to trace out his changes of lodgings, and the fugitive writings that kept him in daily bread, have not been very successful. it is to be presumed that goldsmith had occasionally to go into hiding to escape from his creditors; and so was missed from his familiar haunts. we only reach daylight again, to find goldsmith being under threat of arrest from his landlady; and for the particulars of this famous affair it is necessary to return to boswell. boswell was not in london at that time; but his account was taken down subsequently from johnson's narration; and his accuracy in other matters, his extraordinary memory, and scrupulous care, leave no doubt in the mind that his version of the story is to be preferred to those of mrs. piozzi and sir john hawkins. we may take it that these are johnson's own words:-"i received one morning a message from poor goldsmith that he was in great distress, and, as it was not in his power to come to me, begging that i would come to him as soon as possible. i sent him a guinea, and promised to come to him directly. i accordingly went as soon as i was dressed, and found that his landlady had arrested him for his rent, at which he was in a violent passion. i perceived that he had already changed my guinea, and had got a bottle of madeira and a glass before him. i put the cork into the bottle, desired he would be calm, and began to talk to him of the means by which he might be extricated. he then told me that he had a novel ready for the press, which he produced to me. i looked into it, and saw its merit; told the landlady i should soon return; and, having gone to a bookseller, sold it for £60. i brought goldsmith the money, and he discharged his rent, not without rating his landlady in a high tone for having used him so ill." we do not know who this landlady was--it cannot now be made out whether the incident occurred at islington, or in the rooms that goldsmith partially occupied in the temple; but even if mrs. fleming be the landlady in question, she was deserving neither of goldsmith's rating nor of the reprimands that have been bestowed upon her by later writers. mrs. fleming had been exceedingly kind to goldsmith. again and again in her bills we find items significantly marked £0 0_s._ 0_d._ and if her accounts with her lodger did get hopelessly into arrear; and if she was annoyed by seeing him go out in fine clothes to sup at the mitre; and if, at length, her patience gave way, and she determined to have her rights in one way or another, she was no worse than landladies--who are only human beings, and not divinely appointed protectresses of genius--ordinarily are. mrs. piozzi says that when johnson came back with the money, goldsmith "called the woman of the house directly to partake of punch, and pass their time in merriment." this would be a dramatic touch; but, after johnson's quietly corking the bottle of madeira, it is more likely that no such thing occurred; especially as boswell quotes the statement as an "extreme inaccuracy." the novel which johnson had taken away and sold to francis newbery, a nephew of the elder bookseller, was, as every one knows, the _vicar of wakefield_. that goldsmith, amidst all his pecuniary distresses, should have retained this piece in his desk, instead of pawning or promising it to one of his bookselling patrons, points to but one conclusion--that he was building high hopes on it, and was determined to make it as good as lay within his power. goldsmith put an anxious finish into all his better work; perhaps that is the secret of the graceful ease that is now apparent in every line. any young writer who may imagine that the power of clear and concise literary expression comes by nature, cannot do better than study, in mr. cunningham's big collection of goldsmith's writings, the continual and minute alterations which the author considered necessary even after the first edition--sometimes when the second and third editions--had been published. many of these, especially in the poetical works, were merely improvements in sound as suggested by a singularly sensitive ear, as when he altered the line "amidst the ruin, heedless of the dead," which had appeared in the first three editions of the _traveller_, into "there in the ruin, heedless of the dead," which appeared in the fourth. but the majority of the omissions and corrections were prompted by a careful taste, that abhorred everything redundant or slovenly. it has been suggested that when johnson carried off the _vicar of wakefield_ to francis newbery, the manuscript was not quite finished, but had to be completed afterwards. there was at least plenty of time for that. newbery does not appear to have imagined that he had obtained a prize in the lottery of literature. he paid the £60 for it--clearly on the assurance of the great father of learning of the day, that there was merit in the little story--somewhere about the end of 1764; but the tale was not issued to the public until march, 1766. "and, sir," remarked johnson to boswell, with regard to the sixty pounds, "a sufficient price too, when it was sold; for then the fame of goldsmith had not been elevated, as it afterwards was, by his _traveller_; and the bookseller had such faint hopes of profit by his bargain, that he kept the manuscript by him a long time, and did not publish it till after the _traveller_ had appeared. then, to be sure, it was accidentally worth more money." chapter ix. the traveller. this poem of the _traveller_, the fruit of much secret labour and the consummation of the hopes of many years, was lying completed in goldsmith's desk when the incident of the arrest occurred; and the elder newbery had undertaken to publish it. then, as at other times, johnson lent this wayward child of genius a friendly hand. he read over the proof-sheets for goldsmith; was so kind as to put in a line here or there where he thought fit; and prepared a notice of the poem for the _critical review_. the time for the appearance of this new claimant for poetical honours was propitious. "there was perhaps no point in the century," says professor masson, "when the british muse, such as she had come to be, was doing less, or had so nearly ceased to do anything, or to have any good opinion of herself, as precisely about the year 1764. young was dying; gray was recluse and indolent; johnson had long given over his metrical experimentations on any except the most inconsiderable scale; akenside, armstrong, smollett, and others less known, had pretty well revealed the amount of their worth in poetry; and churchill, after his ferocious blaze of what was really rage and declamation in metre, though conventionally it was called poetry, was prematurely defunct. into this lull came goldsmith's short but carefully finished poem." "there has not been so fine a poem since pope's time," remarked johnson to boswell, on the very first evening after the return of young auchinleck to london. it would have been no matter for surprise had goldsmith dedicated this first work that he published under his own name to johnson, who had for so long been his constant friend and adviser; and such a dedication would have carried weight in certain quarters. but there was a finer touch in goldsmith's thought of inscribing the book to his brother henry; and no doubt the public were surprised and pleased to find a poor devil of an author dedicating a work to an irish parson with £40 a year, from whom he could not well expect any return. it will be remembered that it was to this brother henry that goldsmith, ten years before, had sent the first sketch of the poem; and now the wanderer, "remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow." declares how his heart untravelled "still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, and drags at each remove a lengthening chain." the very first line of the poem strikes a key-note--there is in it a pathetic thrill of distance, and regret, and longing; and it has the soft musical sound that pervades the whole composition. it is exceedingly interesting to note, as has already been mentioned, how goldsmith altered and altered these lines until he had got them full of gentle vowel sounds. where, indeed, in the english language could one find more graceful melody than this?- "the naked negro, panting at the line, boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, and thanks his gods for all the good they gave." it has been observed also that goldsmith was the first to introduce into english poetry sonorous american--or rather indian--names, as when he writes in this poem, "where wild oswego spreads her swamps around, and niagara stuns with thundering sound," --and if it be charged against him that he ought to have known the proper accentuation of niagara, it may be mentioned as a set-off that sir walter scott, in dealing with his own country, mis-accentuated "glenaládale," to say nothing of his having made of roseneath an island. another characteristic of the _traveller_ is the extraordinary choiceness and conciseness of the diction, which, instead of suggesting pedantry or affectation, betrays on the contrary nothing but a delightful ease and grace. the english people are very fond of good english; and thus it is that couplets from the _traveller_ and the _deserted village_ have come into the common stock of our language, and that sometimes not so much on account of the ideas they convey, as through their singular precision of epithet and musical sound. it is enough to make the angels weep, to find such a couplet as this- "cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose, breasts the keen air, and carols as he goes," murdered in several editions of goldsmith's works by the substitution of the commonplace "breathes" for "breasts"--and that, after johnson had drawn particular attention to the line by quoting it in his dictionary. perhaps, indeed, it may be admitted that the literary charm of the _traveller_ is more apparent than the value of any doctrine, however profound or ingenious, which the poem was supposed to inculcate. we forget all about the "particular principle of happiness" possessed by each european state, in listening to the melody of the singer, and in watching the successive and delightful pictures that he calls up before the imagination. "as in those domes where cæsars once bore sway, defaced by time, and tottering in decay, there in the ruin, heedless of the dead, the shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed; and, wondering man could want the larger pile, exults, and owns his cottage with a smile." then notice the blaze of patriotic idealism that bursts forth when he comes to talk of england. what sort of england had he been familiar with when he was consorting with the meanest wretches--the poverty stricken, the sick, and squalid--in those fleet-street dens? but it is an england of bright streams and spacious lawns of which he writes; and as for the people who inhabit the favoured land- "stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state, with daring aims irregularly great; pride in their port, defiance in their eye, i see the lords of human kind pass by." "whenever i write anything," goldsmith had said, with a humorous exaggeration which boswell, as usual, takes _au sérieux_, "the public _make a point_ to know nothing about it." but we have johnson's testimony to the fact that the _traveller_ "brought him into high reputation." no wonder. when the great cham declares it to be the finest poem published since the time of pope, we are irresistibly forced to think of the _essay on man_. what a contrast there is between that tedious and stilted effort, and this clear burst of bird-song! the _traveller_, however, did not immediately become popular. it was largely talked about, naturally, among goldsmith's friends; and johnson would scarcely suffer any criticism of it. at a dinner given long afterwards at sir joshua reynolds's, and fully reported by the invaluable boswell, reynolds remarked, "i was glad to hear charles fox say it was one of the finest poems in the english language." "why were you glad?" said langton. "you surely had no doubt of this before?" hereupon johnson struck in: "no; the merit of the _traveller_ is so well established, that mr. fox's praise cannot augment it, nor his censure diminish it." and he went on to say--goldsmith having died and got beyond the reach of all critics and creditors some three or four years before this time "goldsmith was a man who, whatever he wrote, did it better than any other man could do. he deserved a place in westminster abbey; and every year he lived would have deserved it better." presently people began to talk about the new poem. a second edition was issued; a third; a fourth. it is not probable that goldsmith gained any pecuniary benefit from the growing popularity of the little book; but he had "struck for honest fame," and that was now coming to him. he even made some slight acquaintance with "the great;" and here occurs an incident which is one of many that account for the love that the english people have for goldsmith. it appears that hawkins, calling one day on the earl of northumberland, found the author of the _traveller_ waiting in the outer room, in response to an invitation. hawkins, having finished his own business, retired, but lingered about until the interview between goldsmith and his lordship was over, having some curiosity about the result. here follows goldsmith's report to hawkins. "his lordship told me he had read my poem, and was much delighted with it; that he was going to be lord-lieutenant of ireland; and that, hearing that i was a native of that country, he should be glad to do me any kindness." "what did you answer?" says hawkins, no doubt expecting to hear of some application for pension or post. "why," said goldsmith, "i could say nothing but that i had a brother there, a clergyman, that stood in need of help,"--and then he explained to hawkins that he looked to the booksellers for support, and was not inclined to place dependence on the promises of great men. "thus did this idiot in the affairs of the world," adds hawkins, with a fatuity that is quite remarkable in its way, "trifle with his fortunes, and put back the hand that was held out to assist him! other offers of a like kind he either rejected or failed to improve, contenting himself with the patronage of one nobleman, whose mansion afforded him the delights of a splendid table and a retreat for a few days from the metropolis." it is a great pity we have not a description from the same pen of johnson's insolent ingratitude in flinging the pair of boots down stairs. chapter x. miscellaneous writing. but one pecuniary result of this growing fame was a joint offer on the part of griffin and newbery of £20 for a selection from his printed essays; and this selection was forthwith made and published, with a preface written for the occasion. here at once we can see that goldsmith takes firmer ground. there is an air of confidence--of gaiety, even--in his address to the public; although, as usual, accompanied by a whimsical mock-modesty that is extremely odd and effective. "whatever right i have to complain of the public," he says, "they can, as yet, have no just reason to complain of me. if i have written dull essays, they have hitherto treated them as dull essays. thus far we are at least upon par, and until they think fit to make me their humble debtor by praise, i am resolved not to lose a single inch of my self-importance. instead, therefore, of attempting to establish a credit amongst them, it will perhaps be wiser to apply to some more distant correspondent; and as my drafts are in some danger of being protested at home, it may not be imprudent, upon this occasion, to draw my bills upon posterity. "mr. posterity, "sir,--nine hundred and ninety-nine years after sight hereof pay the bearer, or order, a thousand pounds worth of praise, free from all deductions whatsoever, it being a commodity that will then be very serviceable to him, and place it to the account of, &c." the bill is not yet due; but there can in the meantime be no harm in discounting it so far as to say that these essays deserve very decided praise. they deal with all manner of topics, matters of fact, matters of imagination, humorous descriptions, learned criticisms; and then, whenever the entertainer thinks he is becoming dull, he suddenly tells a quaint little story and walks off amidst the laughter he knows he has produced. it is not a very ambitious or sonorous sort of literature; but it was admirably fitted for its aim--the passing of the immediate hour in an agreeable and fairly intellectual way. one can often see, no doubt, that these essays are occasionally written in a more or less perfunctory fashion, the writer not being moved by much enthusiasm in his subject; but even then a quaint literary grace seldom fails to atone, as when, writing about the english clergy, and complaining that they do not sufficiently in their addresses stoop to mean capacities, he says--"whatever may become of the higher orders of mankind, who are generally possessed of collateral motives to virtue, the vulgar should be particularly regarded, whose behaviour in civil life is totally hinged upon their hopes and fears. those who constitute the basis of the great fabric of society should be particularly regarded; for in policy, as in architecture, ruin is most fatal when it begins from the bottom." there was, indeed, throughout goldsmith's miscellaneous writing much more common sense than might have been expected from a writer who was supposed to have none. as regards his chance criticisms on dramatic and poetical literature, these are generally found to be incisive and just; while sometimes they exhibit a wholesome disregard of mere tradition and authority. "milton's translation of horace's ode to pyrrha," he says, for example, "is universally known and generally admired, in our opinion much above its merit." if the present writer might for a moment venture into such an arena, he would express the honest belief that that translation is the very worst translation that was ever made of anything. but there is the happy rendering of _simplex munditiis_, which counts for much. by this time goldsmith had also written his charming ballad of _edwin and angelina_, which was privately "printed for the amusement of the countess of northumberland," and which afterwards appeared in the _vicar of wakefield_. it seems clear enough that this quaint and pathetic piece was suggested by an old ballad beginning, "gentle heardsman, tell to me, of curtesy i thee pray, unto the towne of walsingham which is the right and ready way," which percy had shown to goldsmith, and which, patched up, subsequently appeared in the _reliques_. but goldsmith's ballad is original enough to put aside all the discussion about plagiarism which was afterwards started. in the old fragment the weeping pilgrim receives directions from the herdsman, and goes on her way, and we hear of her no more; in _edwin and angelina_ the forlorn and despairing maiden suddenly finds herself confronted by the long-lost lover whom she had so cruelly used. this is the dramatic touch that reveals the hand of the artist. and here again it is curious to note the care with which goldsmith repeatedly revised his writings. the ballad originally ended with these two stanzas:- "here amidst sylvan bowers we'll rove, from lawn to woodland stray; blest as the songsters of the grove, and innocent as they. "to all that want, and all that wail, our pity shall be given, and when this life of love shall fail, we'll love again in heaven." but subsequently it must have occurred to the author that, the dramatic disclosure once made, and the lovers restored to each other, any lingering over the scene only weakened the force of the climax; hence these stanzas were judiciously excised. it may be doubted, however, whether the original version of the last couplet: "and the last sigh that rends the heart shall break thy edwin's too," was improved by being altered into "the sigh that rends thy constant heart shall break thy edwin's too." meanwhile goldsmith had resorted to hack-work again; nothing being expected from the _vicar of wakefield_, now lying in newbery's shop, for that had been paid for, and his expenses were increasing, as became his greater station. in the interval between the publication of the _traveller_ and of the _vicar_, he moved into better chambers in garden court; he hired a man-servant, he blossomed out into very fine clothes. indeed, so effective did his first suit seem to be--the purple silk small-clothes, the scarlet roquelaure, the wig, sword, and gold-headed cane--that, as mr. forster says, he "amazed his friends with no less than three similar suits, not less expensive, in the next six months." part of this display was no doubt owing to a suggestion from reynolds that goldsmith, having a medical degree, might just as well add the practice of a physician to his literary work, to magnify his social position. goldsmith, always willing to please his friends, acceded; but his practice does not appear to have been either extensive or long-continued. it is said that he drew out a prescription for a certain mrs. sidebotham which so appalled the apothecary that he refused to make it up; and that, as the lady sided with the apothecary, he threw up the case and his profession at the same time. if it was money goldsmith wanted, he was not likely to get it in that way; he had neither the appearance nor the manner fitted to humour the sick and transform healthy people into valetudinarians. if it was the esteem of his friends and popularity outside that circle, he was soon to acquire enough of both. on the 27th march, 1766, fifteen months after the appearance of the _traveller_, the _vicar of wakefield_ was published. chapter xi. the vicar of wakefield. the _vicar of wakefield_, considered structurally, follows the lines of the book of job. you take a good man, overwhelm him with successive misfortunes, show the pure flame of his soul burning in the midst of the darkness, and then, as the reward of his patience and fortitude and submission, restore him gradually to happiness, with even larger flocks and herds than before. the machinery by which all this is brought about is, in the _vicar of wakefield_, the weak part of the story. the plot is full of wild improbabilities; in fact, the expedients by which all the members of the family are brought together and made happy at the same time, are nothing short of desperate. it is quite clear, too, that the author does not know what to make of the episode of olivia and her husband; they are allowed to drop through; we leave him playing the french horn at a relation's house; while she, in her father's home, is supposed to be unnoticed, so much are they all taken up with the rejoicings over the double wedding. it is very probable that when goldsmith began the story he had no very definite plot concocted; and that it was only when the much-persecuted vicar had to be restored to happiness, that he found the entanglements surrounding him, and had to make frantic efforts to break through them. but, be that as it may, it is not for the plot that people now read the _vicar of wakefield_; it is not the intricacies of the story that have made it the delight of the world. surely human nature must be very much the same when this simple description of a quiet english home went straight to the heart of nations in both hemispheres. and the wonder is that goldsmith of all men should have produced such a perfect picture of domestic life. what had his own life been but a moving about between garret and tavern, between bachelor's lodgings and clubs? where had he seen--unless, indeed, he looked back through the mist of years to the scenes of his childhood--all this gentle government, and wise blindness; all this affection, and consideration, and respect? there is as much human nature in the character of the vicar alone as would have furnished any fifty of the novels of that day, or of this. who has not been charmed by his sly and quaint humour, by his moral dignity and simple vanities, even by the little secrets he reveals to us of his paternal rule. "'ay,' returned i, not knowing well what to think of the matter, 'heaven grant they may be both the better for it this day three months!' this was one of those observations i usually made to impress my wife with an opinion of my sagacity; for if the girls succeeded, then it was a pious wish fulfilled; but if anything unfortunate ensued, then it might be looked on as a prophecy." we know how miss olivia was answered, when, at her mother's prompting, she set up for being well skilled in controversy:-"'why, my dear, what controversy can she have read?' cried i. 'it does not occur to me that i ever put such books into her hands: you certainly overrate her merit.'--'indeed, papa,' replied olivia, 'she does not; i have read a great deal of controversy. i have read the disputes between thwackum and square; the controversy between robinson crusoe and friday, the savage; and i am now employed in reading the controversy in religious courtship.'--'very well,' cried i, 'that's a good girl; i find you are perfectly qualified for making converts, and so go help your mother to make the gooseberry pie.'" it is with a great gentleness that the good man reminds his wife and daughters that, after their sudden loss of fortune, it does not become them to wear much finery. "the first sunday, in particular, their behaviour served to mortify me. i had desired my girls the preceding night to be dressed early the next day; for i always loved to be at church a good while before the rest of the congregation. they punctually obeyed my directions; but when we were to assemble in the morning at breakfast, down came my wife and daughters, dressed out in all their former splendour; their hair plastered up with pomatum, their faces patched to taste, their trains bundled up in a heap behind, and rustling at every motion. i could not help smiling at their vanity, particularly that of my wife, from whom i expected more discretion. in this exigence, therefore, my only resource was to order my son, with an important air, to call our coach. the girls were amazed at the command; but i repeated it with more solemnity than before. 'surely, my dear, you jest,' cried my wife; 'we can walk it perfectly well: we want no coach to carry us now.'--'you mistake, child,' returned i, 'we do want a coach; for if we walk to church in this trim, the very children in the parish will hoot after us.'--'indeed,' replied my wife, 'i always imagined that my charles was fond of seeing his children neat and handsome about him.'--'you may be as neat as you please,' interrupted i, 'and i shall love you the better for it; but all this is not neatness, but frippery. these rufflings, and pinkings, and patchings will only make us hated by all the wives of our neighbours. no, my children,' continued i, more gravely, 'those gowns may be altered into something of a plainer cut; for finery is very unbecoming in us, who want the means of decency. i do not know whether such flouncing and shredding is becoming even in the rich, if we consider, upon a moderate calculation, that the nakedness of the indigent world might be clothed from the trimmings of the vain.' "this remonstrance had the proper effect: they went with great composure, that very instant, to change their dress; and the next day i had the satisfaction of finding my daughters, at their own request, employed in cutting up their trains into sunday waistcoats for dick and bill, the two little ones; and, what was still more satisfactory, the gowns seemed improved by this curtailing." and again when he discovered the two girls making a wash for their faces:--"my daughters seemed equally busy with the rest; and i observed them for a good while cooking something over the fire. i at first supposed they were assisting their mother, but little dick informed me, in a whisper, that they were making a wash for the face. washes of all kinds i had a natural antipathy to; for i knew that, instead of mending the complexion, they spoil it. i therefore approached my chair by sly degrees to the fire, and grasping the poker, as if it wanted mending, seemingly by accident overturned the whole composition, and it was too late to begin another." all this is done with such a light, homely touch, that one gets familiarly to know these people without being aware of it. there is no insistance. there is no dragging you along by the collar; confronting you with certain figures; and compelling you to look at this and study that. the artist stands by you, and laughs in his quiet way; and you are laughing too, when suddenly you find that human beings have silently come into the void before you; and you know them for friends; and even after the vision has faded away, and the beautiful light and colour and glory of romance-land have vanished, you cannot forget them. they have become part of your life; you will take them to the grave with you. the story, as every one perceives, has its obvious blemishes. "there are an hundred faults in this thing," says goldsmith himself, in the prefixed advertisement. but more particularly, in the midst of all the impossibilities taking place in and around the jail, when that chameleon-like _deus ex machinâ_, mr. jenkinson, winds up the tale in hot haste, goldsmith pauses to put in a sort of apology. "nor can i go on without a reflection," he says gravely, "on those accidental meetings, which, though they happen every day, seldom excite our surprise but upon some extraordinary occasion. to what a fortuitous concurrence do we not owe every pleasure and convenience of our lives! how many seeming accidents must unite before we can be clothed or fed! the peasant must be disposed to labour, the shower must fall, the wind fill the merchant's sail, or numbers must want the usual supply." this is mr. thackeray's "simple rogue" appearing again in adult life. certainly, if our supply of food and clothing depended on such accidents as happened to make the vicar's family happy all at once, there would be a good deal of shivering and starvation in the world. moreover it may be admitted that on occasion goldsmith's fine instinct deserts him; and even in describing those domestic relations which are the charm of the novel, he blunders into the unnatural. when mr. burchell, for example, leaves the house in consequence of a quarrel with mrs. primrose, the vicar questions his daughter as to whether she had received from that poor gentleman any testimony of his affection for her. she replies no; but remembers to have heard him remark that he never knew a woman who could find merit in a man that was poor. "such, my dear," continued the vicar, "is the common cant of all the unfortunate or idle. but i hope you have been taught to judge properly of such men, and that it would be even madness to expect happiness from one who has been so very bad an economist of his own. your mother and i have now better prospects for you. the next winter, which you will probably spend in town, will give you opportunities of making a more prudent choice." now it is not at all likely that a father, however anxious to have his daughter well married and settled, would ask her so delicate a question in open domestic circle, and would then publicly inform her that she was expected to choose a husband on her forthcoming visit to town. whatever may be said about any particular incident like this, the atmosphere of the book is true. goethe, to whom a german translation of the _vicar_ was read by herder some four years after the publication in england, not only declared it at the time to be one of the best novels ever written, but again and again throughout his life reverted to the charm and delight with which he had made the acquaintance of the english "prose-idyll," and took it for granted that it was a real picture of english life. despite all the machinery of mr. jenkinson's schemes, who could doubt it? again and again there are recurrent strokes of such vividness and naturalness that we yield altogether to the necromancer. look at this perfect picture--of human emotion and outside nature--put in in a few sentences. the old clergyman, after being in search of his daughter, has found her, and is now--having left her in an inn--returning to his family and his home. "and now my heart caught new sensations of pleasure, the nearer i approached that peaceful mansion. as a bird that had been frighted from its nest, my affections outwent my haste, and hovered round my little fireside with all the rapture of expectation. i called up the many fond things i had to say, and anticipated the welcome i was to receive. i already felt my wife's tender embrace, and smiled at the joy of my little ones. as i walked but slowly, the night waned apace. the labourers of the day were all retired to rest; the lights were out in every cottage; no sounds were heard but of the shrilling cock, and the deep-mouthed watch-dog at hollow distance. i approached my little abode of pleasure, and, before i was within a furlong of the place, our honest mastiff came running to welcome me." "_the deep-mouthed watch-dog at hollow distance_;"--what more perfect description of the stillness of night was ever given? and then there are other qualities in this delightful _vicar of wakefield_ than merely idyllic tenderness, and pathos, and sly humour. there is a firm presentation of the crimes and brutalities of the world. the pure light that shines within that domestic circle is all the brighter because of the black outer ring that is here and there indicated rather than described. how could we appreciate all the simplicities of the good man's household, but for the rogueries with which they are brought in contact? and although we laugh at moses and his gross of green spectacles, and the manner in which the vicar's wife and daughter are imposed on by miss wilhelmina skeggs and lady blarney, with their lords and ladies and their tributes to virtue, there is no laughter demanded of us when we find the simplicity and moral dignity of the vicar meeting and beating the jeers and taunts of the abandoned wretches in the prison. this is really a remarkable episode. the author was under the obvious temptation to make much comic material out of the situation; while another temptation, towards the goody-goody side, was not far off. but the vicar undertakes the duty of reclaiming these castaways with a modest patience and earnestness in every way in keeping with his character; while they, on the other hand, are not too easily moved to tears of repentance. his first efforts, it will be remembered, were not too successful. "their insensibility excited my highest compassion, and blotted my own uneasiness from my mind. it even appeared a duty incumbent upon me to attempt to reclaim them. i resolved, therefore, once more to return, and, in spite of their contempt, to give them my advice, and conquer them by my perseverance. going, therefore, among them again, i informed mr. jenkinson of my design, at which he laughed heartily, but communicated it to the rest. the proposal was received with the greatest good humour, as it promised to afford a new fund of entertainment to persons who had now no other resource for mirth but what could be derived from ridicule or debauchery. "i therefore read them a portion of the service with a loud, unaffected voice, and found my audience perfectly merry upon the occasion. lewd whispers, groans of contrition burlesqued, winking and coughing, alternately excited laughter. however, i continued with my natural solemnity to read on, sensible that what i did might mend some, but could itself receive no contamination from any. "after reading, i entered upon my exhortation, which was rather calculated at first to amuse them than to reprove. i previously observed, that no other motive but their welfare could induce me to this; that i was their fellow-prisoner, and now got nothing by preaching. i was sorry, i said, to hear them so very profane; because they got nothing by it, but might lose a great deal: 'for be assured, my friends,' cried i,--'for you are my friends, however the world may disclaim your friendship,--though you swore twelve thousand oaths in a day, it would not put one penny in your purse. then what signifies calling every moment upon the devil, and courting his friendship, since you find how scurvily he uses you? he has given you nothing here, you find, but a mouthful of oaths and an empty belly; and, by the best accounts i have of him, he will give you nothing that's good hereafter. "'if used ill in our dealings with one man, we naturally go elsewhere. were it not worth your while, then, just to try how you may like the usage of another master, who gives you fair promises at least to come to him? surely, my friends, of all stupidity in the world, his must be the greatest, who, after robbing a house, runs to the thief-takers for protection. and yet, how are you more wise? you are all seeking comfort from one that has already betrayed you, applying to a more malicious being than any thief-taker of them all; for they only decoy and then hang you; but he decoys and hangs, and, what is worst of all, will not let you loose after the hangman has done.' "when i had concluded, i received the compliments of my audience, some of whom came and shook me by the hand, swearing that i was a very honest fellow, and that they desired my further acquaintance. i therefore promised to repeat my lecture next day, and actually conceived some hopes of making a reformation here; for it had ever been my opinion, that no man was past the hour of amendment, every heart lying open to the shafts of reproof, if the archer could but take a proper aim." his wife and children, naturally dissuading him from an effort which seemed to them only to bring ridicule upon him, are met by a grave rebuke; and on the next morning he descends to the common prison, where, he says, he found the prisoners very merry, expecting his arrival, and each prepared to play some gaol-trick on the doctor. "there was one whose trick gave more universal pleasure than all the rest; for, observing the manner in which i had disposed my books on the table before me, he very dexterously displaced one of them, and put an obscene jest-book of his own in the place. however, i took no notice of all that this mischievous group of little beings could do, but went on, perfectly sensible that what was ridiculous in my attempt would excite mirth only the first or second time, while what was serious would be permanent. my design succeeded, and in less than six days some were penitent, and all attentive. "it was now that i applauded my perseverance and address, at thus giving sensibility to wretches divested of every moral feeling, and now began to think of doing them temporal services also, by rendering their situation somewhat more comfortable. their time had hitherto been divided between famine and excess, tumultuous riot and bitter repining. their only employment was quarrelling among each other, playing at cribbage, and cutting tobacco-stoppers. from this last mode of idle industry i took the hint of setting such as choose to work at cutting pegs for tobacconists and shoemakers, the proper wood being bought by a general subscription, and, when manufactured, sold by my appointment; so that each earned something every day--a trifle indeed, but sufficient to maintain him. "i did not stop here, but instituted fines for the punishment of immorality, and rewards for peculiar industry. thus, in less than a fortnight i had formed them into something social and humane, and had the pleasure of regarding myself as a legislator who had brought men from their native ferocity into friendship and obedience." of course, all this about gaols and thieves was calculated to shock the nerves of those who liked their literature perfumed with rose-water. madame riccoboni, to whom burke had sent the book, wrote to garrick, "le plaidoyer en faveur des voleurs, des petits larrons, des gens de mauvaises moeurs, est fort éloigné de me plaire." others, no doubt, considered the introduction of miss skeggs and lady blarney as "vastly low." but the curious thing is that the literary critics of the day seem to have been altogether silent about the book--perhaps they were "puzzled" by it, as southey has suggested. mr. forster, who took the trouble to search the periodical literature of the time, says that, "apart from bald recitals of the plot, not a word was said in the way of criticism about the book, either in praise or blame." the _st. james's chronicle_ did not condescend to notice its appearance, and the _monthly review_ confessed frankly that nothing was to be made of it. the better sort of newspapers, as well as the more dignified reviews, contemptuously left it to the patronage of _lloyd's evening post_, the _london chronicle_, and journals of that class; which simply informed their readers that a new novel, called the _vicar of wakefield_, had been published, that "the editor is doctor goldsmith, who has affixed his name to an introductory advertisement, and that such and such were the incidents of the story." even his friends, with the exception of burke, did not seem to consider that any remarkable new birth in literature had occurred; and it is probable that this was a still greater disappointment to goldsmith, who was so anxious to be thought well of at the club. however, the public took to the story. a second edition was published in may; a third in august. goldsmith, it is true, received no pecuniary gain from this success, for, as we have seen, johnson had sold the novel outright to francis newbery; but his name was growing in importance with the booksellers. there was need that it should, for his increasing expenses--his fine clothes, his suppers, his whist at the devil tavern--were involving him in deeper and deeper difficulties. how was he to extricate himself?--or rather the question that would naturally occur to goldsmith was how was he to continue that hand-to-mouth existence that had its compensations along with its troubles? novels like the _vicar of wakefield_ are not written at a moment's notice, even though any newbery, judging by results, is willing to double that £60 which johnson considered to be a fair price for the story at the time. there was the usual resource of hack-writing; and, no doubt, goldsmith was compelled to fall back on that, if only to keep the elder newbery, in whose debt he was, in a good humour. but the author of the _vicar of wakefield_ may be excused if he looked round to see if there was not some more profitable work for him to turn his hand to. it was at this time that he began to think of writing a comedy. chapter xii. the good-natured man. amid much miscellaneous work, mostly of the compilation order, the play of the _good-natured man_ began to assume concrete form; insomuch that johnson, always the friend of this erratic irishman, had promised to write a prologue for it. it is with regard to this prologue that boswell tells a foolish and untrustworthy story about goldsmith. dr. johnson had recently been honoured by an interview with his sovereign; and the members of the club were in the habit of flattering him by begging for a repetition of his account of that famous event. on one occasion, during this recital, boswell relates, goldsmith "remained unmoved upon a sofa at some distance, affecting not to join in the least in the eager curiosity of the company. he assigned as a reason for his gloom and seeming inattention that he apprehended johnson had relinquished his purpose of furnishing him with a prologue to his play, with the hopes of which he had been flattered; but it was strongly suspected that he was fretting with chagrin and envy at the singular honour doctor johnson had lately enjoyed. at length the frankness and simplicity of his natural character prevailed. he sprang from the sofa, advanced to johnson, and, in a kind of flutter, from imagining himself in the situation which he had just been hearing described, exclaimed, 'well, you acquitted yourself in this conversation better than i should have done; for i should have bowed and stammered through the whole of it.'" it is obvious enough that the only part of this anecdote which is quite worthy of credence is the actual phrase used by goldsmith, which is full of his customary generosity and self-depreciation. all those "suspicions" of his envy of his friend may safely be discarded, for they are mere guesswork; even though it might have been natural enough for a man like goldsmith, conscious of his singular and original genius, to measure himself against johnson, who was merely a man of keen perception and shrewd reasoning, and to compare the deference paid to johnson with the scant courtesy shown to himself. as a matter of fact, the prologue was written by dr. johnson; and the now complete comedy was, after some little arrangement of personal differences between goldsmith and garrick, very kindly undertaken by reynolds, submitted for garrick's approval. but nothing came of reynolds's intervention. perhaps goldsmith resented garrick's airs of patronage towards a poor devil of an author; perhaps garrick was surprised by the manner in which well-intentioned criticisms were taken; at all events, after a good deal of shilly-shallying, the play was taken out of garrick's hands. fortunately, a project was just at this moment on foot for starting the rival theatre in covent garden, under the management of george colman; and to colman goldsmith's play was forthwith consigned. the play was accepted; but it was a long time before it was produced; and in that interval it may fairly be presumed the _res angusta domi_ of goldsmith did not become any more free and generous than before. it was in this interval that the elder newbery died; goldsmith had one patron the less. another patron who offered himself was civilly bowed to the door. this is an incident in goldsmith's career which, like his interview with the earl of northumberland, should ever be remembered in his honour. the government of the day were desirous of enlisting on their behalf the services of writers of somewhat better position than the mere libellers whose pens were the slaves of anybody's purse; and a mr. scott, a chaplain of lord sandwich, appears to have imagined that it would be worth while to buy goldsmith. he applied to goldsmith in due course; and this is an account of the interview. "i found him in a miserable set of chambers in the temple. i told him my authority; i told him i was empowered to pay most liberally for his exertions; and, would you believe it! he was so absurd as to say, 'i can earn as much as will supply my wants without writing for any party; the assistance you offer is therefore unnecessary to me.' and i left him in his garret." needy as he was, goldsmith had too much self-respect to become a paid libeller and cutthroat of public reputations. on the evening of friday, the 29th of january, 1768, when goldsmith had now reached the age of forty, the comedy of _the good-natured man_ was produced at covent garden theatre. the prologue had, according to promise, been written by johnson; and a very singular prologue it was. even boswell was struck by the odd contrast between this sonorous piece of melancholy and the fun that was to follow. "the first lines of this prologue," he conscientiously remarks, "are strongly characteristical of the dismal gloom of his mind; which, in his case, as in the case of all who are distressed with the same malady of imagination, transfers to others its own feelings. who could suppose it was to introduce a comedy, when mr. bensley solemnly began- "'pressed with the load of life, the weary mind surveys the general toil of humankind'? but this dark ground might make goldsmith's humour shine the more." when we come to the comedy itself, we find but little bright humour in the opening passages. the author is obviously timid, anxious, and constrained. there is nothing of the brisk, confident vivacity with which _she stoops to conquer_ opens. the novice does not yet understand the art of making his characters explain themselves; and accordingly the benevolent uncle and honest jarvis indulge in a conversation which, laboriously descriptive of the character of young honeywood, is spoken "at" the audience. with the entrance of young honeywood himself, goldsmith endeavours to become a little more sprightly; but there is still anxiety hanging over him, and the epigrams are little more than merely formal antitheses. "_jarvis._ this bill from your tailor; this from your mercer; and this from the little broker in crooked lane. he says he has been at a great deal of trouble to get back the money you borrowed. _hon._ that i don't know; but i'm sure we were at a great deal of trouble in getting him to lend it. _jar._ he has lost all patience. _hon._ then he has lost a very good thing. _jar._ there's that ten guineas you were sending to the poor gentleman and his children in the fleet. i believe that would stop his mouth for a while at least. _hon._ ay, jarvis, but what will fill their mouths in the mean time?" this young honeywood, the hero of the play, is, and remains throughout, a somewhat ghostly personage. he has attributes; but no flesh or blood. there is much more substance in the next character introduced--the inimitable croaker, who revels in evil forebodings and drinks deep of the luxury of woe. these are the two chief characters; but then a play must have a plot. and perhaps it would not be fair, so far as the plot is concerned, to judge of _the good-natured man_ merely as a literary production. intricacies that seem tedious and puzzling on paper appear to be clear enough on the stage: it is much more easy to remember the history and circumstances of a person whom we see before us, than to attach these to a mere name--especially as the name is sure to be clipped down from _honeywood_ to _hon._ and from _leontine_ to _leon._ however, it is in the midst of all the cross-purposes of the lovers that we once more come upon our old friend beau tibbs--though mr. tibbs is now in much better circumstances, and has been re-named by his creator jack lofty. garrick had objected to the introduction of jack, on the ground that he was only a distraction. but goldsmith, whether in writing a novel or a play, was more anxious to represent human nature than to prune a plot, and paid but little respect to the unities, if only he could arouse our interest. and who is not delighted with this jack lofty and his "duchessy" talk--his airs of patronage, his mysterious hints, his gay familiarity with the great, his audacious lying? "_lofty._ waller? waller? is he of the house? _mrs. croaker._ the modern poet of that name, sir. _lof._ oh, a modern! we men of business despise the moderns; and as for the ancients, we have no time to read them. poetry is a pretty thing enough for our wives and daughters; but not for us. why now, here i stand that know nothing of books. i say, madam, i know nothing of books; and yet, i believe, upon a land-carriage fishery, a stamp act, or a jag-hire, i can talk my two hours without feeling the want of them. _mrs. cro._ the world is no stranger to mr. lofty's eminence in every capacity. _lof._ i vow to gad, madam, you make me blush. i'm nothing, nothing, nothing in the world; a mere obscure gentleman. to be sure, indeed, one or two of the present ministers are pleased to represent me as a formidable man. i know they are pleased to bespatter me at all their little dirty levees. yet, upon my soul, i wonder what they see in me to treat me so! measures, not men, have always been my mark; and i vow, by all that's honourable, my resentment has never done the men, as mere men, any manner of harm--that is, as mere men. _mrs. cro._ what importance, and yet what modesty! _lof._ oh, if you talk of modesty, madam, there, i own, i'm accessible to praise: modesty is my foible: it was so the duke of brentford used to say of me. 'i love jack lofty,' he used to say: 'no man has a finer knowledge of things; quite a man of information; and when he speaks upon his legs, by the lord he's prodigious, he scouts them; and yet all men have their faults; too much modesty is his,' says his grace. _mrs. cro._ and yet, i dare say, you don't want assurance when you come to solicit for your friends. _lof._ oh, there indeed i'm in bronze. apropos! i have just been mentioning miss richland's case to a certain personage; we must name no names. when i ask, i am not to be put off, madam. no, no, i take my friend by the button. a fine girl, sir; great justice in her case. a friend of mine--borough interest--business must be done, mr. secretary.--i say, mr. secretary, her business must be done, sir. that's my way, madam. _mrs. cro._ bless me! you said all this to the secretary of state, did you? _lof._ i did not say the secretary, did i? well, curse it, since you have found me out, i will not deny it. it was to the secretary." strangely enough, what may now seem to some of us the very best scene in the _good-natured man_--the scene, that is, in which young honeywood, suddenly finding miss richland without, is compelled to dress up the two bailiffs in possession of his house and introduce them to her as gentlemen friends--was very nearly damning the play on the first night of its production. the pit was of opinion that it was "low;" and subsequently the critics took up the cry, and professed themselves to be so deeply shocked by the vulgar humours of the bailiffs that goldsmith had to cut them out. but on the opening night the anxious author, who had been rendered nearly distracted by the cries and hisses produced by this scene, was somewhat reassured when the audience began to laugh again over the tribulations of mr. croaker. to the actor who played the part he expressed his warm gratitude when the piece was over; assuring him that he had exceeded his own conception of the character, and that "the fine comic richness of his colouring made it almost appear as new to him as to any other person in the house." the new play had been on the whole favourably received; and, when goldsmith went along afterwards to the club, his companions were doubtless not at all surprised to find him in good spirits. he was even merrier than usual; and consented to sing his favourite ballad about the old woman tossed in a blanket. but those hisses and cries were still rankling in his memory; and he himself subsequently confessed that he was "suffering horrid tortures." nay, when the other members of the club had gone, leaving him and johnson together, he "burst out a-crying, and even swore by ---that he would never write again." when goldsmith told this story in after-days, johnson was naturally astonished; perhaps--himself not suffering much from an excessive sensitiveness--he may have attributed that little burst of hysterical emotion to the excitement of the evening increased by a glass or two of punch, and determined therefore never to mention it. "all which, doctor," he said, "i thought had been a secret between you and me; and i am sure i would not have said anything about it for the world." indeed there was little to cry over, either in the first reception of the piece or in its subsequent fate. with the offending bailiffs cut out, the comedy would seem to have been very fairly successful. the proceeds of three of the evenings were goldsmith's payment; and in this manner he received £400. then griffin published the play; and from this source goldsmith received an additional £100; so that altogether he was very well paid for his work. moreover he had appealed against the judgment of the pit and the dramatic critics, by printing in the published edition the bailiff scene which had been removed from the stage; and the _monthly review_ was so extremely kind as to say that "the bailiff and his blackguard follower appeared intolerable on the stage, yet we are not disgusted with them in the perusal." perhaps we have grown less scrupulous since then; but at all events it would be difficult for anybody nowadays to find anything but good-natured fun in that famous scene. there is an occasional "damn," it is true; but then english officers have always been permitted that little playfulness, and these two gentlemen were supposed to "serve in the fleet;" while if they had been particularly refined in their speech and manner, how could the author have aroused miss richland's suspicions? it is possible that the two actors who played the bailiff and his follower may have introduced some vulgar "gag" into their parts; but there is no warranty for anything of the kind in the play as we now read it. chapter xiii. goldsmith in society. the appearance of the _good-natured man_ ushered in a halcyon period in goldsmith's life. the _traveller_ and the _vicar_ had gained for him only reputation: this new comedy put £500 in his pocket. of course that was too big a sum for goldsmith to have about him long. four-fifths of it he immediately expended on the purchase and decoration of a set of chambers in brick court, middle temple; with the remainder he appears to have begun a series of entertainments in this new abode, which were perhaps more remarkable for their mirth than their decorum. there was no sort of frolic in which goldsmith would not indulge for the amusement of his guests; he would sing them songs; he would throw his wig to the ceiling; he would dance a minuet. and then they had cards, forfeits, blind-man's-buff, until mr. blackstone, then engaged on his _commentaries_ in the rooms below, was driven nearly mad by the uproar. these parties would seem to have been of a most nondescript character--chance gatherings of any obscure authors or actors whom he happened to meet; but from time to time there were more formal entertainments, at which johnson, percy, and similar distinguished persons were present. moreover, dr. goldsmith himself was much asked out to dinner too; and so, not content with the "tyrian bloom, satin grain and garter, blue-silk breeches," which mr. filby had provided for the evening of the production of the comedy, he now had another suit "lined with silk, and gold buttons," that he might appear in proper guise. then he had his airs of consequence too. this was his answer to an invitation from kelly, who was his rival of the hour: "i would with pleasure accept your kind invitation, but to tell you the truth, my dear boy, my _traveller_ has found me a home in so many places, that i am engaged, i believe, three days. let me see. to-day i dine with edmund burke, to-morrow with dr. nugent, and the next day with topham beauclerc; but i'll tell you what i'll do for you, i'll dine with you on saturday." kelly told this story as against goldsmith; but surely there is not so much ostentation in the reply. directly after _tristram shandy_ was published, sterne found himself fourteen deep in dinner engagements: why should not the author of the _traveller_ and the _vicar_ and the _good-natured man_ have his engagements also? and perhaps it was but right that mr. kelly, who was after all only a critic and scribbler, though he had written a play which was for the moment enjoying an undeserved popularity, should be given to understand that dr. goldsmith was not to be asked to a hole-and-corner chop at a moment's notice. to-day he dines with mr. burke; to-morrow with dr. nugent; the day after with mr. beauclerc. if you wish to have the honour of his company, you may choose a day after that; and then, with his new wig, with his coat of tyrian bloom and blue silk breeches, with a smart sword at his side, his gold-headed cane in his hand, and his hat under his elbow, he will present himself in due course. dr. goldsmith is announced, and makes his grave bow; this is the man of genius about whom all the town is talking; the friend of burke, of reynolds, of johnson, of hogarth; this is not the ragged irishman who was some time ago earning a crust by running errands for an apothecary. goldsmith's grand airs, however, were assumed but seldom; and they never imposed on anybody. his acquaintances treated him with a familiarity which testified rather to his good-nature than to their good taste. now and again, indeed, he was prompted to resent this familiarity; but the effort was not successful. in the "high jinks" to which he good-humouredly resorted for the entertainment of his guests he permitted a freedom which it was afterwards not very easy to discard; and as he was always ready to make a butt of himself for the amusement of his friends and acquaintances, it came to be recognised that anybody was allowed to play off a joke on "goldy." the jokes, such of them as have been put on record, are of the poorest sort. the horse-collar is never far off. one gladly turns from these dismal humours of the tavern and the club to the picture of goldsmith's enjoying what he called a "shoemaker's holiday" in the company of one or two chosen intimates. goldsmith, baited and bothered by the wits of a public-house, became a different being when he had assumed the guidance of a small party of chosen friends bent on having a day's frugal pleasure. we are indebted to one cooke, a neighbour of goldsmith's in the temple, not only for a most interesting description of one of those shoemaker's holidays, but also for the knowledge that goldsmith had even now begun writing the _deserted village_, which was not published till 1770, two years later. goldsmith, though he could turn out plenty of manufactured stuff for the booksellers, worked slowly at the special story or poem with which he meant to "strike for honest fame." this mr. cooke, calling on him one morning, discovered that goldsmith had that day written these ten lines of the _deserted village_:- "dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, seats of my youth, when every sport could please, how often have i loitered o'er thy green, where humble happiness endeared each scene! how often have i paused on every charm, the sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, the never-failing brook, the busy mill, the decent church, that topt the neighbouring hill, the hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, for talking age and whispering lovers made!" "come," said he, "let me tell you this is no bad morning's work; and now, my dear boy, if you are not better engaged, i should be glad to enjoy a shoemaker's holiday with you." "a shoemaker's holiday," continues the writer of these reminiscences, "was a day of great festivity to poor goldsmith, and was spent in the following innocent manner. three or four of his intimate friends rendezvoused at his chambers to breakfast about ten o'clock in the morning; at eleven they proceeded by the city road and through the fields to highbury barn to dinner; about six o'clock in the evening they adjourned to white conduit house to drink tea; and concluded by supping at the grecian or temple exchange coffee-house or at the globe in fleet street. there was a very good ordinary of two dishes and pastry kept at highbury barn about this time at tenpence per head, including a penny to the waiter; and the company generally consisted of literary characters, a few templars, and some citizens who had left off trade. the whole expenses of the day's fete never exceeded a crown, and oftener were from three-and-sixpence to four shillings; for which the party obtained good air and exercise, good living, the example of simple manners, and good conversation." it would have been well indeed for goldsmith had he been possessed of sufficient strength of character to remain satisfied with these simple pleasures, and to have lived the quiet and modest life of a man of letters on such income as he could derive from the best work he could produce. but it is this same mr. cooke who gives decisive testimony as to goldsmith's increasing desire to "shine" by imitating the expenditure of the great; the natural consequence of which was that he only plunged himself into a morass of debt, advances, contracts for hack-work, and misery. "his debts rendered him at times so melancholy and dejected, that i am sure he felt himself a very unhappy man." perhaps it was with some sudden resolve to flee from temptation, and grapple with the difficulties that beset him, that he, in conjunction with another temple neighbour, mr. bott, rented a cottage some eight miles down the edgware road; and here he set to work on the _history of rome_, which he was writing for davies. apart from this hack-work, now rendered necessary by his debt, it is probable that one strong inducement leading him to this occasional seclusion was the progress he might be able to make with the _deserted village_. amid all his town gaieties and country excursions, amid his dinners and suppers and dances, his borrowings, and contracts, and the hurried literary produce of the moment, he never forgot what was due to his reputation as an english poet. the journalistic bullies of the day might vent their spleen and envy on him; his best friends might smile at his conversational failures; the wits of the tavern might put up the horse-collar as before; but at least he had the consolation of his art. no one better knew than himself the value of those finished and musical lines he was gradually adding to the beautiful poem, the grace, and sweetness, and tender, pathetic charm of which make it one of the literary treasures of the english people. the sorrows of debt were not goldsmith's only trouble at this time. for some reason or other he seems to have become the especial object of spiteful attack on the part of the literary cut-throats of the day. and goldsmith, though he might listen with respect to the wise advice of johnson on such matters, was never able to cultivate johnson's habit of absolute indifference to anything that might be said or sung of him. "the kenricks, campbells, macnicols, and hendersons," says lord macaulay--speaking of johnson, "did their best to annoy him, in the hope that he would give them importance by answering them." but the reader will in vain search his works for any allusion to kenrick or campbell, to macnicol or henderson. one scotchman, bent on vindicating the fame of scotch learning, defied him to the combat in a detestable latin hexameter- 'maxime, si tu vis, cupio contendere tecum.' but johnson took no notice of the challenge. he had learned, both from his own observation and from literary history, in which he was deeply read, that the place of books in the public estimation is fixed, not by what is written about them, but by what is written in them; and that an author whose works are likely to live, is very unwise if he stoops to wrangle with detractors whose works are certain to die. he always maintained that fame was a shuttlecock which could be kept up only by being beaten back, as well as beaten forward, and which would soon fall if there were only one battledore. no saying was oftener in his mouth than that fine apophthegm of bentley, that no man was ever written down but by himself. it was not given to goldsmith to feel "like the monument" on any occasion whatsoever. he was anxious to have the esteem of his friends; he was sensitive to a degree; denunciation or malice, begotten of envy that johnson would have passed unheeded, wounded him to the quick. "the insults to which he had to submit," thackeray wrote with a quick and warm sympathy, "are shocking to read of--slander, contumely, vulgar satire, brutal malignity perverting his commonest motives and actions: he had his share of these, and one's anger is roused at reading of them, as it is at seeing a woman insulted or a child assaulted, at the notion that a creature so very gentle, and weak, and full of love should have had to suffer so." goldsmith's revenge, his defence of himself, his appeal to the public, were the _traveller_, the _vicar of wakefield_, the _deserted village_; but these came at long intervals; and in the meantime he had to bear with the anonymous malignity that pursued him as best he might. no doubt, when burke was entertaining him at dinner; and when johnson was openly deferring to him in conversation at the club; and when reynolds was painting his portrait, he could afford to forget mr. kenrick and the rest of the libelling clan. the occasions on which johnson deferred to goldsmith in conversation were no doubt few; but at all events the bludgeon of the great cham would appear to have come down less frequently on "honest goldy" than on the other members of that famous coterie. it could come down heavily enough. "sir," said an incautious person, "drinking drives away care, and makes us forget whatever is disagreeable. would not you allow a man to drink for that reason?" "yes, sir," was the reply, "if he sat next _you_." johnson, however, was considerate towards goldsmith, partly because of his affection for him, and partly because he saw under what disadvantages goldsmith entered the lists. for one thing, the conversation of those evenings would seem to have drifted continually into the mere definition of phrases. now johnson had spent years of his life, during the compilation of his dictionary, in doing nothing else but defining; and, whenever the dispute took a phraseological turn, he had it all his own way. goldsmith, on the other hand, was apt to become confused in his eager self-consciousness. "goldsmith," said johnson to boswell, "should not be for ever attempting to shine in conversation; he has not temper for it, he is so much mortified when he fails.... when he contends, if he gets the better, it is a very little addition to a man of his literary reputation: if he does not get the better, he is miserably vexed." boswell, nevertheless, admits that goldsmith was "often very fortunate in his witty contests, even when he entered the lists with johnson himself," and goes on to tell how goldsmith, relating the fable of the little fishes who petitioned jupiter, and perceiving that johnson was laughing at him, immediately said, "why, dr. johnson, this is not so easy as you seem to think; for if you were to make little fishes talk, they would talk like whales." who but goldsmith would have dared to play jokes on the sage? at supper they have rumps and kidneys. the sage expresses his approval of "the pretty little things;" but profoundly observes that one must eat a good many of them before being satisfied. "ay, but how many of them," asks goldsmith, "would reach to the moon?" the sage professes his ignorance; and, indeed, remarks that that would exceed even goldsmith's calculations; when the practical joker observes, "why, _one_, sir, if it were long enough." johnson was completely beaten on this occasion. "well, sir, i have deserved it. i should not have provoked so foolish an answer by so foolish a question." it was johnson himself, moreover, who told the story of goldsmith and himself being in poets' corner; of his saying to goldsmith "forsitan et nostrum nomen miscebitur istis," and of goldsmith subsequently repeating the quotation when, having walked towards fleet street, they were confronted by the heads on temple bar. even when goldsmith was opinionated and wrong, johnson's contradiction was in a manner gentle. "if you put a tub full of blood into a stable, the horses are like to go mad," observed goldsmith. "i doubt that," was johnson's reply. "nay, sir, it is a fact well authenticated." here thrale interposed to suggest that goldsmith should have the experiment tried in the stable; but johnson merely said that, if goldsmith began making these experiments, he would never get his book written at all. occasionally, of course, goldsmith was tossed and gored just like another. "but, sir," he had ventured to say, in opposition to johnson, "when people live together who have something as to which they disagree, and which they want to shun, they will be in the situation mentioned in the story of bluebeard, 'you may look into all the chambers but one.' but we should have the greatest inclination to look into that chamber, to talk of that subject." here, according to boswell, johnson answered in a loud voice, "sir, i am not saying that _you_ could live in friendship with a man from whom you differ as to one point; i am only saying that _i_ could do it." but then again he could easily obtain pardon from the gentle goldsmith for any occasional rudeness. one evening they had a sharp passage of arms at dinner; and thereafter the company adjourned to the club, where goldsmith sate silent and depressed. "johnson perceived this," says boswell, "and said aside to some of us, 'i'll make goldsmith forgive me'; and then called to him in a loud voice, 'dr. goldsmith, something passed to-day where you and i dined: i ask your pardon.' goldsmith answered placidly, 'it must be much from you, sir, that i take ill.' and so at once the difference was over, and they were on as easy terms as ever, and goldsmith rattled away as usual." for the rest, johnson was the constant and doughty champion of goldsmith as a man of letters. he would suffer no one to doubt the power and versatility of that genius which he had been amongst the first to recognise and encourage. "whether, indeed, we take him as a poet, as a comic writer, or as an historian," he announced to an assemblage of distinguished persons met together at dinner at mr. beauclerc's, "_he stands in the first class_." and there was no one living who dared dispute the verdict--at least in johnson's hearing. chapter xiv. the deserted village. but it is time to return to the literary performances that gained for this uncouth irishman so great an amount of consideration from the first men of his time. the engagement with griffin about the _history of animated nature_ was made at the beginning of 1769. the work was to occupy eight volumes; and dr. goldsmith was to receive eight hundred guineas for the complete copyright. whether the undertaking was originally a suggestion of griffin's, or of goldsmith's own, does not appear. if it was the author's, it was probably only the first means that occurred to him of getting another advance; and that advance--£500 on account--he did actually get. but if it was the suggestion of the publisher, griffin must have been a bold man. a writer whose acquaintance with animated nature was such as to allow him to make the "insidious tiger" a denizen of the backwoods of canada,[2] was not a very safe authority. but perhaps griffin had consulted johnson before making this bargain; and we know that johnson, though continually remarking on goldsmith's extraordinary ignorance of facts, was of opinion that the _history of animated nature_ would be "as entertaining as a persian tale." however, goldsmith--no doubt after he had spent the five hundred guineas--tackled the work in earnest. when boswell subsequently went out to call on him at another rural retreat he had taken on the edgware road, boswell and mickle, the translator of the _lusiad_, found goldsmith from home; "but, having a curiosity to see his apartment, we went in and found curious scraps of descriptions of animals scrawled upon the wall with a black-lead pencil." meanwhile, this _animated nature_ being in hand, the _roman history_ was published, and was very well received by the critics and by the public. "goldsmith's abridgment," johnson declared, "is better than that of lucius florus or eutropius; and i will venture to say that if you compare him with vertot, in the same places of the _roman history_, you will find that he excels vertot. sir, he has the art of compiling, and of saying everything he has to say in a pleasing manner." [footnote 2: see _citizen of the world_, letter xvii.] so thought the booksellers too; and the success of the _roman history_ only involved him in fresh projects of compilation. by an offer of £500 davies induced him to lay aside for the moment the _animated nature_ and begin "an history of england, from the birth of the british empire to the death of george the second, in four volumes octavo." he also about this time undertook to write a life of thomas parnell. here, indeed, was plenty of work, and work promising good pay; but the depressing thing is that goldsmith should have been the man who had to do it. he may have done it better than any one else could have done--indeed, looking over the results of all that drudgery, we recognise now the happy turns of expression which were never long absent from goldsmith's prose-writing--but the world could well afford to sacrifice all the task-work thus got through for another poem like the _deserted village_ or the _traveller_. perhaps goldsmith considered he was making a fair compromise when, for the sake of his reputation, he devoted a certain portion of his time to his poetical work, and then, to have money for fine clothes and high jinks, gave the rest to the booksellers. one critic, on the appearance of the _roman history_, referred to the _traveller_, and remarked that it was a pity that the "author of one of the best poems that has appeared since those of mr. pope, should not apply wholly to works of imagination." we may echo that regret now; but goldsmith would at the time have no doubt replied that, if he had trusted to his poems, he would never have been able to pay £400 for chambers in the temple. in fact he said as much to lord lisburn at one of the academy dinners: "i cannot afford to court the draggle-tail muses, my lord; they would let me starve; but by my other labours i can make shift to eat, and drink, and have good clothes." and there is little use in our regretting now that goldsmith was not cast in a more heroic mould; we have to take him as he is; and be grateful for what he has left us. it is a grateful relief to turn from these booksellers' contracts and forced labours to the sweet clear note of singing that one finds in the _deserted village_. this poem, after having been repeatedly announced and as often withdrawn for further revision, was at last published on the 26th of may, 1770, when goldsmith was in his forty-second year. the leading idea of it he had already thrown out in certain lines in the _traveller_:- "have we not seen, round britain's peopled shore, her useful sons exchanged for useless ore? seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, like flaring tapers brightening as they waste? seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, lead stern depopulation in her train, and over fields where scattered hamlets rose in barren solitary pomp repose? have we not seen at pleasure's lordly call the smiling long-frequented village fall? beheld the duteous son, the sire decayed, the modest matron, and the blushing maid, forced from their homes, a melancholy train, to traverse climes beyond the western main; where wild oswego spreads her swamps around, and niagara stuns with thundering sound?" --and elsewhere, in recorded conversations of his, we find that he had somehow got it into his head that the accumulation of wealth in a country was the parent of all evils, including depopulation. we need not stay here to discuss goldsmith's position as a political economist; even although johnson seems to sanction his theory in the four lines he contributed to the end of the poem. nor is it worth while returning to that objection of lord macaulay's which has already been mentioned in these pages, further than to repeat that the poor irish village in which goldsmith was brought up, no doubt looked to him as charming as any auburn, when he regarded it through the softening and beautifying mist of years. it is enough that the abandonment by a number of poor people of the homes in which they and theirs have lived their lives, is one of the most pathetic facts in our civilisation; and that out of the various circumstances surrounding this forced migration goldsmith has made one of the most graceful and touching poems in the english language. it is clear bird-singing; but there is a pathetic note in it. that imaginary ramble through the lissoy that is far away has recalled more than his boyish sports; it has made him look back over his own life--the life of an exile. "i still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; to husband out life's taper at the close, and keep the flame from wasting by repose: i still had hopes, for pride attends us still, amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, around my fire an evening group to draw, and tell of all i felt, and all i saw; and, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue pants to the place from whence at first he flew, i still had hopes, my long vexations past, here to return--and die at home at last." who can doubt that it was of lissoy he was thinking? sir walter scott, writing a generation ago, said that "the church which tops the neighbouring hill," the mill and the brook were still to be seen in the irish village; and that even "the hawthorn bush with seats beneath the shade for talking age and whispering lovers made," had been identified by the indefatigable tourist, and was of course being cut to pieces to make souvenirs. but indeed it is of little consequence whether we say that auburn is an english village, or insist that it is only lissoy idealised, as long as the thing is true in itself. and we know that this is true: it is not that one sees the place as a picture, but that one seems to be breathing its very atmosphere, and listening to the various cries that thrill the "hollow silence." "sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close up yonder hill the village murmur rose. there, as i past with careless steps and slow, the mingling notes came softened from below; the swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, the sober herd that lowed to meet their young, the noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, the playful children just let loose from school, the watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, and the loud laugh that spake the vacant mind." nor is it any romantic and impossible peasantry that is gradually brought before us. there are no norvals in lissoy. there is the old woman--catherine geraghty, they say, was her name--who gathered cresses in the ditches near her cabin. there is the village preacher whom mrs. hodson, goldsmith's sister, took to be a portrait of their father; but whom others have identified as henry goldsmith, and even as the uncle contarine: they may all have contributed. and then comes paddy byrne. amid all the pensive tenderness of the poem this description of the schoolmaster, with its strokes of demure humour, is introduced with delightful effect. "beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, with blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, there, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, the village master taught his little school. a man severe he was, and stern to view; i knew him well, and every truant knew: well had the boding tremblers learned to trace the day's disasters in his morning face; full well they laughed with counterfeited glee at all his jokes, for many a joke had he; full well the busy whisper circling round conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, the love he bore to learning was in fault; the village all declared how much he knew: 'twas certain he could write, and cipher too: lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, and e'en the story ran that he could gauge: in arguing, too, the parson owned his skill; for e'en though vanquished, he could argue still; while words of learned length and thundering sound amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; and still they gazed, and still the wonder grew that one small head could carry all he knew." all this is so simple and natural that we cannot fail to believe in the reality of auburn, or lissoy, or whatever the village may be supposed to be. we visit the clergyman's cheerful fireside; and look in on the noisy school; and sit in the evening in the ale house to listen to the profound politics talked there. but the crisis comes. auburn _delenda est_. here, no doubt, occurs the least probable part of the poem. poverty of soil is a common cause of emigration; land that produces oats (when it can produce oats at all) three-fourths mixed with weeds, and hay chiefly consisting of rushes, naturally discharges its surplus population as families increase; and though the wrench of parting is painful enough, the usual result is a change from starvation to competence. it more rarely happens that a district of peace and plenty, such as auburn was supposed to see around it, is depopulated to add to a great man's estate. "the man of wealth and pride takes up a space that many poor supplied; space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, space for his horses, equipage, and hounds: * * * * * his seat, where solitary sports are seen, indignant spurns the cottage from the green:" --and so forth. this seldom happens; but it does happen; and it has happened, in our own day, in england. it is within the last twenty years that an english landlord, having faith in his riches, bade a village be removed and cast elsewhere, so that it should no longer be visible from his windows: and it was forthwith removed. but any solitary instance like this is not sufficient to support the theory that wealth and luxury are inimical to the existence of a hardy peasantry; and so we must admit, after all, that it is poetical exigency rather than political economy that has decreed the destruction of the loveliest village of the plain. where, asks the poet, are the driven poor to find refuge, when even the fenceless commons are seized upon and divided by the rich? in the great cities?- "to see profusion that he must not share; to see ten thousand baneful arts combined to pamper luxury and thin mankind." it is in this description of a life in cities that there occurs an often-quoted passage, which has in it one of the most perfect lines in english poetry:- "ah, turn thine eyes where the poor houseless shivering female lies. she once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, has wept at tales of innocence distrest; her modest looks the cottage might adorn, sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn; now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled, near her betrayer's door she lays her head. and, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower, with heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, when idly first, ambitious of the town, she left her wheel and robes of country brown." goldsmith wrote in a pre-wordsworthian age, when, even in the realms of poetry, a primrose was not much more than a primrose; but it is doubtful whether, either before, during, or since wordsworth's time the sentiment that the imagination can infuse into the common and familiar things around us ever received more happy expression than in the well-known line, "_sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn._" no one has as yet succeeded in defining accurately and concisely what poetry is; but at all events this line is surcharged with a certain quality which is conspicuously absent in such a production as the _essay on man_. another similar line is to be found further on in the description of the distant scenes to which the proscribed people are driven: "through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, _where wild altama murmurs to their woe._" indeed, the pathetic side of emigration has never been so powerfully presented to us as in this poem- "when the poor exiles, every pleasure past, hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last, and took a long farewell, and wished in vain for seats like these beyond the western main, and shuddering still to face the distant deep, returned and wept, and still returned to weep. * * * * * even now, methinks, as pondering here i stand, i see the rural virtues leave the land. down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, that idly waiting flaps with every gale, downward they move a melancholy band, pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. contented toil, and hospitable care, and kind connubial tenderness are there; and piety with wishes placed above, and steady loyalty, and faithful love." and worst of all, in this imaginative departure, we find that poetry herself is leaving our shores. she is now to try her voice "on torno's cliffs or pambamarca's side;" and the poet, in the closing lines of the poem, bids her a passionate and tender farewell:- "and thou, sweet poetry, thou loveliest maid, still first to fly where sensual joys invade; unfit in these degenerate times of shame to catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, my shame in crowds, my solitary pride; thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, that found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! farewell, and o! where'er thy voice be tried, on torno's cliffs, or pambamarca's side, whether where equinoctial fervours glow, or winter wraps the polar world in snow, still let thy voice, prevailing over time, redress the rigours of the inclement clime; aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain; teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain: teach him, that states of native strength possest, though very poor, may still be very blest; that trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, as ocean sweeps the laboured mole away; while self-dependent power can time defy, as rocks resist the billows and the sky." so ends this graceful, melodious, tender poem, the position of which in english literature, and in the estimation of all who love english literature, has not been disturbed by any fluctuations of literary fashion. we may give more attention at the moment to the new experiments of the poetic method; but we return only with renewed gratitude to the old familiar strain, not the least merit of which is that it has nothing about it of foreign tricks or graces. in english literature there is nothing more thoroughly english than these writings produced by an irishman. and whether or not it was paddy byrne, and catherine geraghty, and the lissoy ale-house that goldsmith had in his mind when he was writing the poem, is not of much consequence: the manner and language and feeling are all essentially english; so that we never think of calling goldsmith anything but an english poet. the poem met with great and immediate success. of course everything that dr. goldsmith now wrote was read by the public; he had not to wait for the recommendation of the reviews; but, in this case, even the reviews had scarcely anything but praise in the welcome of his new book. it was dedicated, in graceful and ingenious terms, to sir joshua reynolds, who returned the compliment by painting a picture and placing on the engraving of it this inscription: "this attempt to express a character in the _deserted village_ is dedicated to dr. goldsmith by his sincere friend and admirer, sir joshua reynolds." what goldsmith got from griffin for the poem is not accurately known; and this is a misfortune, for the knowledge would have enabled us to judge whether at that time it was possible for a poet to court the draggle-tail muses without risk of starvation. but if fame were his chief object in the composition of the poem, he was sufficiently rewarded; and it is to be surmised that by this time the people in ireland--no longer implored to get subscribers--had heard of the proud position won by the vagrant youth who had "taken the world for his pillow" some eighteen years before. that his own thoughts had sometimes wandered back to the scenes and friends of his youth during this labour of love, we know from his letters. in january of this year, while as yet the _deserted village_ was not quite through the press, he wrote to his brother maurice; and expressed himself as most anxious to hear all about the relatives from whom he had been so long parted. he has something to say about himself too; wishes it to be known that the king has lately been pleased to make him professor of ancient history "in a royal academy of painting which he has just established;" but gives no very flourishing account of his circumstances. "honours to one in my situation are something like ruffles to a man that wants a shirt." however, there is some small legacy of fourteen or fifteen pounds left him by his uncle contarine, which he understands to be in the keeping of his cousin lawder; and to this wealth he is desirous of foregoing all claim: his relations must settle how it may be best expended. but there is not a reference to his literary achievements, or the position won by them; not the slightest yielding to even a pardonable vanity; it is a modest, affectionate letter. the only hint that maurice goldsmith receives of the esteem in which his brother is held in london, is contained in a brief mention of johnson, burke, and others as his friends. "i have sent my cousin jenny a miniature picture of myself, as i believe it is the most acceptable present i can offer. i have ordered it to be left for her at george faulkenor's, folded in a letter. the face, you well know, is ugly enough; but it is finely painted. i will shortly also send my friends over the shannon some mezzotinto prints of myself, and some more of my friends here, such as burke, johnson, reynolds, and colman. i believe i have written an hundred letters to different friends in your country, and never received an answer from any of them. i do not know how to account for this, or why they are unwilling to keep up for me those regards which i must ever retain for them." the letter winds up with an appeal for news, news, news. chapter xv. occasional writings. some two months after the publication of the _deserted village_, when its success had been well assured, goldsmith proposed to himself the relaxation of a little continental tour; and he was accompanied by three ladies, mrs. horneck and her two pretty daughters, who doubtless took more charge of him than he did of them. this mrs. horneck, the widow of a certain captain horneck, was connected with reynolds, while burke was the guardian of the two girls; so that it was natural that they should make the acquaintance of dr. goldsmith. a foolish attempt has been made to weave out of the relations supposed to exist between the younger of the girls and goldsmith an imaginary romance; but there is not the slightest actual foundation for anything of the kind. indeed the best guide we can have to the friendly and familiar terms on which he stood with regard to the hornecks and their circle, is the following careless and jocular reply to a chance invitation sent him by the two sisters:- "your mandate i got, you may all go to pot; had your senses been right, you'd have sent before night; as i hope to be saved, i put off being shaved; for i could not make bold, while the matter was cold, to meddle in suds, or to put on my duds; so tell horneck and nesbitt and baker and his bit, and kauffman beside, and the jessamy bride; with the rest of the crew, the reynoldses two, little comedy's face and the captain in lace. * * * * * yet how can i when vext thus stray from my text? tell each other to rue your devonshire crew, for sending so late to one of my state. but 'tis reynolds's way from wisdom to stray, and angelica's whim to be frolic like him. but, alas! your good worships, how could they be wiser, when both have been spoiled in to-day's _advertiser_?" * * * * * "the jessamy bride" was the pet nickname he had bestowed on the younger miss horneck--the heroine of the speculative romance just mentioned; "little comedy" was her sister; "the captain in lace" their brother, who was in the guards. no doubt mrs. horneck and her daughters were very pleased to have with them on this continental trip so distinguished a person as dr. goldsmith; and he must have been very ungrateful if he was not glad to be provided with such charming companions. the story of the sudden envy he displayed of the admiration excited by the two handsome young englishwomen as they stood at a hotel-window in lille, is so incredibly foolish that it needs scarcely be repeated here; unless to repeat the warning that, if ever anybody was so dense as not to see the humour of that piece of acting, one had better look with grave suspicion on every one of the stories told about goldsmith's vanities and absurdities. even with such pleasant companions, the trip to paris was not everything he had hoped. "i find," he wrote to reynolds from paris, "that travelling at twenty and at forty are very different things. i set out with all my confirmed habits about me, and can find nothing on the continent so good as when i formerly left it. one of our chief amusements here is scolding at everything we meet with, and praising every thing and every person we left at home. you may judge therefore whether your name is not frequently bandied at table among us. to tell you the truth, i never thought i could regret your absence so much, as our various mortifications on the road have often taught me to do. i could tell you of disasters and adventures without number, of our lying in barns, and of my being half poisoned with a dish of green peas, of our quarrelling with postilions and being cheated by our landladies, but i reserve all this for a happy hour which i expect to share with you upon my return." the fact is that although goldsmith had seen a good deal of foreign travel, the manner of his making the grand tour in his youth was not such as to fit him for acting as courier to a party of ladies. however, if they increased his troubles, they also shared them; and in this same letter he bears explicit testimony to the value of their companionship. "i will soon be among you, better pleased with my situation at home than i ever was before. and yet i must say, that if anything could make france pleasant, the very good women with whom i am at present would certainly do it. i could say more about that, but i intend showing them this letter before i send it away." mrs. horneck, little comedy, the jessamy bride, and the professor of ancient history at the royal academy, all returned to london; the last to resume his round of convivialities at taverns, excursions into regions of more fashionable amusement along with reynolds, and task-work aimed at the pockets of the booksellers. it was a happy-go-lucky sort of life. we find him now showing off his fine clothes and his sword and wig at ranelagh gardens, and again shut up in his chambers compiling memoirs and histories in hot haste; now the guest of lord clare, and figuring at bath, and again delighting some small domestic circle by his quips and cranks; playing jokes for the amusement of children, and writing comic letters in verse to their elders; everywhere and at all times merry, thoughtless, good-natured. and, of course, we find also his humorous pleasantries being mistaken for blundering stupidity. in perfect good faith boswell describes how a number of people burst out laughing when goldsmith publicly complained that he had met lord camden at lord clare's house in the country, "and he took no more notice of me than if i had been an ordinary man." goldsmith's claiming to be a very extraordinary person was precisely a stroke of that humorous self-depreciation in which he was continually indulging; and the jessamy bride has left it on record that "on many occasions, from the peculiar manner of his humour, and assumed frown of countenance, what was often uttered in jest was mistaken by those who did not know him for earnest." this would appear to have been one of those occasions. the company burst out laughing at goldsmith's having made a fool of himself; and johnson was compelled to come to his rescue. "nay, gentlemen, dr. goldsmith is in the right. a nobleman ought to have made up to such a man as goldsmith; and i think it is much against lord camden that he neglected him." mention of lord clare naturally recalls the _haunch of venison_. goldsmith was particularly happy in writing bright and airy verses; the grace and lightness of his touch has rarely been approached. it must be confessed, however, that in this direction he was somewhat of an autolycus; unconsidered trifles he freely appropriated; but he committed these thefts with scarcely any concealment, and with the most charming air in the world. in fact some of the snatches of verse which he contributed to the _bee_ scarcely profess to be anything else than translations, though the originals are not given. but who is likely to complain when we get as the result such a delightful piece of nonsense as the famous elegy on that glory of her sex, mrs. mary blaize, which has been the parent of a vast progeny since goldsmith's time? "good people all, with one accord lament for madam blaize, who never wanted a good word, from those who spoke her praise. "the needy seldom passed her door, and always found her kind; she freely lent to all the poor,- who left a pledge behind. "she strove the neighbourhood to please, with manners wondrous winning; and never followed wicked ways,- unless when she was sinning. "at church, in silks and satins new, with hoop of monstrous size, she never slumbered in her pew,- but when she shut her eyes. "her love was sought, i do aver, by twenty beaux and more; the king himself has followed her,- when she has walked before. "but now her wealth and finery fled, her hangers-on cut short all; the doctors found, when she was dead,- her last disorder mortal. "let us lament, in sorrow sore, for kent street well may say, that had she lived a twelvemonth more,- she had not died to-day." the _haunch of venison_, on the other hand, is a poetical letter of thanks to lord clare--an easy, jocular epistle, in which the writer has a cut or two at certain of his literary brethren. then, as he is looking at the venison, and determining not to send it to any such people as hiffernan or higgins, who should step in but our old friend beau tibbs, or some one remarkably like him in manner and speech?- "while thus i debated, in reverie centred, an acquaintance, a friend as he called himself, entered; an under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, and he smiled as he looked at the venison and me. 'what have we got here?--why this is good eating! your own, i suppose--or is it in waiting?' 'why, whose should it be?' cried i with a flounce; 'i get these things often'--but that was a bounce: 'some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, are pleased to be kind--but i hate ostentation.' 'if that be the case then,' cried he, very gay, 'i'm glad i have taken this house in my way. to-morrow you take a poor dinner with me; no words--i insist on't--precisely at three; we'll have johnson, and burke; all the wits will be there; my acquaintance is slight, or i'd ask my lord clare. and now that i think on't, as i am a sinner! we wanted this venison to make out the dinner. what say you--a pasty? it shall, and it must, and my wife, little kitty, is famous for crust. here, porter! this venison with me to mile end; no stirring--i beg--my dear friend--my dear friend!' thus, snatching his hat, he brushed off like the wind, and the porter and eatables followed behind." we need not follow the vanished venison--which did not make its appearance at the banquet any more than did johnson or burke--further than to say that if lord clare did not make it good to the poet he did not deserve to have his name associated with such a clever and careless _jeu d'esprit_. chapter xvi. she stoops to conquer. but the writing of smart verses could not keep dr. goldsmith alive, more especially as dinner-parties, ranelagh masquerades, and similar diversions pressed heavily on his finances. when his _history of england_ appeared, the literary cut-throats of the day accused him of having been bribed by the government to betray the liberties of the people:[3] a foolish charge. what goldsmith got for the _english history_ was the sum originally stipulated for, and now no doubt all spent; with a further sum of fifty guineas for an abridgment of the work. then, by this time, he had persuaded griffin to advance him the whole of the eight hundred guineas for the _animated nature_, though he had only done about a third part of the book. at the instigation of newbery he had begun a story after the manner of the _vicar of wakefield_; but it appears that such chapters as he had written were not deemed to be promising; and the undertaking was abandoned. the fact is, goldsmith was now thinking of another method of replenishing his purse. the _vicar of wakefield_ had brought him little but reputation; the _good-natured man_ had brought him £500. it was to the stage that he now looked for assistance out of the financial slough in which he was plunged. he was engaged in writing a comedy; and that comedy was _she stoops to conquer_. [footnote 3: "god knows i had no thought for or against liberty in my head; my whole aim being to make up a book of a decent size that, as squire richard says, 'would do no harm to nobody.'"--goldsmith to langton, september, 1771.] in the dedication to johnson which was prefixed to this play on its appearance in type, goldsmith hints that the attempt to write a comedy not of the sentimental order then in fashion, was a hazardous thing; and also that colman, who saw the piece in its various stages, was of this opinion too. colman threw cold water on the undertaking from the very beginning. it was only extreme pressure on the part of goldsmith's friends that induced--or rather compelled--him to accept the comedy; and that, after he had kept the unfortunate author in the tortures of suspense for month after month. but although goldsmith knew the danger, he was resolved to face it. he hated the sentimentalists and all their works; and determined to keep his new comedy faithful to nature, whether people called it low or not. his object was to raise a genuine, hearty laugh; not to write a piece for school declamation; and he had enough confidence in himself to do the work in his own way. moreover he took the earliest possible opportunity, in writing this piece, of poking fun at the sensitive creatures who had been shocked by the "vulgarity" of _the good-natured man_. "bravo! bravo!" cry the jolly companions of tony lumpkin, when that promising buckeen has finished his song at the three pigeons; then follows criticism:- "_first fellow._ the squire has got spunk in him. _second fel._ i loves to hear him sing, bekeays he never gives us nothing that's low. _third fel._ o damn anything that's low, i cannot bear it. _fourth fel._ the genteel thing is the genteel thing any time: if so be that a gentleman bees in a concatenation accordingly. _third fel._ i likes the maxum of it, master muggins. what, though i am obligated to dance a bear, a man may be a gentleman for all that. may this be my poison, if my bear ever dances but to the very genteelest of tunes; 'water parted,' or the 'the minuet in ariadne.'" indeed, goldsmith, however he might figure in society, was always capable of holding his own when he had his pen in his hand. and even at the outset of this comedy one sees how much he has gained in literary confidence since the writing of the _good-natured man_. here there is no anxious stiffness at all; but a brisk, free conversation, full of point that is not too formal, and yet conveying all the information that has usually to be crammed into a first scene. in taking as the groundwork of his plot that old adventure that had befallen himself--his mistaking a squire's house for an inn--he was hampering himself with something that was not the less improbable because it had actually happened; but we begin to forget all the improbabilities through the naturalness of the people to whom we are introduced, and the brisk movement and life of the piece. fashions in dramatic literature may come and go; but the wholesome good-natured fun of _she stoops to conquer_ is as capable of producing a hearty laugh now, as it was when it first saw the light in covent garden. tony lumpkin is one of the especial favourites of the theatre-going public; and no wonder. with all the young cub's jibes and jeers, his impudence and grimaces, one has a sneaking love for the scapegrace; we laugh with him, rather than at him; how can we fail to enjoy those malevolent tricks of his when he so obviously enjoys them himself? and diggory--do we not owe an eternal debt of gratitude to honest diggory for telling us about ould grouse in the gunroom, that immortal joke at which thousands and thousands of people have roared with laughter, though they never any one of them could tell what the story was about? the scene in which the old squire lectures his faithful attendants on their manners and duties, is one of the truest bits of comedy on the english stage: "_mr. hardcastle._ but you're not to stand so, with your hands in your pockets. take your hands from your pockets, roger; and from your head, you blockhead you. see how diggory carries his hands. they're a little too stiff, indeed, but that's no great matter. _diggory._ ay, mind how i hold them. i learned to hold my hands this way when i was upon drill for the militia. and so being upon drill--. _hard._ you must not be so talkative, diggory. you must be all attention to the guests. you must hear us talk, and not think of talking; you must see us drink, and not think of drinking; you must see us eat, and not think of eating. _dig._ by the laws, your worship, that's parfectly unpossible. whenever diggory sees yeating going forward, ecod, he's always wishing for a mouthful himself. _hard._ blockhead! is not a bellyfull in the kitchen as good as a bellyfull in the parlour? stay your stomach with that reflection. _dig._ ecod, i thank your worship, i'll make a shift to stay my stomach with a slice of cold beef in the pantry. _hard._ diggory, you are too talkative.--then, if i happen to say a good thing, or tell a good story at table, you must not all burst out a-laughing, as if you made part of the company. _dig._ then ecod your worship must not tell the story of ould grouse in the gunroom: i can't help laughing at that--he! he! he!--for the soul of me. we have laughed at that these twenty years--ha! ha! ha! _hard._ ha! ha! ha! the story is a good one. well, honest diggory, you may laugh at that--but still remember to be attentive. suppose one of the company should call for a glass of wine, how will you behave? a glass of wine, sir, if-you please (_to_ diggory).--eh, why don't you move? _dig._ ecod, your worship, i never have courage till i see the eatables and drinkables brought upo' the table, and then i'm as bauld as a lion. _hard._ what, will nobody move? _first serv._ i'm not to leave this pleace. _second serv._ i'm sure it's no pleace of mine. _third serv._ nor mine, for sartain. _dig._ wauns, and i'm sure it canna be mine." no doubt all this is very "low" indeed; and perhaps mr. colman may be forgiven for suspecting that the refined wits of the day would be shocked by these rude humours of a parcel of servants. but all that can be said in this direction was said at the time by horace walpole, in a letter to a friend of his; and this criticism is so amusing in its pretence and imbecility that it is worth quoting at large. "dr. goldsmith has written a comedy," says this profound critic, "--no, it is the lowest of all farces; it is not the subject i condemn, though very vulgar, but the execution. the drift tends to no moral, no edification of any kind--the situations, however, are well imagined, and make one laugh in spite of the grossness of the dialogue, the forced witticisms, and total improbability of the whole plan and conduct. but what disgusts me most is, that though the characters are very low, and aim at low humour, not one of them says a sentence that is natural, or marks any character at all." horace walpole sighing for edification--from a covent garden comedy! surely, if the old gods have any laughter left, and if they take any notice of what is done in the literary world here below, there must have rumbled through the courts of olympus a guffaw of sardonic laughter, when that solemn criticism was put down on paper. meanwhile colman's original fears had developed into a sort of stupid obstinacy. he was so convinced that the play would not succeed, that he would spend no money in putting it on the stage; while far and wide he announced its failure as a foregone conclusion. under this gloom of vaticination the rehearsals were nevertheless proceeded with--the brunt of the quarrels among the players falling wholly on goldsmith, for the manager seems to have withdrawn in despair; while all the johnson confraternity were determined to do what they could for goldsmith on the opening night. that was the 15th of march, 1773. his friends invited the author to dinner as a prelude to the play; dr. johnson was in the chair; there was plenty of gaiety. but this means of keeping up the anxious author's spirits was not very successful. goldsmith's mouth, we are told by reynolds, became so parched "from the agitation of his mind, that he was unable to swallow a single mouthful." moreover, he could not face the ordeal of sitting through the play; when his friends left the tavern and betook themselves to the theatre, he went away by himself; and was subsequently found walking in st. james's park. the friend who discovered him there, persuaded him that his presence in the theatre might be useful in case of an emergency; and ultimately got him to accompany him to covent garden. when goldsmith reached the theatre, the fifth act had been begun. oddly enough, the first thing he heard on entering the stage-door was a hiss. the story goes that the poor author was dreadfully frightened; and that in answer to a hurried question, colman exclaimed, "psha! doctor, don't be afraid of a squib, when we have been sitting these two hours on a barrel of gunpowder." if this was meant as a hoax, it was a cruel one; if meant seriously, it was untrue. for the piece had turned out a great hit. from beginning to end of the performance the audience were in a roar of laughter; and the single hiss that goldsmith unluckily heard was so markedly exceptional, that it became the talk of the town, and was variously attributed to one or other of goldsmith's rivals. colman, too, suffered at the hands of the wits for his gloomy and falsified predictions; and had, indeed, to beg goldsmith to intercede for him. it is a great pity that boswell was not in london at this time; for then we might have had a description of the supper that naturally would follow the play, and of goldsmith's demeanour under this new success. besides the gratification, moreover, of his choice of materials being approved by the public, there was the material benefit accruing to him from the three "author's nights." these are supposed to have produced nearly five hundred pounds--a substantial sum in those days. boswell did not come to london till the second of april following; and the first mention we find of goldsmith is in connection with an incident which has its ludicrous as well as its regrettable aspect. the further success of _she stoops to conquer_ was not likely to propitiate the wretched hole-and-corner cut-throats that infested the journalism of that day. more especially was kenrick driven mad with envy; and so, in a letter addressed to the _london packet_, this poor creature determined once more to set aside the judgment of the public, and show dr. goldsmith in his true colours. the letter is a wretched production, full of personalities only fit for an angry washerwoman, and of rancour without point. but there was one passage in it that effectually roused goldsmith's rage; for here the jessamy bride was introduced as "the lovely h----k." the letter was anonymous; but the publisher of the print, a man called evans, was known; and so goldsmith thought he would go and give evans a beating. if he had asked johnson's advice about the matter, he would no doubt have been told to pay no heed at all to anonymous scurrility--certainly not to attempt to reply to it with a cudgel. when johnson heard that foote meant to "take him off," he turned to davies and asked him what was the common price of an oak stick; but an oak stick in johnson's hands, and an oak stick in goldsmith's lands, were two different things. however, to the bookseller's shop the indignant poet proceeded, in company with a friend; got hold of evans; accused him of having insulted a young lady by putting her name in his paper; and, when the publisher would fain have shifted the responsibility on to the editor, forthwith denounced him as a rascal, and hit him over the back with his cane. the publisher, however, was quite a match for goldsmith; and there is no saying how the deadly combat might have ended, had not a lamp been broken overhead, the oil of which drenched both the warriors. this intervention of the superior gods was just as successful as a homeric cloud; the fray ceased; goldsmith and his friend withdrew; and ultimately an action for assault was compromised by goldsmith's paying fifty pounds to a charity. then the howl of the journals arose. their prerogative had been assailed. "attacks upon private character were the most liberal existing source of newspaper income," mr. forster writes; and so the pack turned with one cry on the unlucky poet. there was nothing of "the monument" about poor goldsmith; and at last he was worried into writing a letter of defence addressed to the public. "he has indeed done it very well," said johnson to boswell, "but it is a foolish thing well done." and further he remarked, "why, sir, i believe it is the first time he has _beat_; he may have _been beaten_ before. this, sir, is a new plume to him." chapter xvii. increasing difficulties.--the end. the pecuniary success of _she stoops to conquer_ did but little to relieve goldsmith from those financial embarrassments which were now weighing heavily on his mind. and now he had less of the old high spirits that had enabled him to laugh off the cares of debt. his health became disordered; an old disease renewed its attacks, and was grown more violent because of his long-continued sedentary habits. indeed, from this point to the day of his death--not a long interval, either--we find little but a record of successive endeavours, some of them wild and hopeless enough, to obtain money anyhow. of course he went to the club, as usual; and gave dinner-parties; and had a laugh or a song ready for the occasion. it is possible, also, to trace a certain growth of confidence in himself, no doubt the result of the repeated proofs of his genius he had put before his friends. it was something more than mere personal intimacy that justified the rebuke he administered to reynolds, when the latter painted an allegorical picture representing the triumph of beattie and truth over voltaire and scepticism. "it very ill becomes a man of your eminence and character," he said, "to debase so high a genius as voltaire before so mean a writer as beattie. beattie and his book will be forgotten in ten years, while voltaire's fame will last for ever. take care it does not perpetuate this picture, to the shame of such a man as you." he was aware, too, of the position he had won for himself in english literature. he knew that people in after-days would ask about him; and it was with no sort of unwarrantable vainglory that he gave percy certain materials for a biography which he wished him to undertake. hence the _percy memoir_. he was only forty-five when he made this request; and he had not suffered much from illness during his life; so that there was apparently no grounds for imagining that the end was near. but at this time goldsmith began to suffer severe fits of depression; and he grew irritable and capricious of temper--no doubt another result of failing health. he was embroiled in disputes with the booksellers; and, on one occasion, seems to have been much hurt because johnson, who had been asked to step in as arbiter, decided against him. he was offended with johnson on another occasion because of his sending away certain dishes at a dinner given to him by goldsmith, as a hint that these entertainments were too luxurious for one in goldsmith's position. it was probably owing to some temporary feeling of this sort--perhaps to some expression of it on goldsmith's part--that johnson spoke of goldsmith's "malice" towards him. mrs. thrale had suggested that goldsmith would be the best person to write johnson's biography. "the dog would write it best, to be sure," said johnson, "but his particular malice towards me, and general disregard of truth, would make the book useless to all and injurious to my character." of course it is always impossible to say what measure of jocular exaggeration there may not be in a chance phrase such as this: of the fact that there was no serious or permanent quarrel between the two friends we have abundant proof in boswell's faithful pages. to return to the various endeavours made by goldsmith and his friends to meet the difficulties now closing in around him, we find, first of all, the familiar hack-work. for two volumes of a _history of greece_ he had received from griffin £250. then his friends tried to get him a pension from the government; but this was definitely refused. an expedient of his own seemed to promise well at first. he thought of bringing out a _popular dictionary of arts and sciences_, a series of contributions mostly by his friends, with himself as editor; and among those who offered to assist him were johnson, reynolds, burke, and dr. burney. but the booksellers were afraid. the project would involve a large expense; and they had no high opinion of goldsmith's business habits. then he offered to alter _the good-natured man_ for garrick; but garrick preferred to treat with him for a new comedy, and generously allowed him to draw on him for the money in advance. this last help enabled him to go to barton for a brief holiday; but the relief was only temporary. on his return to london even his nearest friends began to observe the change in his manner. in the old days goldsmith had faced pecuniary difficulties with a light heart; but now, his health broken, and every avenue of escape apparently closed, he was giving way to despair. his friend cradock, coming up to town, found goldsmith in a most despondent condition; and also hints that the unhappy author was trying to conceal the true state of affairs. "i believe," says cradock, "he died miserable, and that his friends were not entirely aware of his distress." and yet it was during this closing period of anxiety, despondency, and gloomy foreboding, that the brilliant and humorous lines of _retaliation_ were written--that last scintillation of the bright and happy genius that was soon to be extinguished for ever. the most varied accounts have been given of the origin of this _jeu d'esprit_; and even garrick's, which was meant to supersede and correct all others, is self-contradictory. for according to this version of the story, which was found among the garrick papers, and which is printed in mr. cunningham's edition of goldsmith's works, the whole thing arose out of goldsmith and garrick resolving one evening at the st. james's coffee house to write each other's epitaph. garrick's well-known couplet was instantly produced: "here lies nolly goldsmith, for shortness called noll, who wrote like an angel, but talked like poor poll." goldsmith, according to garrick, either would not or could not retort at the moment; "but went to work, and some weeks after produced the following printed poem, called _retaliation_." but garrick himself goes on to say, "the following poems in manuscript were written by several of the gentlemen on purpose to provoke the doctor to an answer, which came forth at last with great credit to him in _retaliation_." the most probable version of the story, which may be pieced together from various sources, is that at the coffee-house named this business of writing comic epitaphs was started some evening or other by the whole company; that goldsmith and garrick pitted themselves against each other; that thereafter goldsmith began as occasion served to write similar squibs about his friends, which were shown about as they were written; that thereupon those gentlemen, not to be behindhand, composed more elaborate pieces in proof of their wit; and that, finally, goldsmith resolved to bind these fugitive lines of his together in a poem, which he left unfinished, and which, under the name of _retaliation_, was published after his death. this hypothetical account receives some confirmation from the fact that the scheme of the poem and its component parts do not fit together well; the introduction looks like an after-thought; and has not the freedom and pungency of a piece of improvisation. an imaginary dinner is described, the guests being garrick, reynolds, burke, cumberland, and the rest of them, goldsmith last of all. more wine is called for, until the whole of his companions have fallen beneath the table: "then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, let me ponder, and tell what i think of the _dead_." this is a somewhat clumsy excuse for introducing a series of epitaphs; but the epitaphs amply atone for it. that on garrick is especially remarkable as a bit of character-sketching; its shrewd hints--all in perfect courtesy and good humour--going a little nearer to the truth than is common in epitaphs of any sort:- "here lies david garrick, describe me who can; an abridgment of all that was pleasant in man. as an actor, confessed without rival to shine: as a wit, if not first, in the very first line: yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, the man had his failings, a dupe to his art. like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, and beplastered with rouge his own natural red. on the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; 'twas only that, when he was off, he was acting. with no reason on earth to go out of his way, he turned and he varied full ten times a day: though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick if they were not his own by finessing and trick; he cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, for he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back. of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came; and the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame; till his relish grown callous, almost to disease, who peppered the highest was surest to please. but let us be candid, and speak out our mind: if dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. ye kenricks, ye kellys, and woodfalls so grave, what a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave! how did grub street re-echo the shouts that you raised, while he was be-rosciused, and you were bepraised. but peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, to act as an angel and mix with the skies: those poets who owe their best fame to his skill shall still be his flatterers, go where he will; old shakespeare receive him with praise and with love, and beaumonts and bens be his kellys above." the truth is that goldsmith, though he was ready to bless his "honest little man" when he received from him sixty pounds in advance for a comedy not begun, never took quite so kindly to garrick as to some of his other friends. there is no pretence of discrimination at all, for example, in the lines devoted in this poem to reynolds. all the generous enthusiasm of goldsmith's irish nature appears here; he will admit of no possible rival to this especial friend of his:- "here reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind, he has not left a wiser or better behind." there is a tradition that the epitaph on reynolds, ending with the unfinished line "by flattery unspoiled ..." was goldsmith's last piece of writing. one would like to believe that, in any case. goldsmith had returned to his edgware lodgings, and had, indeed, formed some notion of selling his chambers in the temple, and living in the country for at least ten months in the year, when a sudden attack of his old disorder drove him into town again for medical advice. he would appear to have received some relief; but a nervous fever followed; and on the night of the 25th march, 1774, when he was but forty-six years of age, he took to his bed for the last time. at first he refused to regard his illness as serious; and insisted on dosing himself with certain fever-powders from which he had received benefit on previous occasions; but by and by as his strength gave way, he submitted to the advice of the physicians who were in attendance on him. day after day passed; his weakness visibly increasing, though, curiously enough, the symptoms of fever were gradually abating. at length one of the doctors, remarking to him that his pulse was in greater disorder than it should be from the degree of fever, asked him if his mind was at ease. "no, it is not," answered goldsmith; and these were his last words. early in the morning of monday, april 4, convulsions set in; these continued for rather more than an hour; then the troubled brain and the sick heart found rest for ever. when the news was carried to his friends, burke, it is said, burst into tears, and reynolds put aside his work for the day. but it does not appear that they had visited him during his illness; and neither johnson, nor reynolds, nor burke, nor garrick followed his body to the grave. it is true, a public funeral was talked of; and, among others, reynolds, burke, and garrick were to have carried the pall; but this was abandoned; and goldsmith was privately buried in the ground of the temple church on the 9th of april, 1774. strangely enough, too, johnson seems to have omitted all mention of goldsmith from his letters to boswell. it was not until boswell had written to him, on june 24th, "you have said nothing to me about poor goldsmith," that johnson, writing on july 4, answered as follows:--"of poor dear dr. goldsmith there is little to be told, more than the papers have made public. he died of a fever, made, i am afraid, more violent by uneasiness of mind. his debts began to be heavy, and all his resources were exhausted. sir joshua is of opinion that he owed not less than two thousand pounds. was ever poet so trusted before?" but if the greatest grief at the sudden and premature death of goldsmith would seem to have been shown at the moment by certain wretched creatures who were found weeping on the stairs leading to his chambers, it must not be supposed that his fine friends either forgot him, or ceased to regard his memory with a great gentleness and kindness. some two years after, when a monument was about to be erected to goldsmith in westminster abbey, johnson consented to write "the poor dear doctor's epitaph;" and so anxious were the members of that famous circle in which goldsmith had figured, that a just tribute should be paid to his genius, that they even ventured to send a round robin to the great cham desiring him to amend his first draft. now, perhaps, we have less interest in johnson's estimate of goldsmith's genius--though it contains the famous _nullum quod tetigit non ornavit_--than in the phrases which tell of the honour paid to the memory of the dead poet by the love of his companions and the faithfulness of his friends. it may here be added that the precise spot where goldsmith was buried in the temple churchyard is unknown. so lived and so died oliver goldsmith. * * * * * in the foregoing pages the writings of goldsmith have been given so prominent a place in the history of his life that it is unnecessary to take them here collectively and endeavour to sum up their distinctive qualities. as much as could be said within the limited space has, it is hoped, been said about their genuine and tender pathos, that never at any time verges on the affected or theatrical; about their quaint delicate, delightful humour; about that broader humour that is not afraid to provoke the wholesome laughter of mankind by dealing with common and familiar ways, and manners, and men; about that choiceness of diction, that lightness and grace of touch, that lend a charm even to goldsmith's ordinary hack-work. still less necessary, perhaps, is it to review the facts and circumstances of goldsmith's life; and to make of them an example, a warning, or an accusation. that has too often been done. his name has been used to glorify a sham bohemianism--a bohemianism that finds it easy to live in taverns, but does not find it easy, so far as one sees, to write poems like the _deserted village_. his experiences as an author have been brought forward to swell the cry about neglected genius--that is, by writers who assume their genius in order to prove the neglect. the misery that occasionally befell him during his wayward career has been made the basis of an accusation against society, the english constitution, christianity--heaven knows what. it is time to have done with all this nonsense. goldsmith resorted to the hack-work of literature when everything else had failed him; and he was fairly paid for it. when he did better work, when he "struck for honest fame," the nation gave him all the honour that he could have desired. with an assured reputation, and with ample means of subsistence, he obtained entrance into the most distinguished society then in england--he was made the friend of england's greatest in the arts and literature--and could have confined himself to that society exclusively if he had chosen. his temperament, no doubt, exposed him to suffering; and the exquisite sensitiveness of a man of genius may demand our sympathy; but in far greater measure is our sympathy demanded for the thousands upon thousands of people who, from illness or nervous excitability, suffer from quite as keen a sensitiveness without the consolation of the fame that genius brings. in plain truth, goldsmith himself would have been the last to put forward pleas humiliating alike to himself and to his calling. instead of beseeching the state to look after authors; instead of imploring society to grant them "recognition;" instead of saying of himself "he wrote, and paid the penalty;" he would frankly have admitted that he chose to live his life his own way, and therefore paid the penalty. this is not written with any desire of upbraiding goldsmith. he did choose to live his own life his own way, and we now have the splendid and beautiful results of his work; and the world--looking at these with a constant admiration, and with a great and lenient love for their author--is not anxious to know what he did with his guineas, or whether the milkman was ever paid. "he had raised money and squandered it, by every artifice of acquisition and folly of expense. but let not his frailties be remembered: he was a very great man." this is johnson's wise summing up; and with it we may here take leave of gentle goldsmith. the end. * * * * * english men of letters. edited by john morley. _these short books are addressed to the general public with a view both to stirring and satisfying an interest in literature and its great topics in the minds of those who have to run as they read. an immense class is growing up, and must every year increase, whose education will have made them alive to the importance of the masters of our literature, and capable of intelligent curiosity as to their performances. the series is intended to give the means of nourishing this curiosity, to an extent that shall be copious enough to be profitable for knowledge and life, and yet be brief enough to serve those whose leisure is scanty._ _the following are arranged for:--_ _spenser the dean of st. paul's._ _hume professor huxley._ [_ready._ _bunyan james anthony froude._ _johnson leslie stephen._ [_ready._ _goldsmith william black._ [_ready._ _milton mark pattison._ _wordsworth goldwin smith._ _swift john morley._ _burns principal shairp._ [_ready._ _scott richard h. hutton._ [_ready._ _shelley j. a. symonds._ [_ready._ _gibbon j. c. morison._ [_ready._ _byron professor nichol._ _defoe w. minto._ [_in the press._ _gray john morley._ _hawthorne henry james, jnr._ _chaucer a. w. ward._ [_others will be announced._] * * * * * opinions of the press. "the new series opens well with mr. leslie stephen's sketch of dr. johnson. it could hardly have been done better; and it will convey to the readers for whom it is intended a juster estimate of johnson that either of the two essays of lord macaulay."--_pall mall gazette._ "we have come across few writers who have had a clearer insight into johnson's character, or who have brought to the study of it a better knowledge of the time in which johnson lived and the men whom he knew."--_saturday review._ "we could not wish for a more suggestive introduction to scott and his poems and novels."--_examiner._ "the tone of the volume is excellent throughout."--_athenæum_ review of "scott." "as a clear, thoughtful, and attractive record of the life and works of the greatest among the world's historians, it deserves the highest praise."--_examiner_ review of "gibbon." "the lovers of this great poet (shelley) are to be congratulated at having at their command so fresh, clear, and intelligent a presentment of the subject, written by a man of adequate and wide culture."--_athenæum._ * * * * * macmillan's globe library. _beautifully printed on toned paper, price_ 3_s_. 6_d_. _also kept in a variety of calf and morocco bindings, at moderate prices._ * * * * * _the _saturday review_ says: "the globe editions are admirable for their scholarly editing, their typographical excellence, their compendious form, and their cheapness." the _british quarterly review_ says: "in compendiousness, elegance, and scholarliness the globe editions of messrs. macmillan surpass any popular series of our classics hitherto given to the public. as near an approach to miniature perfection as has ever been made."_ * * * * * shakespeare's complete works. edited by w. g. clark, m. a., and w. aldis wright, m. a., editors of the "cambridge shakespeare." with glossary, pp. 1075. _the _athenæum_ says this edition is "a marvel of beauty, cheapness, and compactness.... for the busy man, above all for the working student, this is the best of all existing shakespeares."_ spenser's complete works. edited from the original editions and manuscripts, by r. morris, with a memoir by j. w. hales, m. a. with glossary, pp. lv., 736. _"worthy--and higher praise it needs not--of the beautiful 'globe series.'"_--daily news. sir walter scott's poetical works. edited, with a biographical and critical memoir, by francis turner palgrave, and copious notes, pp. xliii., 559. _"we can almost sympathise with a middle-aged grumbler, who, after reading mr. palgrave's memoir and introduction, should exclaim, 'why was there not such an edition of scott when i was a schoolboy?'"_--guardian. complete works of robert burns. edited from the best printed and manuscript authorities, with glossarial index, notes, and a biographical memoir by alexander smith, pp. lxii., 636. _"admirable in all respects."_--spectator. robinson crusoe. edited after the original editions, with a biographical introduction by henry kingsley. pp. xxxi., 607. _"a most excellent and in every way desirable edition."_--court circular. goldsmith's miscellaneous works. edited with biographical introduction, by professor masson. pp. lx., 695. _"such an admirable compendium of the facts of goldsmith's life, and so careful and minute a delineation of the mixed traits of his peculiar character as to be a very model of a literary biography in little."_--scotsman. pope's poetical works. edited, with notes, and introductory memoir by a. w. ward, m. a., professor of history in owens college manchester, pp. lii., 508. _the _literary churchman_ remarks: "the editor's own notes and introductory memoir are excellent, the memoir alone would be cheap and well worth buying at the price of the whole volume."_ dryden's poetical works. edited, with a memoir, revised text, and notes, by w. d. christie, m. a., of trinity college, cambridge, pp. lxxxvii., 662. _"an admirable edition, the result of great research and of a careful revision of the text."_--pall mall gazette. cowper's poetical works. edited, with notes and biographical introduction, by william benham, vicar of margate, pp. lxxiii., 536. _"mr. benham's edition of cowper is one of permanent value."_--saturday review. morte d'arthur.--sir thomas malory's book of king arthur and of his noble knights of the round table. the original edition of caxton, revised for modern use. with an introduction by sir edward strachey, bart. pp. xxxvii., 509. _"it is with perfect confidence that we recommend this edition of the old romance to every class of readers."_--pall mall gazette. the works of virgil. rendered into english prose, with introductions, notes, running analysis, and an index. by james lonsdale, m. a., and samuel lee, m. a. pp. 228. _"a more complete edition of virgil in english it is scarcely possible to conceive than the scholarly work before us."_--globe. the works of horace. rendered into english prose, with introductions, running analysis, notes, and index. by john lonsdale, m. a., and samuel lee, m. a. _the _standard_ says, "to classical and non-classical readers it will be invaluable."_ milton's poetical works.--edited, with introductions, by professor masson. _"in every way an admirable book."_--pall mall gazette. * * * * * macmillan & co., london. english men of letters edited by john morley swift by leslie stephen london: macmillan and co. 1882. the right of translation and reproduction is reserved preface. the chief materials for a life of swift are to be found in his writings and correspondence. the best edition is the second of the two edited by scott (1814 and 1824). in 1751 lord orrery published _remarks upon the life and writings of dr. jonathan swift_. orrery, born 1707, had known swift from about 1732. his remarks give the views of a person of quality of more ambition than capacity, and more anxious to exhibit his own taste than to give full or accurate information. in 1754, dr. delany published _observations upon lord orrery's remarks_, intended to vindicate swift against some of orrery's severe judgments. delany, born about 1685, became intimate with swift soon after the dean's final settlement in ireland. he was then one of the authorities of trinity college, dublin. he is the best contemporary authority, so far as he goes. in 1756 deane swift, grandson of swift's uncle godwin, and son-in-law to swift's cousin and faithful guardian, mrs. whiteway, published an _essay upon the life, writings, and character of dr. jonathan swift_, in which he attacks both his predecessors. deane swift, born about 1708, had seen little or nothing of his cousin till the year 1738, when the dean's faculties were decaying. his book is foolish and discursive. deane swift's son, theophilus, communicated a good deal of doubtful matter to scott, on the authority of family tradition. in 1765 hawkesworth, who had no personal knowledge, prefixed a life of swift to an edition of the works which adds nothing to our information. in 1781 johnson, when publishing a very perfunctory life of swift as one of the poets, excused its shortcomings on the ground of having already communicated his thoughts to hawkesworth. the life is not only meagre but injured by one of johnson's strong prejudices. in 1785 thomas sheridan produced a pompous and dull life of swift. he was the son of swift's most intimate companion during the whole period subsequent to the final settlement in ireland. the elder sheridan, however, died in 1738; and the younger, born in 1721, was still a boy when swift was becoming imbecile. contemporary writers, except delany, have thus little authority; and a number of more or less palpably fictitious anecdotes accumulated round their hero. scott's life, originally published in 1814, is defective in point of accuracy. scott did not investigate the evidence minutely, and liked a good story too well to be very particular about its authenticity. the book, however, shows his strong sense and genial appreciation of character; and remains, till this day, by far the best account of swift's career. a life which supplies scott's defects in great measure was given by william monck mason, in 1819, in his _history and antiquities of the church of st. patrick_. monck mason was an indiscriminate admirer, and has a provoking method of expanding undigested information into monstrous notes, after the precedent of bayle. but he examined facts with the utmost care, and every biographer must respect his authority. in 1875 mr. forster published the first instalment of a _life of swift_. this book, which contains the results of patient and thorough inquiry, was unfortunately interrupted by mr. forster's death, and ends at the beginning of 1711. a complete _life_ by mr. henry craik is announced as about to appear. besides these books, i ought to mention an _essay upon the earlier part of the life of swift_, by the rev. john barrett, b.d. and vice-provost of trin. coll. dublin (london, 1808); and _the closing years of dean swift's life_, by w. r. wilde, m.r.i.a., f.r.c.s. (dublin, 1849). this last is a very interesting study of the medical aspects of swift's life. an essay by dr. bucknill, in _brain_ for jan. 1882, is a remarkable contribution to the same subject. contents. page chapter i. early years 1 chapter ii. moor park and kilroot 12 chapter iii. early writings 32 chapter iv. laracor and london 51 chapter v. the harley administration 77 chapter vi. stella and vanessa 118 chapter vii. wood's halfpence 147 chapter viii. gulliver's travels 168 chapter ix. decline 186 swift. chapter i. early years. jonathan swift, the famous dean of st. patrick's, was the descendant of an old yorkshire family. one branch had migrated southwards, and in the time of charles i., thomas swift, jonathan's grandfather, was vicar of goodrich, near ross, in herefordshire, a fact commemorated by the sweetest singer of queen ann's reign in the remarkable lines- jonathan swift had the gift by fatherige, motherige, and by brotherige, to come from gotheridge. thomas swift married elizabeth dryden, niece of sir erasmus, the grandfather of the poet dryden. by her he became the father of ten sons and four daughters. in the great rebellion he distinguished himself by a loyalty which was the cause of obvious complacency to his descendant. on one occasion he came to the governor of a town held for the king, and being asked what he could do for his majesty, laid down his coat as an offering. the governor remarked that his coat was worth little. "then," said swift, "take my waistcoat." the waistcoat was lined with three hundred broad pieces--a handsome offering from a poor and plundered clergyman. on another occasion he armed a ford, through which rebel cavalry were to pass, by certain pieces of iron with four spikes, so contrived that one spike must always be uppermost (_caltrops_, in short). two hundred of the enemy were destroyed by this stratagem. the success of the rebels naturally led to the ruin of this cavalier clergyman; and the record of his calamities forms a conspicuous article in walker's _sufferings of the clergy_. he died in 1658, before the advent of the better times in which he might have been rewarded for his loyal services. his numerous family had to struggle for a living. the eldest son, godwin swift, was a barrister of gray's inn at the time of the restoration: he was married four times, and three times to women of fortune; his first wife had been related to the ormond family; and this connexion induced him to seek his fortune in ireland--a kingdom which at that time suffered, amongst other less endurable grievances, from a deficient supply of lawyers.[1] godwin swift was made attorney-general in the palatinate of tipperary by the duke of ormond. he prospered in his profession, in the subtle parts of which, says his nephew, he was "perhaps a little too dexterous;" and he engaged in various speculations, having at one time what was then the very large income of 3000_l._ a year. four brothers accompanied this successful godwin, and shared to some extent in his prosperity. in january, 1666, one of these, jonathan, married to abigail erick, of leicester, was appointed to the stewardship of the king's inns, dublin, partly in consideration of the loyalty and suffering of his family. some fifteen months later, in april, 1667, he died, leaving his widow with an infant daughter, and seven months after her husband's death, november 30, 1667, she gave birth to jonathan, the younger, at 7, hoey's court, dublin. the dean "hath often been heard to say" (i quote his fragment of autobiography) "that he felt the consequences of that (his parents') marriage, not only through the whole course of his education, but during the greater part of his life." this quaint assumption that a man's parentage is a kind of removable accident to which may be attributed a limited part of his subsequent career, betrays a characteristic sentiment. swift cherished a vague resentment against the fates which had mixed bitter ingredients in his lot. he felt the place as well as the circumstances of his birth to be a grievance. it gave a plausibility to the offensive imputation that he was of irish blood. "i happened," he said, with a bitterness born of later sufferings, "by a perfect accident to be born here, and thus i am a teague, or an irishman, or what people please." elsewhere he claims england as properly his own country; "although i happened to be dropped here, and was a year old before i left it (ireland), and to my sorrow did not die before i came back to it." his infancy brought fresh grievances. he was, it seems, a precocious and delicate child, and his nurse became so much attached to him, that having to return to her native whitehaven, she kidnapped the year-old infant out of pure affection. when his mother knew her loss, she was afraid to hazard a return voyage until the child was stronger; and he thus remained nearly three years at whitehaven, where the nurse took such care of his education, that he could read any chapter in the bible before he was three years old. his return must have been speedily followed by his mother's departure for her native leicester. her sole dependence, it seems, was an annuity of 20_l._ a year, which had been bought for her by her husband upon their marriage. some of the swift family seem also to have helped her; but for reasons not now discoverable, she found leicester preferable to dublin, even at the price of parting from the little jonathan. godwin took him off her hands and sent him to kilkenny school at the age of six, and from that early period the child had to grow up as virtually an orphan. his mother through several years to come can have been little more than a name to him. kilkenny school, called the "eton of ireland," enjoyed a high reputation. two of swift's most famous contemporaries were educated there. congreve, two years his junior, was one of his schoolfellows, and a warm friendship remained when both had become famous. fourteen years after swift had left the school it was entered by george berkeley, destined to win a fame of the purest and highest kind, and to come into a strange relationship to swift. it would be vain to ask what credit may be claimed by kilkenny school for thus "producing" (it is the word used on such occasions) the greatest satirist, the most brilliant writer of comedies, and the subtlest metaphysician in the english language. our knowledge of swift's experiences at this period is almost confined to a single anecdote. "i remember," he says incidentally in a letter to lord bolingbroke, "when i was a little boy, i felt a great fish at the end of my line, which i drew up almost on the ground; but it dropped in, and the disappointment vexes me to this very day, and i believe it was the type of all my future disappointments."[2] swift, indeed, was still in the schoolboy stage, according to modern ideas, when he was entered at trinity college, dublin, on the same day, april 24, 1682, with a cousin, thomas swift. swift clearly found dublin uncongenial; though there is still a wide margin for uncertainty as to precise facts. his own account gives a short summary of his academic history:-"by the ill-treatment of his nearest relations" (he says) "he was so discouraged and sunk in his spirits that he too much neglected his academic studies, for some parts of which he had no great relish by nature, and turned himself to reading history and poetry, so that when the time came for taking his degree of bachelor of arts, although he had lived with great regularity and due observance of the statutes, he was stopped of his degree for dulness and insufficiency; and at last hardly admitted in a manner little to his credit, which is called in that college _speciali gratia_." in a report of one of the college examinations, discovered by mr. forster, he receives a _bene_ for his greek and latin, a _male_ for his "philosophy," and a _negligenter_ for his theology. the "philosophy" was still based upon the old scholasticism, and proficiency was tested by skill in the arts of syllogistic argumentation. sheridan, son of swift's intimate friend, was a student at dublin shortly before the dean's loss of intellectual power; the old gentleman would naturally talk to the lad about his university recollections; and, according to his hearer, remembered with singular accuracy the questions upon which he had disputed, and repeated the arguments which had been used, "in syllogistic form." swift at the same time declared, if the report be accurate, that he never had the patience to read the pages of smiglecius, burgersdicius, and the other old-fashioned logical treatises. when told that they taught the art of reasoning, he declared that he could reason very well without it. he acted upon this principle in his exercises, and left the proctor to reduce his argument to the proper form. in this there is probably a substratum of truth. swift can hardly be credited, as berkeley might have been, with a precocious perception of the weakness of the accepted system. when young gentlemen are plucked for their degree, it is not generally because they are in advance of their age. but the aversion to metaphysics was characteristic of swift through life. like many other people who have no turn for such speculations, he felt for them a contempt which may perhaps be not the less justified because it does not arise from familiarity. the bent of his mind was already sufficiently marked to make him revolt against the kind of mental food which was most in favour at dublin; though he seems to have obtained a fair knowledge of the classics. swift cherished through life a resentment against most of his relations. his uncle godwin had undertaken his education, and had sent him, as we see, to the best places of education in ireland. if the supplies became scanty, it must be admitted that poor godwin had a sufficient excuse. each of his four wives had brought him a family--the last leaving him seven sons; his fortunes had been dissipated, chiefly, it seems, by means of a speculation in iron-works; and the poor man himself seems to have been failing, for he "fell into a lethargy" in 1688, surviving some five years, like his famous nephew, in a state of imbecility. decay of mind and fortune coinciding with the demands of a rising family might certainly be some apology for the neglect of one amongst many nephews. swift did not consider it sufficient. "was it not your uncle godwin," he was asked "who educated you?" "yes," said swift, after a pause; "he gave me the education of a dog." "then," answered the intrepid inquirer, "you have not the gratitude of a dog." and perhaps that is our natural impression. yet we do not know enough of the facts to judge with confidence. swift, whatever his faults, was always a warm and faithful friend; and perhaps it is the most probable conjecture that godwin swift bestowed his charity coldly and in such a way as to hurt the pride of the recipient. in any case, it appears that swift showed his resentment in a manner more natural than reasonable. the child is tempted to revenge himself by knocking his head against the rock which has broken his shins; and with equal wisdom the youth who fancies that the world is not his friend, tries to get satisfaction by defying its laws. till the time of his degree (february, 1686), swift had been at least regular in his conduct, and if the neglect of his relations had discouraged his industry, it had not provoked him to rebellion. during the three years which followed he became more reckless. he was still a mere lad, just eighteen at the time of his degree, when he fell into more or less irregular courses. in rather less than two years he was under censure for seventy weeks. the offences consisted chiefly in neglect to attend chapel and in "town-haunting" or absence from the nightly roll-call. such offences perhaps appear to be more flagrant than they really are in the eyes of college authorities. twice he got into more serious scrapes. he was censured (march 16, 1687) along with his cousin, thomas swift, and several others for "notorious neglect of duties and frequenting 'the town.'" and on his twenty-first birthday (nov. 30, 1688) he[3] was punished, along with several others, for exciting domestic dissensions, despising the warnings of the junior dean, and insulting that official by contemptuous words. the offenders were suspended from their degrees, and inasmuch as swift and another were the worst offenders (_adhuc intolerabilius se gesserant_), they were sentenced to ask pardon of the dean upon their knees publicly in the hall. twenty years later[4] swift revenged himself upon owen lloyd, the junior dean, by accusing him of infamous servility. for the present swift was probably reckoned amongst the black sheep of the academic flock.[5] this censure came at the end of swift's university career. the three last years had doubtless been years of discouragement and recklessness. that they were also years of vice in the usual sense of the word is not proved; nor, from all that we know of swift's later history, does it seem to be probable. there is no trace of anything like licentious behaviour in his whole career. it is easier to believe with scott that swift's conduct at this period might be fairly described in the words of johnson when speaking of his own university experience: "ah, sir, i was mad and violent. it was bitterness that they mistook for frolic. i was miserably poor, and i thought to fight my way by my literature and my wit; so i disregarded all power and all authority." swift learnt another and a more profitable lesson in these years. it is indicated in an anecdote which rests upon tolerable authority. one day, as he was gazing in melancholy mood from his window, his pockets at their lowest ebb, he saw a sailor staring about in the college courts. how happy should i be, he thought, if that man was inquiring for me with a present from my cousin willoughby! the dream came true. the sailor came to his rooms and produced a leather bag, sent by his cousin from lisbon, with more money than poor jonathan had ever possessed in his life. the sailor refused to take a part of it for his trouble, and jonathan hastily crammed the money into his pocket, lest the man should repent of his generosity. from that time forward, he added, he became a better economist. the willoughby swift here mentioned was the eldest son of godwin, and now settled in the english factory at lisbon. swift speaks warmly of his "goodness and generosity" in a letter written to another cousin in 1694. some help, too, was given by his uncle william, who was settled at dublin, and whom he calls the "best of his relations." in one way or another he was able to keep his head above water; and he was receiving an impression which grew with his growth. the misery of dependence was burnt into his soul. to secure independence became his most cherished wish; and the first condition of independence was a rigid practice of economy. we shall see hereafter how deeply this principle became rooted in his mind; here i need only notice that it is the lesson which poverty teaches to none but men of strong character. a catastrophe meanwhile was approaching, which involved the fortunes of swift along with those of nations. james ii. had been on the throne for a year when swift took his degree. at the time when swift was ordered to kneel to the junior dean, william was in england, and james preparing to fly from whitehall. the revolution of 1688 meant a breaking up of the very foundations of political and social order in ireland. at the end of 1688 a stream of fugitives was pouring into england, whilst the english in ireland were gathering into strong places, abandoning their property to the bands of insurgent peasants. swift fled with his fellows. any prospects which he may have had in ireland were ruined with the ruin of his race. the loyalty of his grandfather to a king who protected the national church was no precedent for loyalty to a king who was its deadliest enemy. swift, a churchman to the backbone, never shared the leaning of many anglicans to the exiled stuarts; and his early experience was a pretty strong dissuasive from jacobitism. he took refuge with his mother at leicester. of that mother we hear less than we could wish; for all that we hear suggests a brisk, wholesome, motherly body. she lived cheerfully and frugally on her pittance; rose early, worked with her needle, read her book, and deemed herself to be "rich and happy"--on twenty pounds a year. a touch of her son's humour appears in the only anecdote about her. she came, it seems, to visit her son in ireland shortly after he had taken possession of laracor, and amused herself by persuading the woman with whom she lodged that jonathan was not her son but her lover. her son, though separated from her through the years in which filial affection is generally nourished, loved her with the whole strength of his nature; he wrote to her frequently, took pains to pay her visits "rarely less than once a year;" and was deeply affected by her death in 1710. "i have now lost," he wrote in his pocket-book, "the last barrier between me and death. god grant i may be as well prepared for it as i confidently believe her to have been! if the way to heaven be through piety, truth, justice, and charity, she is there." the good lady had, it would seem, some little anxieties of the common kind about her son. she thought him in danger of falling in love with a certain betty jones, who, however, escaped the perils of being wife to a man of genius, and married an innkeeper. some forty years later, betty jones, now perkins, appealed to swift to help her in some family difficulties, and swift was ready to "sacrifice five pounds" for old acquaintance' sake. other vague reports of swift's attentions to women seem to have been flying about in leicester. swift, in noticing them, tells his correspondent that he values "his own entertainment beyond the obloquy of a parcel of wretched fools," which he "solemnly pronounces" to be a fit description of the inhabitants of leicester. he had, he admits, amused himself with flirtation; but he has learnt enough, "without going half a mile beyond the university," to refrain from thoughts of matrimony. a "cold temper" and the absence of any settled outlook are sufficient dissuasives. another phrase in the same letter is characteristic. "a person of great honour in ireland (who was pleased to stoop so low as to look into my mind) used to tell me that my mind was like a conjured spirit that would do mischief if i did not give it employment." he allowed himself these little liberties, he seems to infer, by way of distraction for his restless nature. but some more serious work was necessary, if he was to win the independence so earnestly desired, and to cease to be a burden upon his mother. where was he to look for help? chapter ii. moor park and kilroot. how was this "conjured spirit" to find occupation? the proverbial occupation of such beings is to cultivate despair by weaving ropes of sand. swift felt himself strong; but he had no task worthy of his strength: nor did he yet know precisely where it lay: he even fancied that it might be in the direction of pindaric odes. hitherto his energy had expended itself in the questionable shape of revolt against constituted authority. but the revolt, whatever its precise nature, had issued in the rooted determination to achieve a genuine independence. the political storm which had for the time crushed the whole social order of ireland into mere chaotic anarchy, had left him an uprooted waif and stray--a loose fragment without any points of attachment, except the little household in leicester. his mother might give him temporary shelter, but no permanent home. if, as is probable, he already looked forward to a clerical career, the church to which he belonged was, for the time, hopelessly ruined, and in danger of being a persecuted sect. in this crisis a refuge was offered to him. sir william temple was connected, in more ways than one, with the swifts. he was the son of sir john temple, master of the rolls in ireland, who had been a friend of godwin swift. temple himself had lived in ireland, in early days, and had known the swift family. his wife was in some way related to swift's mother; and he was now in a position to help the young man. temple is a remarkable figure amongst the statesmen of that generation. there is something more modern about him than belongs to his century. a man of cultivated taste and cosmopolitan training, he had the contempt of enlightened persons for the fanaticisms of his times. he was not the man to suffer persecution, with baxter, for a creed, or even to lose his head, with russell, for a party. yet if he had not the faith which animates enthusiasts, he sincerely held political theories--a fact sufficient to raise him above the thorough-going cynics of the court of the restoration. his sense of honour, or the want of robustness in mind and temperament, kept him aloof from the desperate game in which the politicians of the day staked their lives, and threw away their consciences as an incumbrance. good fortune threw him into the comparatively safe line of diplomacy, for which his natural abilities fitted him. good fortune, aided by discernment, enabled him to identify himself with the most respectable achievements of our foreign policy. he had become famous as the chief author of the triple alliance, and the promoter of the marriage of william and mary. he had ventured far enough into the more troublous element of domestic politics to invent a highly applauded constitutional device for smoothing the relations between the crown and parliament. like other such devices it went to pieces at the first contact with realities. temple retired to cultivate his garden and write elegant memoirs and essays, and refused all entreaties to join again in the rough struggles of the day. associates, made of sterner stuff, probably despised him; but from their own, that is, the selfish point of view, he was perhaps entitled to laugh last. he escaped at least with unblemished honour, and enjoyed the cultivated retirement which statesmen so often profess to desire, and so seldom achieve. in private, he had many estimable qualities. he was frank and sensitive; he had won diplomatic triumphs by disregarding the pedantry of official rules; and he had an equal, though not an equally intelligent, contempt for the pedantry of the schools. his style, though often slipshod, often anticipates the pure and simple english of the addison period, and delighted charles lamb by its delicate flavour of aristocratic assumption. he had the vanity of a "person of quality,"--a lofty, dignified air which became his flowing periwig, and showed itself in his distinguished features. but in youth, a strong vein of romance displayed itself in his courtship of lady temple, and he seems to have been correspondingly worshipped by her, and his sister, lady giffard. the personal friendship of william could not induce temple to return to public life. his only son took office, but soon afterwards killed himself from a morbid sense of responsibility. temple retired finally to moor park, near farnham, in surrey; and about the same time received swift into his family. long afterwards, john temple, sir william's nephew, who had quarrelled with swift, gave an obviously spiteful account of the terms of this engagement. swift, he said, was hired by sir william to read to him and be his amanuensis, at the rate of 20_l._ a year and his board; but "sir william never favoured him with his conversation, nor allowed him to sit down at table with him." the authority is bad, and we must be guided by rather precarious inferences in picturing this important period of swift's career. the raw irish student was probably awkward, and may have been disagreeable in some matters. forty years later, we find from his correspondence with gay and the duchess of queensberry, that his views as to the distribution of functions between knives and forks were lamentably unsettled; and it is probable that he may in his youth have been still more heretical as to social conventions. there were more serious difficulties. the difference which separated swift from temple is not easily measurable. how can we exaggerate the distance at which a lad, fresh from college and a remote provincial society, would look up to the distinguished diplomatist of sixty, who had been intimate with the two last kings, and was still the confidential friend of the reigning king, who had been an actor in the greatest scenes, not only of english, but of european history, who had been treated with respect by the ministers of louis xiv., and in whose honour bells had been rung, and banquets set forth as he passed through the great continental cities? temple might have spoken to him, without shocking proprieties, in terms which, if i may quote the proverbial phrase, would be offensive "from god almighty to a blackbeetle." shall i believe a spirit so divine was cast in the same mould with mine? is swift's phrase about temple, in one of his first crude poems. we must not infer that circumstances which would now be offensive to an educated man--the seat at the second table, the predestined congeniality to the ladies'-maid of doubtful reputation--would have been equally offensive then. so long as dependence upon patrons was a regular incident of the career of a poor scholar, the corresponding regulations would be taken as a matter of course. swift was not necessarily more degraded by being a dependent of temple's than locke by a similar position in shaftesbury's family. but it is true that such a position must always be trying, as many a governess has felt in more modern days. the position of the educated dependent must always have had its specific annoyances. at this period, when the relation of patron and client was being rapidly modified or destroyed, the compact would be more than usually trying to the power of forbearance and mutual kindliness of the parties concerned. the relation between sir roger de coverley and the old college friend who became his chaplain meant good feeling on both sides. when poor parson supple became chaplain to squire western, and was liable to be sent back from london to basingstoke in search of a forgotten tobacco-box, supple must have parted with all self-respect. swift has incidentally given his own view of the case in his _essay on the fates of clergymen_. it is an application of one of his favourite doctrines--the advantage possessed by mediocrity over genius in a world so largely composed of fools. eugenio, who represents jonathan swift, fails in life because as a wit and a poet he has not the art of winning patronage. corusodes, in whom we have a partial likeness to tom swift, jonathan's college contemporary, and afterwards the chaplain of temple, succeeds by servile respectability. _he_ never neglected chapel, or lectures: _he_ never looked into a poem: never made a jest himself, or laughed at the jests of others: but he managed to insinuate himself into the favour of the noble family where his sister was a waiting-woman; shook hands with the butler, taught the page his catechism; was sometimes admitted to dine at the steward's table; was admitted to read prayers, at ten shillings a month: and, by winking at his patron's attentions to his sister, gradually crept into better appointments, married a citizen's widow, and is now fast mounting towards the top of the ladder ecclesiastical. temple was not the man to demand or reward services so base as those attributed to corusodes. nor does it seem that he would be wanting in the self-respect which prescribes due courtesy to inferiors, though it admits of a strict regard for the ceremonial outworks of social dignity. he would probably neither permit others to take liberties nor take them himself. if swift's self-esteem suffered, it would not be that he objected to offering up the conventional incense, but that he might possibly think that, after all, the idol was made of rather inferior clay. temple, whatever his solid merits, was one of the showiest statesmen of the time; but there was no man living with a keener eye for realities and a more piercing insight into shams of all kinds than his raw secretary from ireland. in later life swift frequently expressed his scorn for the mysteries and the "refinements" (to use his favourite phrase) by which the great men of the world conceal the low passions and small wisdom actually exerted in affairs of state. at times he felt that temple was not merely claiming the outward show of respect, but setting too high a value upon his real merits. so when swift was at the full flood of fortune, when prime ministers and secretaries of state were calling him jonathan, or listening submissively to his lectures on "whipping-day," he reverts to his early experience. "i often think," he says, when speaking of his own familiarity with st. john, "what a splutter sir william temple makes about being secretary of state." and this is a less respectful version of a sentiment expressed a year before, "i am thinking what a veneration we had for sir w. temple because he might have been secretary of state at fifty, and here is a young fellow hardly thirty in that employment." in the interval there is another characteristic outburst. "i asked mr. secretary (st. john) what the devil ailed him on sunday," and warned him "that i would never be treated like a schoolboy; that i had felt too much of that in my life already (meaning sir w. temple); that i expected every great minister who honoured me with his acquaintance, if he heard and saw anything to my disadvantage, would let me know in plain words, and not put me in pain to guess by the change or coldness of his countenance and behaviour." the day after this effusion, he maintains that he was right in what he said. "don't you remember how i used to be in pain when sir w. temple would look cold and out of humour for three or four days, and i used to suspect a hundred reasons? i have plucked up my spirits since then; faith, he spoiled a fine gentleman." and yet, if swift sometimes thought temple's authority oppressive, he was ready to admit his substantial merits. temple, he says, in his rough marginalia to burnet's _history_, "was a man of sense and virtue;" and the impromptu utterance probably reflects his real feeling. the year after his first arrival at temple's, swift went back to ireland by advice of physicians, who "weakly imagined that his native air might be of some use to recover his health." it was at this period, we may note in passing, that swift began to suffer from a disease which tormented him through life. temple sent with him a letter of introduction to sir robert southwell, secretary of state in ireland, which gives an interesting account of their previous relations. swift, said temple, had lived in his house, read for him, written for him, and kept his small accounts. he knew latin and greek, and a little french; wrote a good hand, and was honest and diligent. his whole family had long been known to temple, who would be glad if southwell would give him a clerkship, or get him a fellowship in trinity college. the statement of swift's qualifications has now a rather comic sound. an applicant for a desk in a merchant's office once commended himself, it is said, by the statement that his style of writing combined scathing sarcasm with the wildest flights of humour. swift might have had a better claim to a place for which such qualities were a recommendation; but there is no reason beyond the supposed agreement of fools to regard genius as a disadvantage in practical life, to suppose that swift was deficient in humbler attainments. before long, however, he was back at moor park; and a period followed in which his discontent with the position probably reached its height. temple, indeed, must have discovered that his young dependent was really a man of capacity. he recommended him to william. in 1692 swift went to oxford, to be admitted _ad eundem_, and received the m.a. degree; and swift, writing to thank his uncle for obtaining the necessary testimonials from dublin, adds that he has been most civilly received at oxford, on the strength, presumably, of temple's recommendation, and that he is not to take orders till the king gives him a prebend. he suspects temple, however, of being rather backward in the matter, "because (i suppose) he believes i shall leave him, and (upon some accounts) he thinks me a little necessary to him." william, it is said, was so far gracious as to offer to make swift a captain of horse, and instruct him in the dutch mode of cutting asparagus. by this last phrase hangs an anecdote of later days. faulkner, the dublin printer, was dining with swift, and on asking for a second supply of asparagus, was told by the dean to finish what he had on his plate. "what, sir, eat my stalks!" "ay, sir; king william always ate his stalks." "and were you," asked faulkner's hearer when he related the story, "were you blockhead enough to obey him?" "yes," replied faulkner, "and if you had dined with dean swift _tãªte-ã -tãªte_ you would have been obliged to eat your stalks too!" for the present swift was the recipient not the imposer of stalks; and was to receive the first shock, as he tells us, that helped to cure him of his vanity. the question of the triennial bill was agitating political personages in the early months of 1693. william and his favourite minister, the earl of portland, found their dutch experience insufficient to guide them in the mysteries of english constitutionalism. portland came down to consult temple at moor park; and swift was sent back to explain to the great men that charles i. had been ruined not by consenting to short parliaments, but by abandoning the right to dissolve parliament. swift says that he was "well versed in english history, though he was under twenty-one years old." (he was really twenty-five, but memory naturally exaggerated his youthfulness). his arguments, however backed by history, failed to carry conviction, and swift had to unlearn some of the youthful confidence which assumes that reason is the governing force in this world, and that reason means our own opinions. that so young a man should have been employed on such an errand, shows that temple must have had a good opinion of his capacities; but his want of success, however natural, was felt as a grave discouragement. that his discontent was growing is clear from other indications. swift's early poems, whatever their defects, have one merit common to all his writings--the merit of a thorough, sometimes an appalling, sincerity. two poems which begin to display his real vigour are dated at the end of 1693. one is an epistle to his schoolfellow, congreve, expatiating, as some consolation for the cold reception of the _double dealer_, upon the contemptible nature of town critics. swift describes, as a type of the whole race, a farnham lad who had left school a year before, and had just returned a "finished spark" from london. stock'd with the latest gibberish of the town, this wretched little fop came in an evil hour to provoke swift's hate,- my hate, whose lash just heaven has long decreed shall on a day make sin and folly bleed. and he already applies it with vigour enough to show that with some of the satirist's power he has also the indispensable condition of a considerable accumulation of indignant wrath against the self-appointed arbiters of taste. the other poem is more remarkable in its personal revelation. it begins as a congratulation to temple on his recovery from an illness. it passes into a description of his own fate, marked by singular bitterness. he addresses his muse as- malignant goddess! bane to my repose, thou universal cause of all my woes. she is, it seems, a mere delusive meteor, with no real being of her own. but, if real, why does she persecute him? wert thou right woman, thou should'st scorn to look on an abandon'd wretch by hopes forsook: forsook by hopes, ill fortune's last relief, assign'd for life to unremitting grief; for let heaven's wrath enlarge these weary days if hope e'er dawns the smallest of its rays. and he goes on to declare after some vigorous lines, to thee i owe that fatal bent of mind, still to unhappy restless thoughts inclined: to thee what oft i vainly strive to hide, that scorn of fools, by fools mistook for pride; from thee whatever virtue takes its rise, grows a misfortune, or becomes a vice. the sudden gush as of bitter waters into the dulcet, insipid current of conventional congratulation, gives additional point to the sentiment. swift expands the last couplet into a sentiment which remained with him through life. it is a blending of pride and remorse; a regretful admission of the loftiness of spirit which has caused his misfortunes; and we are puzzled to say whether the pride or the remorse be the most genuine. for swift always unites pride and remorse in his consciousness of his own virtues. the "restlessness" avowed in these verses took the practical form of a rupture with temple. in his autobiographical fragment he says that he had a scruple of entering into the church merely for support, and sir william, then being master of the rolls in ireland,[6] offered him an employ of about 120_l._ a year in that office; whereupon mr. swift told him that since he had now an opportunity of living without being driven into the church for a maintenance, he was resolved to go to ireland and take holy orders. if the scruple seems rather finely spun for swift, the sense of the dignity of his profession is thoroughly characteristic. nothing, however, is more deceptive than our memory of the motives which directed distant actions. in his contemporary letters there is no hint of any scruple against preferment in the church, but a decided objection to insufficient preferment. it is possible that swift was confusing dates, and that the scruple was quieted when he failed to take advantage of temple's interest with southwell. having declined, he felt that he had made a free choice of a clerical career. in 1692, as we have seen, he expected a prebend from temple's influence with william. but his doubts of temple's desire or power to serve him were confirmed. in june, 1694, he tells a cousin at lisbon, "i have left sir w. temple a month ago, just as i foretold it you; and everything happened exactly as i guessed. he was extremely angry i left him; and yet would not oblige himself any further than upon my good behaviour, nor would promise anything firmly to me at all; so that everybody judged i did best to leave him." he is starting in four days for dublin, and intends to be ordained in september. the next letter preserved completes the story, and implies a painful change in this cavalier tone of injured pride. upon going to dublin, swift had found that some recommendation from temple would be required by the authorities. he tried to evade the requirement, but was forced at last to write a letter to temple, which nothing but necessity could have extorted. after explaining the case, he adds, "the particulars expected of me are what relates to morals and learning, and the reasons of quitting your honour's family, that is whether the last was occasioned by any ill actions. they are all left entirely to your honour's mercy, though in the past i think i cannot reproach myself any farther than for _infirmities_. this," he adds, "is all i dare beg at present from your honour, under circumstances of life not worth your regard;" and all that is left him to wish ("next to the health and prosperity of your honour's family") is that heaven will show him some day the opportunity of making his acknowledgments at "your honour's" feet. this seems to be the only occasion on which we find swift confessing to any fault except that of being too virtuous. the apparent doubt of temple's magnanimity implied in the letter was happily not verified. the testimonial seems to have been sent at once. swift, in any case, was ordained deacon on the 28th of october, 1694, and priest on the 15th of january, 1695. probably swift felt that temple had behaved with magnanimity, and in any case it was not very long before he returned to moor park. he had received from lord capel, then lord deputy, the small prebend of kilroot, worth about 100_l._ a year. little is known of his life as a remote country clergyman, except that he very soon became tired of it.[7] swift soon resigned his prebend (in march, 1698) and managed to obtain the succession for a friend in the neighbourhood. but before this (in may, 1696) he had returned to moor park. he had grown weary of a life in a remote district, and temple had raised his offers. he was glad to be once more on the edge at least of the great world in which alone could be found employment worthy of his talents. one other incident, indeed, of which a fuller account would be interesting, is connected with this departure. on the eve of his departure, he wrote a passionate letter to "varina," in plain english miss waring, sister of an old college chum. he "solemnly offers to forego all" (all his english prospects, that is) "for her sake." he does not want her fortune; she shall live where she pleases; till he has "pushed his advancement" and is in a position to marry her. the letter is full of true lovers' protestations; reproaches for her coldness; hints at possible causes of jealousies; declarations of the worthlessness of ambition as compared with love; and denunciations of her respect for the little disguises and affected contradictions of her sex, infinitely beneath persons of her pride and his own; paltry maxims calculated only for the "rabble of humanity." "by heaven, varina," he exclaims, "you are more experienced, and have less virgin innocence than i." the answer must have been unsatisfactory; though from expressions in a letter to his successor to the prebend, we see that the affair was still going on in 1699. it will come to light once more. swift was thus at moor park in the summer of 1696. he remained till temple's death in january, 1699. we hear no more of any friction between swift and his patron; and it seems that the last years of their connexion passed in harmony. temple was growing old; his wife, after forty years of a happy marriage, had died during swift's absence in the beginning of 1695; and temple, though he seems to have been vigorous, and in spite of gout a brisk walker, was approaching the grave. he occupied himself in preparing, with swift's help, memoirs and letters, which were left to swift for posthumous publication. swift's various irritations at moor park have naturally left a stronger impression upon his history than the quieter hours in which worry and anxiety might be forgotten in the placid occupations of a country life. that swift enjoyed many such hours is tolerably clear. moor park is described by a swiss traveller who visited it about 1691,[8] as the "model of an agreeable retreat." temple's household was free from the coarse convivialities of the boozing fox-hunting squires; whilst the recollection of its modest neatness made the "magnificent palace" of petworth seem pompous and overpowering. swift himself remembered the moor park gardens, the special pride of temple's retirement, with affection, and tried to imitate them on a small scale in his own garden at laracor. moor park is on the edge of the great heaths which stretch southward to hindhead, and northwards to aldershot and chobham ridges. though we can scarcely credit him with a modern taste in scenery, he at least anticipated the modern faith in athletic exercises. according to deane swift, he used to run up a hill near temple's and back again to his study every two hours, doing the distance of half a mile in six minutes. in later life he preached the duty of walking with admirable perseverance to his friends. he joined other exercises occasionally. "my lord," he says to archbishop king in 1721, "i row after health like a waterman, and ride after it like a postboy, and with some little success." but he had the characteristic passion of the good and wise for walking. he mentions incidentally a walk from farnham to london, thirty-eight miles; and has some association with the golden farmer[9]--a point on the road from which there is still one of the loveliest views in the southern counties, across undulating breadths of heath and meadow, woodland and down, to windsor forest, st. george's hill, and the chalk range from guildford to epsom. perhaps he might have been a mountaineer in more civilized times; his poem on the carberry rocks seems to indicate a lover of such scenery; and he ventured so near the edge of the cliff upon his stomach, that his servants had to drag him back by his heels. we find him proposing to walk to chester at the rate, i regret to say, of only ten miles a day. in such rambles, we are told, he used to put up at wayside inns, where "lodgings for a penny" were advertised; bribing the maid with a tester to give him clean sheets and a bed to himself. the love of the rough humour of waggoners and hostlers is supposed to have been his inducement to this practice; and the refined orrery associates his coarseness with this lamentable practice; but amidst the roar of railways we may think more tolerantly of the humours of the road in the good old days, when each village had its humours and traditions and quaint legends, and when homely maxims of unlettered wisdom were to be picked up at rustic firesides. recreations of this kind were a relief to serious study. in temple's library swift found abundant occupation. "i am often," he says, in the first period of his residence, "two or three months without seeing anybody besides the family." in a later fragment, we find him living alone "in great state," the cook coming for his orders for dinner, and the revolutions in the kingdom of the rooks amusing his leisure. the results of his studies will be considered directly. a list of books read in 1697 gives some hint of their general nature. they are chiefly classical and historical. he read virgil, homer, horace, lucretius, cicero's _epistles_, petronius arbiter, ã�lian, lucius florus, herbert's _henry viii._, sleidan's _commentaries, council of trent_, camden's _elizabeth_, burnet's _history of the reformation_, voiture, blackmore's _prince arthur_, sir j. davis's poem of _the soul_, and two or three travels, besides cyprian and irenã¦us. we may note the absence of any theological reading, except in the form of ecclesiastical history; nor does swift study philosophy, of which he seems to have had a sufficient dose in dublin. history seems always to have been his favourite study, and it would naturally have a large part in temple's library. one matter of no small importance to swift remains to be mentioned. temple's family included other dependents besides swift. the "little parson cousin," tom swift, whom his great relation always mentions with contempt, became chaplain to temple. jonathan's sister was for some time at moor park. but the inmates of the family most interesting to us were a rebecca dingley--who was in some way related to the family--and esther johnson. esther johnson was the daughter of a merchant of respectable family who died young. her mother was known to lady giffard, temple's attached sister; and after her widowhood, went with her two daughters to live with the temples. mrs. johnson lived as servant or companion to lady giffard for many years after temple's death; and little esther, a remarkably bright and pretty child, was brought up in the family, and received under temple's will a sufficient legacy for her support. it was of course guessed by a charitable world that she was a natural child of sir william's; but there seems to be no real ground for the hypothesis.[10] she was born, as swift tells us, on march 13th, 1681; and was therefore a little over eight when swift first came to temple, and fifteen when he returned from kilroot.[11] about this age, he tells us, she got over an infantile delicacy, "grew into perfect health, and was looked upon as one of the most beautiful, graceful, and agreeable young women in london. her hair was blacker than a raven, and every feature of her face in perfection." her conduct and character were equally remarkable, if we may trust the tutor who taught her to write, guided her education, and came to regard her with an affection which was at once the happiness and the misery of his life. temple died january 26, 1699; and "with him," said swift at the time, "all that was good and amiable among men." the feeling was doubtless sincere, though swift, when moved very deeply, used less conventional phrases. he was thrown once more upon the world. the expectations of some settlement in life had not been realized. temple had left him 100_l._, the advantage of publishing his posthumous works, which might ultimately bring in 200_l._ more, and a promise of preferment from the king. swift had lived long enough upon the "chameleon's food." his energies were still running to waste; and he suffered the misery of a weakness due, not to want of power but want of opportunity. his sister writes to a cousin that her brother had lost his best friend, who had induced him to give up his irish preferment by promising preferment in england, and had died before the promise had been fulfilled. swift was accused of ingratitude by lord palmerston, temple's nephew, some thirty-five years later. in reply, he acknowledged an obligation to temple for the recommendation to william and the legacy of his papers; but he adds, "i hope you will not charge my living in his family as an obligation; for i was educated to little purpose if i retired to his house for any other motives than the benefit of his conversation and advice, and the opportunity of pursuing my studies. for, being born to no fortune, i was at his death as far to seek as ever; and perhaps you will allow that i was of some use to him." swift seems here to assume that his motives for living with temple are necessarily to be estimated by the results which he obtained. but if he expected more than he got, he does not suggest any want of goodwill. temple had done his best; william's neglect and temple's death had made goodwill fruitless. the two might cry quits; and swift set to work, not exactly with a sense of injury, but probably with a strong feeling that a large portion of his life had been wasted. to swift, indeed, misfortune and injury seem equally to have meant resentment, whether against the fates or some personal object. one curious document must be noted before considering the writings which most fully reveal the state of swift's mind. in the year 1699 he wrote down some resolutions, headed "when i come to be old." they are for the most part pithy and sensible, if it can ever be sensible to make resolutions for behaviour in a distant future. swift resolves not to marry a young woman, not to keep young company unless they desire it, not to repeat stories, not to listen to knavish, tattling servants, not to be too free of advice, not to brag of former beauty and favour with ladies, to desire some good friends to inform him when he breaks these resolutions and to reform accordingly; and finally, not to set up for observing all these rules for fear he should observe none. these resolutions are not very original in substance (few resolutions are), though they suggest some keen observation of his elders; but one is more remarkable. "not to be fond of children, _or let them come near me hardly_." the words in italics are blotted out by a later possessor of the paper, shocked doubtless at the harshness of the sentiment. "we do not fortify ourselves with resolutions against what we dislike," says a friendly commentator, "but against what we feel in our weakness we have reason to believe we are really too much inclined to." yet it is strange that a man should regard the purest and kindliest of feelings as a weakness to which he is too much inclined. no man had stronger affections than swift; no man suffered more agony when they were wounded; but in his agony he would commit what to most men would seem the treason of cursing the affections instead of simply lamenting the injury, or holding the affection itself to be its own sufficient reward. the intense personality of the man reveals itself alternately at selfishness and as "altruism." he grappled to his heart those whom he really loved "as with hoops of steel;" so firmly that they became a part of himself; and that he considered himself at liberty to regard his love of friends as he might regard a love of wine, as something to be regretted when it was too strong for his own happiness. the attraction was intense; but implied the absorption of the weaker nature into his own. his friendships were rather annexations than alliances. the strongest instance of this characteristic was in his relations to the charming girl, who must have been in his mind when he wrote this strange, and unconsciously prophetic, resolution. chapter iii. early writings. swift came to temple's house as a raw student. he left it as the author of one of the most remarkable satires ever written. his first efforts had been unpromising enough. certain _pindaric odes_, in which the youthful aspirant imitated the still popular model of cowley, are even comically prosaic. the last of them, dated 1691, is addressed to a queer athenian society, promoted by a john dunton, a speculative bookseller, whose _life and errors_ is still worth a glance from the curious. the athenian society was the name of john dunton himself, and two or three collaborators who professed in the _athenian mercury_ to answer queries ranging over the whole field of human knowledge. temple was one of their patrons, and swift sent them a panegyrical ode, the merits of which are sufficiently summed up by dryden's pithy criticism--"cousin swift, you will never be a poet." swift disliked and abused dryden ever afterwards, though he may have had better reasons for his enmity than the child's dislike to bitter medicine. later poems, the _epistle to congreve_ and that to temple already quoted, show symptoms of growing power and a clearer self-recognition. in swift's last residence with temple, he proved unmistakably that he had learnt the secret often so slowly revealed to great writers, the secret of his real strength. the _tale of a tub_ was written about 1696; part of it appears to have been seen at kilroot by his friend, waring, varina's brother; the _battle of the books_ was written in 1697. it is a curious proof of swift's indifference to a literary reputation that both works remained in manuscript till 1704. the "little parson cousin" tom swift, ventured some kind of claim to a share in the authorship of the _tale of a tub_. swift treated this claim with the utmost contempt, but never explicitly claimed for himself the authorship of what some readers hold to be his most powerful work. the _battle of the books_, to which we may first attend, sprang out of the famous controversy as to the relative merits of the ancients and moderns, which began in france with perrault and fontenelle; which had been set going in england by sir w. temple's essay upon ancient and modern learning (1692), and which incidentally led to the warfare between bentley and wotton on one side, and boyle and his oxford allies on the other. a full account of this celebrated discussion may be found in professor jebb's _bentley_; and, as swift only took the part of a light skirmisher, nothing more need be said of it in this place. one point alone is worth notice. the eagerness of the discussion is characteristic of a time at which the modern spirit was victoriously revolting against the ancient canons of taste and philosophy. at first sight, we might therefore expect the defenders of antiquity to be on the side of authority. in fact, however, the argument, as swift takes it from temple, is reversed. temple's theory, so far as he had any consistent theory, is indicated in the statement that the moderns gathered "all their learning from books in the universities." learning, he suggests, may weaken invention; and people who trust to the charity of others will always be poor. swift accepts and enforces this doctrine. the _battle of the books_ is an expression of that contempt for pedants which he had learnt in dublin, and which is expressed in the ode to the athenian society. philosophy, he tells us in that precious production, "seems to have borrowed some ungrateful taste of doubts, impertinence, and niceties from every age through which it passed" (this, i may observe, is verse), and is now a "medley of all ages," "her face patched over with modern pedantry." the moral finds a more poetical embodiment in the famous apologue of the bee and the spider in the _battle of the books_. the bee had got itself entangled in the spider's web in the library, whilst the books were beginning to wrangle. the two have a sharp dispute, which is summed up by ã�sop as arbitrator. the spider represents the moderns who spin their scholastic pedantry out of their own insides; whilst the bee, like the ancients, goes direct to nature. the moderns produce nothing but "wrangling and satire, much of a nature with the spider's poison, which however they pretend to spit wholly out of themselves is improved by the same arts, by feeding upon the insects and vermin of the age." we, the ancients, "profess to nothing of our own, beyond our wings and our voice: that is to say, our flights and our language. for the rest, whatever we have got has been by infinite labour and research, and ranging through every corner of nature; the difference is that, instead of dirt and poison, we have rather chosen to fill our hives with honey and wax, thus furnishing mankind with the two noblest of things, which are sweetness and light." the homeric battle which follows is described with infinite spirit. pallas is the patron of the ancients whilst momus undertakes the cause of the moderns, and appeals for help to the malignant deity criticism, who is found in her den at the top of a snowy mountain, extended upon the spoils of numberless half-devoured volumes. by her, as she exclaims in the regulation soliloquy, children become wiser than their parents, beaux become politicians, and schoolboys judges of philosophy. she flies to her darling wotton, gathering up her person into an octavo compass; her body grows white and arid and splits in pieces with dryness; a concoction of gall and soot is strewn in the shape of letters upon her person; and so she joins the moderns, "undistinguishable in shape and dress from the divine bentley, wotton's dearest friend." it is needless to follow the fortunes of the fight which follows; it is enough to observe that virgil is encountered by his translator dryden in a helmet "nine times too large for the head, which appeared situate far in the hinder part, even like the lady in the lobster, or like a mouse under a canopy of state, or like a shrivelled beau within the penthouse of a modern periwig, and the voice was suited to the visage, sounding weak and remote;" and that the book is concluded by an episode, in which bentley and wotton try a diversion and steal the armour of phalaris and ã�sop, but are met by boyle, clad in a suit of armour given him by all the gods, who transfixes them on his spear like a brace of woodcocks on an iron skewer. the raillery, if taken in its critical aspect, recoils upon the author. dryden hardly deserves the scorn of virgil; and bentley, as we know, made short work of phalaris and boyle. but swift probably knew and cared little for the merits of the controversy. he expresses his contempt with characteristic vigour and coarseness; and our pleasure in his display of exuberant satirical power is not injured by his obvious misconception of the merits of the case. the unflagging spirit of the writing, the fertility and ingenuity of the illustrations, do as much as can be done to give lasting vitality to what is radically (to my taste at least) a rather dreary form of wit. the _battle of the books_ is the best of the travesties. nor in the brilliant assault upon great names do we at present see anything more than the buoyant consciousness of power, common in the unsparing judgments of youth, nor edged as yet by any real bitterness. swift has found out that the world is full of humbugs; and goes forth hewing and hacking with super-abundant energy, not yet aware that he too may conceivably be a fallible being, and still less that the humbugs may some day prove too strong for him. the same qualities are more conspicuous in the far greater satire the _tale of a tub_. it is so striking a performance that johnson, who cherished one of his stubborn prejudices against swift, doubted whether swift could have written it. "there is in it," he said, "such a vigour of mind, such a swarm of thoughts, so much of nature, and art, and life." the doubt is clearly without the least foundation, and the estimate upon which it is based is generally disputed. the _tale of a tub_ has certainly not achieved a reputation equal to that of _gulliver's travels_, to the merits of which johnson was curiously blind. yet i think that there is this much to be said in favour of johnson's theory, namely, that swift's style reaches its highest point in the earlier work. there is less flagging; a greater fulness and pressure of energetic thought; a power of hitting the nail on the head at the first blow, which has declined in the work of his maturer years, when life was weary and thought intermittent. swift seems to have felt this himself. in the twilight of his intellect, he was seen turning over the pages and murmuring to himself, "good god, what a genius i had when i wrote that book!" in an apology (dated 1709) he makes a statement which may help to explain this fact. "the author," he says, "was then (1696) young, his invention at the height, and his reading fresh in his head. by the assistance of some thinking and much conversation, he had endeavoured to strip himself of as many prejudices as he could." he resolved, as he adds, "to proceed in a manner entirely new;" and he afterwards claims in the most positive terms that through the whole book (including both the tale and the battle of the books) he has not borrowed one "single hint from any writer in the world."[12] no writer has ever been more thoroughly original than swift, for his writings are simply himself. the _tale of a tub_ is another challenge thrown down to pretentious pedantry. the vigorous, self-confident intellect has found out the emptiness and absurdity of a number of the solemn formul㦠which pass current in the world, and tears them to pieces with audacious and rejoicing energy. he makes a mock of the paper chains with which solemn professors tried to fetter his activity, and scatters the fragments to the four winds of heaven. in one of the first sections he announces the philosophy afterwards expounded by herr teufelsdrã¶ckh, according to which "man himself is but a micro-coat;" if one of the suits of clothes called animals "be trimmed up with a gold chain, and a red gown, and a white rod, and a pert look, it is called a lord mayor; if certain ermines and furs be placed in a certain position, we style them a judge; and so an apt conjunction of lawn and black satin we entitle a bishop." though swift does not himself develop this philosophical doctrine, its later form reflects light upon the earlier theory. for, in truth, swift's teaching comes to this, that the solemn plausibilities of the world are but so many "shams"--elaborate masks used to disguise the passions, for the most part base and earthly, by which mankind is really impelled. the "digressions" which he introduces with the privilege of a humorist, bear chiefly upon the literary sham. he falls foul of the whole population of grub street at starting, and (as i may note in passing) incidentally gives a curious hint of his authorship. he describes himself as a worn-out pamphleteer who has worn his quill to the pith in the service of the state. "fourscore and eleven pamphlets have i writ under the reigns and for the service of six-and-thirty patrons." porson first noticed that the same numbers are repeated in _gulliver's travels_; gulliver is fastened with "fourscore and eleven chains" locked to his left leg "with six-and-thirty padlocks." swift makes the usual onslaught of a young author upon the critics, with more than the usual vigour, and carries on the war against bentley and his ally by parodying wotton's remarks upon the ancients. he has discovered many omissions in homer; "who seems to have read but very superficially either sendivogus, behmen, or _anthroposophia magia_."[13] homer, too, never mentions a saveall; and has a still worse fault--his "gross ignorance in the common laws of this realm, and in the doctrine as well as discipline of the church of england"--defects, indeed, for which he has been justly censured by wotton. perhaps the most vigorous and certainly the most striking of these digressions, is that upon "the original use and improvement of madness in a commonwealth." just in passing, as it were, swift gives the pith of a whole system of misanthropy, though he as yet seems to be rather indulging a play of fancy, than expressing a settled conviction. happiness, he says, is a "perpetual possession of being well deceived." the wisdom which keeps on the surface is better than that which persists in officiously prying into the underlying reality. "last week i saw a woman flayed," he observes, "and you will hardly believe how much it altered her person for the worse." it is best to be content with patching up the outside, and so assuring the "serene, peaceful state"--the sublimest point of felicity--"of being a fool amongst knaves." he goes on to tell us how useful madmen may be made: how curtius may be regarded equally as a madman and a hero for his leap into the gulf; how the raging, blaspheming, noisy inmate of bedlam is fit to have a regiment of dragoons; and the bustling, sputtering, bawling madman should be sent to westminster hall; and the solemn madman, dreaming dreams and seeing best in the dark, to preside over a congregation of dissenters; and how elsewhere you may find the raw material of the merchant, the courtier, or the monarch. we are all madmen, and happy so far as mad: delusion and peace of mind go together; and the more truth we know, the more shall we recognize that realities are hideous. swift only plays with his paradoxes. he laughs without troubling himself to decide whether his irony tells against the theories which he ostensibly espouses, or those which he ostensibly attacks. but he has only to adopt in seriousness the fancy with which he is dallying, in order to graduate as a finished pessimist. these, however, are interruptions to the main thread of the book, which is a daring assault upon that serious kind of pedantry which utters itself in theological systems. the three brothers, peter, martin, and jack, represent, as we all know, the roman catholic, the anglican, and the puritanical varieties of christianity. they start with a new coat provided for each by their father, and a will to explain the right mode of wearing it; and after some years of faithful observance, they fall in love with the three ladies of wealth, ambition, and pride, get into terribly bad ways and make wild work of the coats and the will. they excuse themselves for wearing shoulder-knots by picking the separate letters s, h, and so forth, out of separate words in the will, and as k is wanting, discover it to be synonymous with c. they reconcile themselves to gold lace by remembering that when they were boys they heard a fellow say that he had heard their father's man say that he would advise his sons to get gold lace when they had money enough to buy it. then, as the will becomes troublesome in spite of exegetical ingenuity, the eldest brother finds a convenient codicil which can be tacked to it, and will sanction a new fashion of flame-coloured satin. the will expressly forbids silver fringe on the coats; but they discover that the word meaning silver fringe may also signify a broomstick. and by such devices they go on merrily for a time, till peter sets up to be the sole heir and insists upon the obedience of his brethren. his performances in this position are trying to their temper. "whenever it happened that any rogue of newgate was condemned to be hanged, peter would offer him a pardon for a certain sum of money; which when the poor caitiff had made all shifts to scrape up and send, his lordship would return a piece of paper in this form. "'to all mayors, sheriffs, jailors, constables, bailiffs, hangmen, &c. whereas we are informed that a. b. remains in the hands of you or some of you, under the sentence of death: we will and command you, upon sight hereof to let the said prisoner depart to his own habitation whether he stands condemned for murder, &c., &c., for which this shall be your sufficient warrant; and if you fail hereof, god damn you and yours to all eternity; and so we bid you heartily farewell. your most humble man's man, emperor peter.' "the wretches, trusting to this, lost their lives and their money too." peter, however, became outrageously proud. he has been seen to take "three old high-crowned hats and clap them all on his head three-storey high, with a huge bunch of keys at his girdle, and an angling-rod in his hand. in which guise, whoever went to take him by the hand in the way of salutation, peter, with much grace, like a well-educated spaniel, would present them with his foot; and if they refused his civility, then he would raise it as high as their chops, and give him a damned kick on the mouth, which has ever since been called a salute." peter receives his brothers at dinner, and has nothing served up but a brown loaf. come, he says, "fall on and spare not; here is excellent good mutton," and he helps them each to a shoe. the brothers remonstrate, and try to point out that they see only bread. they argue for some time, but have to give in to a conclusive argument. "'look ye, gentlemen,' cries peter in a rage, 'to convince you what a couple of blind, positive, ignorant, wilful puppies you are, i will use but this simple argument. by g-it is true, good, natural mutton as any in leadenhall market; and g-confound you both eternally, if you offer to believe otherwise.' such a thundering proof as this left no further room for objection; the two unbelievers began to gather and pocket up their mistake as hastily as they could," and have to admit besides that another large dry crust is true juice of the grape. the brothers jack and martin afterwards fall out: and jack is treated to a storm of ridicule much in the same vein as that directed against peter; and, if less pointed, certainly not less expressive of contempt. i need not further follow the details of what johnson calls this "wild book," which is in every page brimful of intense satirical power. i must however say a few words upon a matter which is of great importance in forming a clear judgment of swift's character. the _tale of a tub_ was universally attributed to swift, and led to many doubts of his orthodoxy and even of his christianity. sharpe, archbishop of york, injured swift's chances of preferment by insinuating such doubts to queen anne. swift bitterly resented the imputation. he prefixed an apology to a later edition, in which he admitted that he had said some rash things; but declared that he would forfeit his life if any one opinion contrary to morality or religion could be fairly deduced from the book. he pointed out that he had attacked no anglican doctrine. his ridicule spares martin, and is pointed at peter and jack. like every satirist who ever wrote, he does not attack the use but the abuse; and as the church of england represents for him the purest embodiment of the truth, an attack upon the abuses of religion meant an attack upon other churches only in so far as they diverged from this model. critics have accepted this apology, and treated poor queen anne and her advisers as representing simply the prudery of the tea-table. the question, to my thinking, does not admit of quite so simple an answer. if, in fact, we ask what is the true object of swift's audacious satire, the answer will depend partly upon our own estimate of the truth. clearly it ridicules "abuses;" but one man's use is another's abuse: and a dogma may appear to us venerable or absurd according to our own creed. one test, however, may be suggested, which may guide our decision. imagine the _tale of a tub_ to be read by bishop butler and by voltaire, who called swift a _rabelais perfectionnã©_. can any one doubt that the believer would be scandalized and the scoffer find himself in a thoroughly congenial element? would not any believer shrink from the use of such weapons even though directed against his enemies? scott urges that the satire was useful to the high church party because, as he says, it is important for any institution in britain (or anywhere else, we may add) to have the laughers on its side. but scott was too sagacious not to indicate the obvious reply. the condition of having the laughers on your side is to be on the side of the laughers. advocates of any serious cause feel that there is a danger in accepting such an alliance. the laughers who join you in ridiculing your enemy, are by no means pledged to refrain from laughing in turn at the laugher. when swift had ridiculed all the catholic and all the puritan dogmas in the most unsparing fashion, could he be sure that the thirty-nine articles would escape scot free? the catholic theory of a church possessing divine authority, the puritan theory of a divine voice addressing the individual soul, suggested to him, in their concrete embodiments at least, nothing but a horselaugh. could any one be sure that the anglican embodiment of the same theories might not be turned to equal account by the scoffer? was the true bearing of swift's satire in fact limited to the deviations from sound church of england doctrine, or might it not be directed against the very vital principle of the doctrine itself? swift's blindness to such criticisms was thoroughly characteristic. he professes, as we have seen, that he had need to clear his mind of _real_ prejudices. he admits that the process might be pushed too far; that is, that in abandoning a prejudice you may be losing a principle. in fact, the prejudices from which swift had sought to free himself--and no doubt with great success--were the prejudices of other people. for them he felt unlimited contempt. but the prejudice which had grown up in his mind, strengthened with his strength, and become intertwined with all his personal affections and antipathies, was no longer a prejudice in his eyes, but a sacred principle. the intensity of his contempt for the follies of others shut his eyes effectually to any similarity between their tenets and his own. his principles, true or false, were prejudices in the highest degree, if by a prejudice we mean an opinion cherished because it has somehow or other become ours, though the "somehow" may exclude all reference to reason. swift never troubled himself to assign any philosophical basis for his doctrines; having, indeed, a hearty contempt for philosophizing in general. he clung to the doctrines of his church, not because he could give abstract reasons for his belief, but simply because the church happened to be his. it is equally true of all his creeds, political or theological, that he loved them as he loved his friends, simply because they had become a part of himself, and were therefore identified with all his hopes, ambitions, and aspirations public or private. we shall see hereafter how fiercely he attacked the dissenters, and how scornfully he repudiated all arguments founded upon the desirability of union amongst protestants. to a calm outside observer differences might appear to be superficial; but to him, no difference could be other than radical and profound which in fact divided him from an antagonist. in attacking the presbyterians, cried more temperate people, you are attacking your brothers and your own opinions. no, replied swift, i am attacking the corruption of my principles; hideous caricatures of myself; caricatures the more hateful in proportion to their apparent likeness. and therefore, whether in political or theological warfare, he was sublimely unconscious of the possible reaction of his arguments. swift took a characteristic mode of showing that if upon some points he accidentally agreed with the unbeliever, it was not from any covert sympathy. two of his most vigorous pieces of satire in later days are directed against the deists. in 1708 he published an _argument to prove that the abolishing of christianity in england may, as things now stand, be attended with some inconveniences, and perhaps not produce those many good effects proposed thereby_. and in 1713, in the midst of his most eager political warfare, he published _mr. collins's discourse of freethinking, put into plain english, by way of abstract, for use of the poor_. no one who reads these pamphlets can deny that the keenest satire may be directed against infidels as well as against christians. the last is an admirable parody, in which poor collins's arguments are turned against himself with ingenious and provoking irony. the first is perhaps swift's cleverest application of the same method. a nominal religion, he urges gravely, is of some use, for if men cannot be allowed a god to revile or renounce, they will speak evil of dignities, and may even come to "reflect upon the ministry." if christianity were once abolished, the wits would be deprived of their favourite topic. "who would ever have suspected asgil for a wit or toland for a philosopher if the inexhaustible stock of christianity had not been at hand to provide them with materials?" the abolition of christianity moreover may possibly bring the church into danger, for atheists, deists, and socinians have little zeal for the present ecclesiastical establishment; and if they once get rid of christianity, they may aim at setting up presbyterianism. moreover, as long as we keep to any religion, we do not strike at the root of the evil. the freethinkers consider that all the parts hold together, and that if you pull out one nail the whole fabric will fall. which, he says, was happily expressed by one who heard that a text brought in proof of the trinity, was differently read in some ancient manuscript; whereupon he suddenly leaped through a long _sorites_ to the logical conclusion: "why, if it be as you say, i may safely ... drink on and defy the parson." a serious meaning underlies swift's sarcasms. collins had argued in defence of the greatest possible freedom of discussion; and tacitly assumed that such discussion would lead to disbelief of christianity. opponents of the liberal school had answered by claiming his first principle as their own. they argued that religion was based upon reason, and would be strengthened instead of weakened by free inquiry. swift virtually takes a different position. he objects to freethinking because ordinary minds are totally unfit for such inquiries. "the bulk of mankind," as he puts it, is as "well qualified for flying as thinking;" and therefore free-thought would lead to anarchy, atheism, and immorality, as liberty to fly would lead to a breaking of necks. collins rails at priests as tyrants upheld by imposture. swift virtually replies that they are the sole guides to truth and guardians of morality, and that theology should be left to them, as medicine to physicians and law to lawyers. the argument against the abolition of christianity takes the same ground. religion, however little regard is paid to it in practice, is in fact the one great security for a decent degree of social order; and the rash fools who venture to reject what they do not understand, are public enemies as well as ignorant sciolists. the same view is taken in swift's sermons. he said of himself that he could only preach political pamphlets. several of the twelve sermons preserved are in fact directly aimed at some of the political and social grievances which he was habitually denouncing. if not exactly "pamphlets," they are sermons in aid of pamphlets. others are vigorous and sincere moral discourses. one alone deals with a purely theological topic: the doctrine of the trinity. his view is simply that "men of wicked lives would be very glad if there were no truth in christianity at all." they therefore cavil at the mysteries to find some excuse for giving up the whole. he replies in effect that there most be mystery though not contradiction, everywhere, and that if we do not accept humbly what is taught in the scriptures, we must give up christianity, and consequently, as he holds, all moral obligation, at once. the cavil is merely the pretext of an evil conscience. swift's religion thus partook of the directly practical nature of his whole character. he was absolutely indifferent to speculative philosophy. he was even more indifferent to the mystical or imaginative aspects of religion. he loved downright concrete realities, and was not the man to lose himself in an _oh, altitudo!_ or in any train of thought or emotion not directly bearing upon the actual business of the world. though no man had more pride in his order or love of its privileges, swift never emphasized his professional character. he wished to be accepted as a man of the world and of business. he despised the unpractical and visionary type, and the kind of religious utterance congenial to men of that type was abhorrent to him. he shrank invariably too from any display of his emotion, and would have felt the heartiest contempt for the sentimentalism of his day. at once the proudest and most sensitive of men, it was his imperative instinct to hide his emotions as much as possible. in cases of great excitement, he retired into some secluded corner, where, if he was forced to feel, he could be sure of hiding his feelings. he always masks his strongest passions under some ironical veil, and thus practised what his friends regarded as an inverted hypocrisy. delany tells us that he stayed for six months in swift's house, before discovering that the dean always read prayers to his servants at a fixed hour in private. a deep feeling of solemnity showed itself in his manner of performing public religious exercises, but delany, a man of a very different temperament, blames his friend for carrying his reserve in all such matters to extremes. in certain respects swift was ostentatious enough; but this intense dislike to wearing his heart upon his sleeve, to laying bare the secrets of his affections before unsympathetic eyes, is one of his most indelible characteristics. swift could never have felt the slightest sympathy for the kind of preacher who courts applause by a public exhibition of intimate joys and sorrows; and was less afraid of suppressing some genuine emotion than of showing any in the slightest degree unreal. although swift took in the main what may be called the political view of religion, he did not by any means accept that view in its cynical form. he did not, that is, hold, in gibbon's famous phrase, that all religions were equally false and equally useful. his religious instincts were as strong and genuine as they were markedly undemonstrative. he came to take (i am anticipating a little) a gloomy view of the world and of human nature. he had the most settled conviction not only of the misery of human life but of the feebleness of the good elements in the world. the bad and the stupid are the best fitted for life, as we find it. virtue is generally a misfortune; the more we sympathize, the more cause we have for wretchedness; our affections give us the purest kind of happiness, and yet our affections expose us to sufferings which more than outweigh the enjoyments. there is no such thing, he said in his decline, as "a fine old gentleman;" if so and so had had either a mind or a body worth a farthing, "they would have worn him out long ago." that became a typical sentiment with swift. his doctrine was, briefly, that: virtue was the one thing which deserved love and admiration; and yet that virtue in this hideous chaos of a world, involved misery and decay. what would be the logical result of such a creed, i do not presume to say. certainly, we should guess, something more pessimistic or manichã¦an than suits the ordinary interpretation of christian doctrine. but for swift this state of mind carried with it the necessity of clinging to some religious creed: not because the creed held out promises of a better hereafter, for swift was too much absorbed in the present to dwell much upon such beliefs; but rather because it provided him with some sort of fixed convictions in this strange and disastrous muddle. if it did not give a solution in terms intelligible to the human intellect, it encouraged the belief that some solution existed. it justified him to himself for continuing to respect morality, and for going on living, when all the game of life seemed to be decidedly going in favour of the devil, and suicide to be the most reasonable course. at least, it enabled him to associate himself with the causes and principles which he recognized as the most ennobling element in the world's "mad farce;" and to utter himself in formul㦠consecrated by the use of such wise and good beings as had hitherto shown themselves amongst a wretched race. placed in another situation, swift no doubt might have put his creed--to speak after the clothes philosophy--into a different dress. the substance could not have been altered, unless his whole character as well as his particular opinions had been profoundly modified. chapter iv. laracor and london. swift at the age of thirty-one had gained a small amount of cash, and a promise from william. he applied to the king, but the great man in whom he trusted failed to deliver his petition; and, after some delay, he accepted an invitation to become chaplain and secretary to the earl of berkeley, just made one of the lords justices of ireland. he acted as secretary on the journey to ireland: but upon reaching dublin, lord berkeley gave the post to another man, who had persuaded him that it was unfit for a clergyman. swift next claimed the deanery of derry, which soon became vacant. the secretary had been bribed by 1000_l._ from another candidate, upon whom the deanery was bestowed: but swift was told that he might still have the preference for an equal bribe. unable or unwilling to comply, he took leave of berkeley and the secretary, with the pithy remark, "god confound you both for a couple of scoundrels." he was partly pacified, however (february 1700), by the gift of laracor, a village near trim, some twenty miles from dublin. two other small livings, and a prebend in the cathedral of st. patrick, made up a revenue of about 230_l._ a year.[14] the income enabled him to live; but, in spite of the rigid economy which he always practised, did not enable him to save. marriage under such circumstances would have meant the abandonment of an ambitious career. a wife and family would have anchored him to his country parsonage. this may help to explain an unpleasant episode which followed. poor varina had resisted swift's entreaties, on the ground of her own ill-health and swift's want of fortune. she now, it seems, thought that the economical difficulty was removed by swift's preferment, and wished the marriage to take place. swift replied in a letter, which contains all our information: and to which i can apply no other epithet than brutal. some men might feel bound to fulfil a marriage engagement, even when love had grown cold; others might think it better to break it off in the interests of both parties. swift's plan was to offer to fulfil it on conditions so insulting that no one with a grain of self-respect could accept. in his letter he expresses resentment for miss waring's previous treatment of him; he reproaches her bitterly with the company in which she lives--including, as it seems, her mother; no young woman in the world with her income should "dwindle away her health in such a sink and among such family conversation." he explains that he is still poor; he doubts the improvement of her own health; and he then says that if she will submit to be educated so as to be capable of entertaining him: to accept all his likes and dislikes: to soothe his ill-humour, and live cheerfully wherever he pleases: he will take her without inquiring into her looks or her income. "cleanliness in the first, and competency in the other, is all i look for." swift could be the most persistent and ardent of friends. but, when any one tried to enforce claims no longer congenial to his feelings, the appeal to the galling obligation stung him into ferocity, and brought out the most brutal side of his imperious nature. it was in the course of the next year that swift took a step which has sometimes been associated with this. the death of temple had left esther johnson homeless. the small fortune left to her by temple consisted of an irish farm. swift suggested to her that she and her friend mrs. dingley would get better interest for their money, and live more cheaply, in ireland than in england. this change of abode naturally made people talk. the little parson cousin asked (in 1706) whether jonathan had been able to resist the charms of the two ladies who had marched from moor park to dublin "with full resolution to engage him." swift was now (1701) in his thirty-fourth year, and stella a singularly beautiful and attractive girl of twenty. the anomalous connexion was close, and yet most carefully guarded against scandal. in swift's absence, the ladies occupied his apartments at dublin. when he and they were in the same place they took separate lodgings. twice, it seems, they accompanied him on visits to england. but swift never saw esther johnson except in presence of a third person; and he incidentally declares in 1726--near the end of her life--that he had not seen her in a morning "these dozen years, except once or twice in a journey." the relations thus regulated remained unaltered for several years to come. swift's duties at laracor were not excessive. he reckons his congregation at fifteen persons, "most of them gentle and all simple." he gave notice, says orrery, that he would read prayers every wednesday and friday. the congregation on the first wednesday consisted of himself and his clerk, and swift began the service, "dearly beloved roger, the scripture moveth you and me," and so forth. this being attributed to swift, is supposed to be an exquisite piece of facetiousness; but we may hope that, as scott gives us reason to think, it was really one of the drifting jests that stuck for a time to the skirts of the famous humorist. what is certain is, that swift did his best, with narrow means, to improve the living--rebuilt the house, laid out the garden, increased the glebe from one acre to twenty, and endowed the living with tithes bought by himself. he left the tithes on the remarkable condition (suggested probably by his fears of presbyterian ascendancy) that, if another form of christian religion should become the established faith in this kingdom, they should go to the poor--excluding jews, atheists, and infidels. swift became attached to laracor, and the gardens which he planted in humble imitation of moor park; he made friends of some of the neighbours; though he detested trim, where "the people were as great rascals as the gentlemen;" but laracor was rather an occasional retreat than a centre of his interests. during the following years swift was often at the castle at dublin, and passed considerable periods in london, leaving a curate in charge of the minute congregation at laracor. he kept upon friendly terms with successive viceroys. he had, as we have seen, extorted a partial concession of his claims from lord berkeley. for lord berkeley, if we may argue from a very gross lampoon, he can have felt nothing but contempt. but he had a high respect for lady berkeley; and one of the daughters, afterwards lady betty germaine, a very sensible and kindly woman, retained his friendship through life, and in letters written long afterwards refers with evident fondness to the old days of familiarity. he was intimate, again, with the family of the duke of ormond, who became lord lieutenant in 1703, and, again, was the close friend of one of the daughters. he was deeply grieved by her death a few years later, soon after her marriage to lord ashburnham. "i hate life," he says characteristically, "when i think it exposed to such accidents; and to see so many thousand wretches burdening the earth when such as her die, makes me think god did never intend life for a blessing." when lord pembroke succeeded ormond, swift still continued chaplain, and carried on a queer commerce of punning with pembroke. it is the first indication of a habit which lasted, as we shall see, through life. one might be tempted to say, were it not for the conclusive evidence to the contrary, that this love of the most mechanical variety of facetiousness implied an absence of any true sense of humour. swift, indeed, was giving proofs that he possessed a full share of that ambiguous talent. it would be difficult to find a more perfect performance of its kind than the poem by which he amused the berkeley family in 1700. it is the _petition of mrs. frances harris_, a chambermaid, who had lost her purse, and whose peculiar style of language, as well as the unsympathetic comments of her various fellow-servants, are preserved with extraordinary felicity in a peculiar doggerel invented for the purpose by swift. one fancies that the famous mrs. harris of mrs. gamp's reminiscences was a phantasmal descendant of swift's heroine. he lays bare the workings of the menial intellect with the clearness of a master. neither laracor nor dublin could keep swift from london.[15] during the ten years succeeding 1700, he must have passed over four in england. in the last period mentioned he was acting as an agent for the church of ireland. in the others he was attracted by pleasure or ambition. he had already many introductions to london society, through temple, through the irish viceroys, and through congreve, the most famous of then living wits. a successful pamphlet, to be presently mentioned, helped his rise to fame. london society was easy of access for a man of swift's qualities. the divisions of rank were doubtless more strongly marked than now. yet society was relatively so small, and concentrated in so small a space, that admission into the upper circle meant an easy introduction to every one worth knowing. any noticeable person became, as it were, member of a club which had a tacit existence, though there was no single place of meeting or recognized organization. swift soon became known at the coffee-houses, which have been superseded by the clubs of modern times. at one time, according to a story vague as to dates, he got the name of the "mad parson" from addison and others, by his habit of taking half-an-hour's smart walk to and fro in the coffee-house, and then departing in silence. at last he abruptly accosted a stranger from the country: "pray, sir, do you remember any good weather in the world?" "yes, sir," was the reply, "i thank god i remember a great deal of good weather in my time." "that," said swift, "is more than i can say. i never remember any weather that was not too hot, or too cold, or too wet, or too dry: but, however god almighty contrives it, at the end of the year 'tis all very well;" with which sentiment he vanished. whatever his introduction swift would soon make himself felt. the _tale of a tub_ appeared--with a very complimentary dedication to somers--in 1704, and revealed powers beyond the rivalry of any living author. in the year 1705 swift became intimate with addison, who wrote in a copy of his _travels in italy_, to _jonathan swift, the most agreeable companion, the truest friend, and the greatest genius of his age, this work is presented by his most humble servant the author_. though the word "genius" had scarcely its present strength of meaning, the phrase certainly implies that addison knew swift's authorship of the _tale_, and with all his decorum was not repelled by its audacious satire. the pair formed a close friendship, which is honourable to both. for it proves that if swift was imperious and addison a little too fond of the adulation of "wits and templars," each could enjoy the society of an intellectual equal. they met, we may fancy, like absolute kings, accustomed to the incense of courtiers, and not inaccessible to its charms; and yet glad at times to throw aside state and associate with each other without jealousy. addison, we know, was most charming when talking to a single companion, and delany repeats swift's statement that, often as they spent their evenings together, they never wished for a third. steele, for a time, was joined in what swift calls a triumvirate; and though political strife led to a complete breach with steele and a temporary eclipse of familiarity with addison, it never diminished swift's affection for his great rival. "that man," he said once, "has virtue enough to give reputation to an age," and the phrase expresses his settled opinion. swift, however, had a low opinion of the society of the average "wit." "the worst conversation i ever heard in my life," he says, "was that at wills' coffee-house, where the wits (as they were called) used formerly to assemble;" and he speaks with a contempt recalling pope's satire upon the "little senate," of the absurd self-importance and the foolish adulation of the students and templars who listened to these oracles. others have suspected that many famous coteries of which literary people are accustomed to speak with unction, probably fell as far short in reality of their traditional pleasantness. swift's friendship with addison was partly due, we may fancy, to the difference in temper and talent which fitted each to be complement of the other. a curious proof of the mutual goodwill is given by the history of swift's _baucis and philemon_. it is a humorous and agreeable enough travesty of ovid; a bit of good-humoured pleasantry, which we may take as it was intended. the performance was in the spirit of the time, and if swift had not the lightness of touch of his contemporaries, prior, gay, parnell, and pope, he perhaps makes up for it by greater force and directness. but the piece is mainly remarkable because, as he tells us, addison made him "blot out four score lines, add four score, and alter four score," though the whole consisted of only 178 verses.[16] swift showed a complete absence of the ordinary touchiness of authors. his indifference to literary fame as to its pecuniary rewards, was conspicuous. he was too proud, as he truly said, to be vain. his sense of dignity restrained him from petty sensibility. when a clergyman regretted some emendations which had been hastily suggested by himself and accepted by swift, swift replied that it mattered little, and that he would not give grounds by adhering to his own opinion, for an imputation of vanity. if swift was egotistical, there was nothing petty even in his egotism. a piece of facetiousness, started by swift in the last of his visits to london, has become famous. a cobbler called partridge had set up as an astrologer, and published predictions in the style of _zadkiel's almanac_. swift amused himself in the beginning of 1708 by publishing a rival prediction under the name of isaac bickerstaff. bickerstaff professed that he would give verifiable and definite predictions, instead of the vague oracular utterances of his rival. the first of these predictions announced the approaching death, at 11 p.m., on march 29th, of partridge himself. directly after that day appeared a letter "to a person of honour," announcing the fulfilment of the prediction by the death of partridge within four hours of the date assigned. partridge took up the matter seriously, and indignantly declared himself, in a new almanac, to be alive. bickerstaff retorted in a humorous vindication, arguing that partridge was really dead; that his continuing to write almanacs was no proof to the contrary, and so forth. all the wits, great and small, took part in the joke: the portuguese inquisition, so it is said, were sufficiently taken in to condemn bickerstaff to the flames; and steele, who started the _tatler_, whilst the joke was afoot, adopted the name of bickerstaff for the imaginary author. dutiful biographers agree to admire this as a wonderful piece of fun. the joke does not strike me, i will confess, as of very exquisite flavour; but it is a curious illustration of a peculiarity to which swift owed some of his power, and which seems to have suggested many of the mythical anecdotes about him. his humour very easily took the form of practical joking. in those days, the mutual understanding of the little clique of wits made it easy to get a hoax taken up by the whole body. they joined to persecute poor partridge, as the undergraduates at a modern college might join to tease some obnoxious tradesman. swift's peculiar irony fitted him to take the load; for it implied a singular pleasure in realizing the minute consequences of some given hypothesis, and working out in detail some grotesque or striking theory. the love of practical jokes, which seems to have accompanied him through life, is one of the less edifying manifestations of the tendency. it seems as if he could not quite enjoy a jest till it was translated into actual tangible fact. the fancy does not suffice him till it is realized. if the story about "dearly beloved roger" be true, it is a case in point. sydney smith would have been content with suggesting that such a thing might be done. swift was not satisfied till he had done it. and even if it be not true, it has been accepted because it is like the truth. we could almost fancy that if swift had thought of charles lamb's famous quibble about walking on an empty stomach ("on whose empty stomach?"), he would have liked to carry it out by an actual promenade on real human flesh and blood. swift became intimate with irish viceroys, and with the most famous wits and statesmen of london. but he received none of the good things bestowed so freely upon contemporary men of letters. in 1705, addison, his intimate friend, and his junior by five years, had sprung from a garret to a comfortable office. other men passed swift in the race. he notes significantly in 1708, that "a young fellow," a friend of his, had just received a sinecure of 400_l._ a year, as an addition to another of 300_l._ towards the end of 1704 he had already complained that he got "nothing but the good words and wishes of a decayed ministry, whose lives and mine will probably wear out before they can serve either my little hopes, or their own ambition." swift still remained in his own district, "a hedge-parson," flattered, caressed and neglected. and yet he held,[17] that it was easier to provide for ten men in the church, than for one in a civil employment. to understand his claims, and the modes by which he used to enforce them, we must advert briefly to the state of english politics. a clear apprehension of swift's relation to the ministers of the day is essential to any satisfactory estimate of his career. the reign of queen anne was a period of violent party spirit. at the end of 1703, swift humorously declares that even the cats and dogs were infected with the whig and tory animosity. the "very ladies" were divided into high church and low; and, "out of zeal for religion, had hardly time to say their prayers." the gentle satire of addison and steele, in the _spectator_, confirms swift's contemporary lamentations, as to the baneful effects of party zeal upon private friendship. and yet, it has been often said, that the party issues were hopelessly confounded. lord stanhope argues--and he is only repeating what swift frequently said--that whigs and tories had exchanged principles.[18] in later years, swift constantly asserted that he attacked the whigs in defence of the true whig faith. he belonged indeed to a party, almost limited to himself: for he avowed himself to be the anomalous hybrid, a high-church whig. we must therefore inquire a little further into the true meaning of the accepted shibboleths. swift had come from ireland, saturated with the prejudices of his caste. the highest tory in ireland, as he told william, would make a tolerable whig in england. for the english colonists in ireland, the expulsion of james was a condition not of party success but of existence. swift, whose personal and family interests were identified with those of the english in ireland, could repudiate james with his whole heart, and heartily accepted the revolution; he was therefore a whig, so far as attachment to "revolution principles" was the distinctive badge of whiggism. swift despised james, and he hated popery from first to last. contempt and hatred with him were never equivocal, and in this case they sprang as much from his energetic sense as from his early prejudices. jacobitism was becoming a sham, and therefore offensive to men of insight into facts. its ghost walked the earth for some time longer, and at times aped reality; but it meant mere sentimentalism or vague discontent. swift, when asked to explain its persistence, said that when he was in pain and lying on his right side, he naturally turned to his left, though he might have no prospect of benefit from the change.[19] the country squire, who drank healths to the king over the water, was tired of the georges, and shared the fears of the typical western, that his lands were in danger of being sent to hanover. the stuarts had been in exile long enough to win the love of some of their subjects. sufficient time had elapsed to erase from short memories the true cause of their fall. squires and parsons did not cherish less warmly the privileges in defence of which they had sent the last stuart king about his business. rather the privileges had become so much a matter of course that the very fear of any assault seemed visionary. the jacobitism of later days did not mean any discontent with revolution principles, but dislike to the revolution dynasty. the whig indeed argued with true party logic, that every tory must be a jacobite, and every jacobite a lover of arbitrary rule. in truth a man might wish to restore the stuarts without wishing to restore the principles for which the stuarts had been expelled: he might be a jacobite without being a lover of arbitrary rule; and still more easily might he be a tory without being a jacobite. swift constantly asserted--and in a sense with perfect truth--that the revolution had been carried out in defence of the church of england, and chiefly by attached members of the church. to be a sound churchman was, so far, to be pledged against the family which had assailed the church. swift's whiggism would naturally be strengthened by his personal relation with temple, and with various whigs whom he came to know through temple. but swift, i have said, was a churchman as well as a whig; as staunch a churchman as laud, and as ready, i imagine, to have gone to the block or to prison in defence of his church as any one from the days of laud to those of mr. green. for a time his zeal was not called into play; the war absorbed all interests. marlborough and godolphin, the great heads of the family clique which dominated poor queen anne, had begun as tories and churchmen, supported by a tory majority. the war had been dictated by a national sentiment: but from the beginning it was really a whig war: for it was a war against louis, popery, and the pretender. and thus, the great men who were identified with the war, began slowly to edge over to the party whose principles were the war principles; who hated the pope, the pretender, and the king of france, as their ancestors had hated phillip of spain, or as their descendants hated napoleon. the war meant alliance with the dutch, who had been the martyrs, and were the enthusiastic defenders of toleration and free thought; and it forced english ministers, almost in spite of themselves, into the most successful piece of statesmanship of the century, the union with scotland. now swift hated the dutch and hated the scotch, with a vehemence that becomes almost ludicrous. the margin of his burnet was scribbled over with execrations against the scots. "most damnable scots," "scots hell-hounds," "scotch dogs," "cursed scots still," "hellish scottish dogs," are a few of his spontaneous flowers of speech. his prejudices are the prejudices of his class intensified as all passions were intensified in him. swift regarded scotchmen as the most virulent and dangerous of all dissenters; they were represented to him by the irish presbyterians, the natural rivals of his church. he reviled the union, because it implied the recognition by the state of a sect which regarded the church of england as little better than a manifestation of antichrist. and, in this sense, swift's sympathies were with the tories. for in truth the real contrast between whigs and tories, in respect of which there is a perfect continuity of principle, depended upon the fact that the whigs reflected the sentiments of the middle classes, the "monied men" and the dissenters; whilst the tories reflected the sentiments of the land and the church. each party might occasionally adopt the commonplaces or accept the measures generally associated with its antagonists; but at bottom, the distinction was between squire and parson on one side, tradesmen and banker on the other. the domestic politics of the reign of anne turned upon this difference. the history is a history of the gradual shifting of government to the whig side, and the growing alienation of the clergy and squires, accelerated by a system which caused the fiscal burden of the war to fall chiefly upon the land. bearing this in mind, swift's conduct is perfectly intelligible. his first plunge into politics was in 1701. poor king william was in the thick of the perplexities caused by the mysterious perverseness of english politicians. the king's ministers, supported by the house of lords, had lost the command of the house of commons. it had not yet come to be understood that the cabinet was to be a mere committee of the house of commons. the personal wishes of the sovereign, and the alliances and jealousies of great courtiers, were still highly important factors in the political situation; as indeed both the composition and the subsequent behaviour of the commons could be controlled to a considerable extent by legitimate and other influences of the crown. the commons, unable to make their will obeyed, proceeded to impeach somers and other ministers. a bitter struggle took place between the two houses, which was suspended by the summer recess. at this crisis swift published his _discourse on the dissensions in athens and rome_. the abstract political argument is as good or as bad as nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand political treatises--that is to say, a repetition of familiar commonplaces; and the mode of applying precedents from ancient politics would now strike us as pedantic. the pamphlet, however, is dignified and well-written, and the application to the immediate difficulty is pointed. his argument is, briefly, that the house of commons is showing a factious, tyrannical temper, identical in its nature with that of a single tyrant and as dangerous in its consequences, that it has therefore ceased to reflect the opinions of its constituents, and has endangered the sacred balance between the three primary elements of our constitution, upon which its safe working depends. the pamphlet was from beginning to end a remonstrance against the impeachments, and therefore a defence of the whig lords; for whom sufficiently satisfactory parallels are vaguely indicated in pericles, aristides, and so forth. it was "greedily bought;" it was attributed to somers and to the great whig bishop, burnet, who had to disown it for fear of an impeachment. an irish bishop, it is said, called swift a "very positive young man" for doubting burnet's authorship; whereupon swift had to claim it for himself. youthful vanity, according to his own account, induced him to make the admission, which would certainly not have been withheld by adult discretion. for the result was that somers, halifax, and sunderland, three of the great whig junto, took him up, often admitted him to their intimacy, and were liberal in promising him "the greatest preferments" should they come into power. before long swift had another opportunity which was also a temptation. the tory house of commons had passed the bill against occasional conformity. ardent partisans generally approved this bill, as it was clearly annoying to dissenters. it was directed against the practice of qualifying for office by taking the sacrament according to the rites of the church of england without permanently conforming. it might be fairly argued--as defoe argued, though with questionable sincerity--that such a temporary compliance would be really injurious to dissent. the church would profit by such an exhibition of the flexibility of its opponents' principles. passions were too much heated for such arguments; and in the winter of 1703-4, people, says swift, talked of nothing else. he was "mightily urged by some great people" to publish his opinion. an argument from a powerful writer, and a clergyman, against the bill would be very useful to his whig friends. but swift's high church prejudices made him hesitate. the whig leaders assured him that nothing should induce them to vote against the bill if they expected its rejection to hurt the church or "do kindness to the dissenters." but it is precarious to argue from the professed intentions of statesmen to their real motives, and yet more precarious to argue to the consequences of their actions. swift knew not what to think. he resolved to think no more. at last he made up his mind to write against the bill, but he made it up too late. the bill failed to pass; and swift felt a relief in dismissing this delicate subject. he might still call himself a whig, and exult in the growth of whiggism. meanwhile he persuaded himself that the dissenters and their troubles were beneath his notice. they were soon to come again to the front. swift came to london at the end of 1707, charged with a mission on behalf of his church. queen anne's bounty was founded in 1704. the crown restored to the church the first-fruits and tenths which henry viii. had diverted from the papal into his own treasury, and appropriated them to the augmentation of small livings. it was proposed to get the same boon for the church of ireland. the whole sum amounted to about 1000_l._ a year, with a possibility of an additional 2000_l._ swift, who had spoken of this to king, the archbishop of dublin, was now to act as solicitor on behalf of the irish clergy, and hoped to make use of his influence with somers and sunderland. the negotiation was to give him more trouble than he foresaw, and initiate him, before he had done with it, into certain secrets of cabinets and councils which he as yet very imperfectly appreciated. his letters to king, continued over a long period, throw much light on his motives. swift was in england from november, 1707, till march, 1709. the year 1708 was for him, as he says, a year of suspense, a year of vast importance to his career, and marked by some characteristic utterances. he hoped to use his influence with somers. somers, though still out of office, was the great oracle of the whigs, whilst sunderland was already secretary of state. in january, 1708, the bishopric of waterford was vacant, and somers tried to obtain the see for swift. the attempt failed, but the political catastrophe of the next month gave hopes that the influence of somers would soon be paramount. harley, the prince of wire-pulling and back-stair intrigue, had exploded the famous masham plot. though this project failed, it was "reckoned," says swift, "the greatest piece of court skill that has been acted many years." queen anne was to take advantage of the growing alienation of the church party to break her bondage to the marlboroughs, and change her ministers. but the attempt was premature, and discomfited its devisers. harley was turned out of office; marlborough and godolphin came into alliance with the whig junto; and the queen's bondage seemed more complete than ever. a cabinet crisis in those days, however, took a long time. it was not till october, 1708, that the whigs, backed by a new parliament and strengthened by the victory of oudenarde, were in full enjoyment of power. somers at last became president of the council and wharton lord lieutenant of ireland. wharton's appointment was specially significant for swift. he was, as even whigs admitted, a man of infamous character, redeemed only by energy and unflinching fidelity to his party. he was licentious and a freethinker; his infidelity showed itself in the grossest outrages against common decency. if he had any religious principle it was a preference of presbyterians, as sharing his antipathy to the church. no man could be more radically antipathetic to swift. meanwhile, the success of the whigs meant in the first instance the success of the men from whom swift had promises of preferment. he tried to use his influence as he had proposed. in june he had an interview about the first-fruits with godolphin, to whom he had been recommended by somers and sunderland. godolphin replied in vague officialisms, suggesting with studied vagueness that the irish clergy must show themselves more grateful than the english. his meaning, as swift thought, was that the irish clergy should consent to a repeal of the test act, regarded by them and by him as the essential bulwark of the church. nothing definite, however, was said; and meanwhile swift, though he gave no signs of compliance, continued to hope for his own preferment. when the final triumph of the whigs came he was still hoping, though with obvious qualms as to his position. he begged king (in nov. 1708) to believe in his fidelity to the church. offers might be made to him, but "no prospect of making my fortune shall ever prevail on me to go against what becomes a man of conscience and truth, and an entire friend to the established church." he hoped that he might be appointed secretary to a projected embassy to vienna, a position which would put him beyond the region of domestic politics. meanwhile he had published certain tracts which may be taken as the manifesto of his faith at the time when his principles were being most severely tested. would he or would he not sacrifice his churchmanship to the interests of the party with which he was still allied? there can be no doubt that by an open declaration of whig principles in church matters--such a declaration, say, as would have satisfied burnet--he would have qualified himself for preferment, and have been in a position to command the fulfilment of the promises made by somers and sunderland. the writings in question were the _argument to prove the inconvenience of abolishing christianity_; a _project for the advancement of religion_; and the _sentiments of a church of england man_. the first, as i have said, was meant to show that the satirical powers which had given offence in the _tale of a tub_, could be applied without equivocation in defence of christianity. the _project_ is a very forcible exposition of a text which is common enough in all ages--namely, that the particular age of the writer is one of unprecedented corruption. it shares, however, with swift's other writings, the merit of downright sincerity, which convinces us that the author is not repeating platitudes, but giving his own experience and speaking from conviction. his proposals for a reform, though he must have felt them to be chimerical, are conceived in the spirit common in the days before people had begun to talk about the state and the individual. he assumes throughout that a vigorous action of the court and the government will reform the nation. he does not contemplate the now commonplace objection that such a revival of the puritanical system might simply stimulate hypocrisy. he expressly declares that religion may be brought into fashion "by the power of the administration," and assumes that to bring religion into fashion is the same thing as to make men religious. this view--suitable enough to swift's imperious temper--was also the general assumption of the time. a suggestion thrown out in his pamphlet is generally said to have led to the scheme soon afterwards carried out under harley's administration for building fifty new churches in london. a more personal touch is swift's complaint that the clergy sacrifice their influence by "sequestering themselves" too much, and forming a separate caste. this reads a little like an implied defence of himself for frequenting london coffee-houses, when cavillers might have argued that he should be at laracor. but like all swift's utterances, it covered a settled principle. i have already noticed this peculiarity, which he shows elsewhere when describing himself as a clergyman of special note for shunning others of his coat; which made his brethren of the gown take care betimes to run him down. the _sentiments of a church of england man_ is more significant. it is a summary of his unvarying creed. in politics he is a good whig. he interprets the theory of passive obedience as meaning obedience to the "legislative power;" not therefore to the king specially; and he deliberately accepts the revolution on the plain ground of the _salus populi_. his leading maxim is that the "administration cannot be placed in too few hands nor the legislature in too many." but this political liberality is associated with unhesitating churchmanship. sects are mischievous: to say that they are mischievous is to say that they ought to be checked in their beginning; where they exist they should be tolerated, but not to the injury of the church. and hence he reaches his leading principle that a "government cannot give them (sects) too much ease, nor trust them with too little power." such doctrines clearly and tersely laid down were little to the taste of the whigs, who were more anxious than ever to conciliate the dissenters. but it was not till the end of the year that swift applied his abstract theory to a special case. there had been various symptoms of a disposition to relax the test acts in ireland. the appointment of wharton to be lord lieutenant was enough to alarm swift, even though his friend addison was to be wharton's secretary. in december, 1708, he published a pamphlet, ostensibly a letter from a member of the irish to a member of the english house of commons, in which the necessity of keeping up the test was vigorously enforced. it is the first of swift's political writings in which we see his true power. in those just noticed he is forced to take an impartial tone. he is trying to reconcile himself to his alliance with the whigs, or to reconcile the whigs to their protection of himself. he speaks as a moderator, and poses as the dignified moralist above all party-feeling. but in this letter he throws the reins upon his humour, and strikes his opponents full in the face. from his own point of view the pamphlet is admirable. he quotes cowley's verse, forbid it, heaven, my life should be weighed with thy least conveniency. the irish, by which he means the english, and the english exclusively of the scotch, in ireland, represent this enthusiastic lover, and are called upon to sacrifice themselves to the political conveniency of the whig party. swift expresses his usual wrath against the scots, who are eating up the land, boasts of the loyalty of the irish church, and taunts the presbyterians with their tyranny in former days. am i to be forced, he asks, "to keep my chaplain disguised like my butler, and steal to prayers in a back room, as my grandfather used in those times when the church of england was malignant?" is not this a ripping up of old quarrels? ought not all protestants to unite against papists? no, the enemy is the same as ever. "it is agreed among naturalists that a lion is a larger, a stronger, and more dangerous enemy than a cat; yet if a man were to have his choice, either a lion at his foot fast bound with three or four chains, his teeth drawn out, and his claws pared to the quick, or an angry cat in full liberty at his throat, he would take no long time to determine." the bound lion means the catholic natives, whom swift declares to be as "inconsiderable as the women and children." meanwhile the long first-fruits negotiation was languidly proceeding. at last it seemed to be achieved. lord pembroke, the outgoing lord lieutenant, sent swift word that the grant had been made. swift reported his success to archbishop king with a very pardonable touch of complacency at his "very little" merit in the matter. but a bitter disappointment followed. the promise made had never been fulfilled. in march, 1709, swift had again to write to the archbishop, recounting his failure, his attempt to remonstrate with wharton, the new lord lieutenant, and the too certain collapse of the whole business. the failure was complete; the promised boon was not granted, and swift's chance of a bishopric had pretty well vanished. halifax, the great whig mã¦cenas, and the bufo of pope, wrote to him in his retirement at dublin, declaring that he had "entered into a confederacy with mr. addison" to urge swift's claims upon government, and speaking of the declining health of south, then a prebendary of westminster. swift endorsed this "i lock up this letter as a true original of courtiers and court promises," and wrote in a volume he had begged from the same person that it was the only favour "he ever received from him or his party." in the last months of his stay he had suffered cruelly from his old giddiness, and he went to ireland, after a visit to his mother in leicester, in sufficiently gloomy mood; retired to laracor, and avoided any intercourse with the authorities at the castle, excepting always addison. to this it is necessary to add one remark. swift's version of the story is substantially that which i have given, and it is everywhere confirmed by contemporary letters. it shows that he separated from the whig party when at the height of their power, and separated because he thought them opposed to the church principles which he advocated from first to last. it is most unjust, therefore to speak of swift as a deserter from the whigs, because he afterwards joined the church party, which shared all his strongest prejudices. i am so far from seeing any ground for such a charge, that i believe that few men have ever adhered more strictly to the principles with which they have started. but such charges have generally an element of truth; and it is easy here to point out what was the really weak point in swift's position. swift's writings, with one or two trifling exceptions, were originally anonymous. as they were very apt to produce warrants for the apprehension of publisher and author, the precaution was natural enough in later years. the mask was often merely ostensible; a sufficient protection against legal prosecution, but in reality covering an open secret. when in the _sentiments of a church of england man_ swift professes to conceal his name carefully, it may be doubted how far this is to be taken seriously. but he went much further in the letter on the test act. he inserted a passage intended really to blind his adversaries by a suggestion that dr. swift was likely to write in favour of abolishing the test; and he even complains to king of the unfairness of this treatment. his assault, therefore, upon the supposed whig policy was clandestine. this may possibly be justified; he might even urge that he was still a whig, and was warning ministers against measures which they had not yet adopted, and from which, as he thinks, they may still be deterred by an alteration of the real irish feeling.[20] he complained afterwards that he was ruined--that is, as to his chances of preferment from the party--by the suspicion of his authorship of this tract. that is to say, he was "ruined" by the discovery of his true sentiments. this is to admit that he was still ready to accept preferment from the men whose supposed policy he was bitterly attacking, and that he resented their alienation as a grievance. the resentment indeed was most bitter and pertinacious. he turned savagely upon his old friends because they would not make him a bishop. the answer from their point of view was conclusive. he had made a bitter and covert attack, and he could not at once claim a merit from churchmen for defending the church against the whigs, and revile the whigs for not rewarding him. but inconsistency of this kind is characteristic of swift. he thought the whigs scoundrels for not patronizing him, and not the less scoundrels because their conduct was consistent with their own scoundrelly principles. people who differ from me must be wicked, argued this consistent egotist, and their refusal to reward me is only an additional wickedness. the case appeared to him as though he had been a nathan sternly warning a david of his sins, and for that reason deprived of honour. david could not have urged his sinful desires as an excuse for ill-treatment of nathan. and swift was inclined to class indifference to the welfare of the church as a sin even in an avowed whig. yet he had to ordinary minds forfeited any right to make non-fulfilment a grievance, when he ought to have regarded performance as a disgrace. chapter v. the harley administration. in the autumn of 1710 swift was approaching the end of his forty-third year. a man may well feel at forty-two that it is high time that a post should have been assigned to him. should an opportunity be then, and not till then, put in his way, he feels that he is throwing for heavy stakes; and that failure, if failure should follow, would be irretrievable. swift had been longing vainly for an opening. in the remarkable letter (of april, 1722) from which i have quoted the anecdote of the lost fish, he says that, "all my endeavours from a boy to distinguish myself were only for want of a great title and fortune, that i might be used like a lord by those who have an opinion of my parts; whether right or wrong is no great matter; and so the reputation of wit or great learning does the office of a blue riband or of a coach and six horses." the phrase betrays swift's scornful self-mockery; that inverted hypocrisy which led him to call his motives by their worst names, and to disavow what he might have been sorry to see denied by others. but, like all that swift says of himself, it also expresses a genuine conviction. swift was ambitious, and his ambition meant an absolute need of imposing his will upon others. he was a man born to rule; not to affect thought, but to control conduct. he was therefore unable to find full occupation, though he might seek occasional distraction, in literary pursuits. archbishop king, who had a strange knack of irritating his correspondent--not, it seems, without intention--annoyed swift intensely in 1711 by advising him (most superfluously) to get preferment, and with that view to write a serious treatise upon some theological question. swift, who was in the thick of his great political struggle, answered that it was absurd to ask a man floating at sea what he meant to do when he got ashore. "let him get there first and rest and dry himself, and then look about him." to find firm footing amidst the welter of political intrigues, was swift's first object. once landed in a deanery he might begin to think about writing; but he never attempted, like many men in his position, to win preferment through literary achievements. to a man of such a temperament, his career must so far have been cruelly vexatious. we are generally forced to judge of a man's life by a few leading incidents; and we may be disposed to infer too hastily that the passions roused on those critical occasions coloured the whole tenor of every-day existence. doubtless swift was not always fretting over fruitless prospects. he was often eating his dinner in peace and quiet, and even amusing himself with watching the moor park rooks or the laracor trout. yet it is true that so far as a man's happiness depends upon the consciousness of a satisfactory employment of his faculties, whether with a view to glory or solid comfort, swift had abundant causes of discontent. the "conjured spirit" was still weaving ropes of sand. for ten years he had been dependent upon temple, and his struggles to get upon his own legs had been fruitless: on temple's death he managed when past thirty to wring from fortune a position of bare independence, not of satisfying activity, he had not gained a fulcrum from which to move the world, but only a bare starting-point whence he might continue to work. the promises from great men had come to nothing. he might perhaps have realized them, could he have consented to be faithless to his dearest convictions; the consciousness that he had so far sacrificed his position to his principles gave him no comfort, though it nourished his pride. his enforced reticence produced an irritation against the ministers whom it had been intended to conciliate, which deepened into bitter resentment for their neglect. the year and a half passed in ireland during 1709-10 was a period in which his day-dreams must have had a background of disappointed hopes. "i stayed above half the time," he says, "in one scurvy acre of ground, and i always left it with regret." he shut himself up at laracor, and nourished a growing indignation against the party represented by wharton. yet events were moving rapidly in england, and opening a new path for his ambition. the whigs were in full possession of power, though at the price of a growing alienation of all who were weary of a never-ending war, or hostile to the whig policy in church and state. the leaders, though warned by somers, fancied that they would strengthen their position by attacking the defeated enemy. the prosecution of sacheverell in the winter of 1709-10, if not directed by personal spite, was meant to intimidate the high-flying tories. it enabled the whig leaders to indulge in a vast quantity of admirable constitutional rhetoric; but it supplied the high church party with a martyr and a cry, and gave the needed impetus to the growing discontent. the queen took heart to revolt against the marlboroughs; the whig ministry were turned out of office; harley became chancellor of the exchequer in august; and the parliament was dissolved in september, 1710, to be replaced in november by one in which the tories had an overwhelming majority. we are left to guess at the feelings with which swift contemplated these changes. their effect upon his personal prospects was still problematical. in spite of his wrathful retirement, there was no open breach between him and the whigs. he had no personal relations with the new possessors of power. harley and st. john, the two chiefs, were unknown to him. and, according to his own statement, he started for england once more with great reluctance in order again to take up the weary firstfruits negociation. wharton, whose hostility had intercepted the proposed bounty, went with his party, and was succeeded by the high church duke of ormond. the political aspects were propitious for a renewed application, and swift's previous employment pointed him out as the most desirable agent. and now swift suddenly comes into full light. for two or three years we can trace his movements day by day; follow the development of his hopes and fears; and see him more clearly than he could be seen by almost any of his contemporaries. the famous _journal to stella_, a series of letters written to esther johnson and mrs. dingley, from september, 1710, till april, 1713, is the main and central source of information. before telling the story, a word or two may be said of the nature of this document, one of the most interesting that ever threw light upon the history of a man of genius. the _journal_ is one of the very few that were clearly written without the faintest thought of publication. there is no indication of any such intention in the _journal to stella_. it never occurred to swift that it could ever be seen by any but the persons primarily interested. the journal rather shuns politics; they will not interest his correspondent, and he is afraid of the post-office clerks--then and long afterwards often employed as spies. interviews with ministers have scarcely more prominence than the petty incidents of his daily life. we are told that he discussed business, but the discussion is not reported. much more is omitted which might have been of the highest interest. we hear of meetings with addison; not a phrase of addison's is vouchsafed to us; we go to the door of harley or st. john; we get no distinct vision of the men who were the centres of all observation. nor, again, are there any of those introspective passages which give to some journals the interest of a confession. what, then, is the interest of the _journal to stella_? one element of strange and singular fascination, to be considered hereafter, is the prattle with his correspondent. for the rest, our interest depends in great measure upon the reflections with which we must ourselves clothe the bare skeleton of facts. in reading the _journal to stella_ we may fancy ourselves waiting in a parliamentary lobby during an excited debate. one of the chief actors hurries out at intervals; pours out a kind of hasty bulletin; tells of some thrilling incident, or indicates some threatening symptom; more frequently he seeks to relieve his anxieties by indulging in a little personal gossip, and only interjects such comments upon politics as can be compressed into a hasty ejaculation, often, as may be supposed, of the imprecatory kind. yet he unconsciously betrays his hopes and fears; he is fresh from the thick of the fight, and we perceive that his nerves are still quivering, and that his phrases are glowing with the ardour of the struggle. hopes and fears are long since faded, and the struggle itself is now but a war of phantoms. yet with the help of the _journal_ and contemporary documents, we can revive for the moment the decaying images, and cheat ourselves into the momentary persuasion that the fate of the world depends upon harley's success, as we now hold it to depend upon mr. gladstone's. swift reached london on september 7th, 1710; the political revolution was in full action, though parliament was not yet dissolved. the whigs were "ravished to see him;" they clutched at him, he says, like drowning men at a twig, and the great men made him their "clumsy apologies." godolphin was "short, dry and morose;" somers tried to make explanations, which swift received with studied coldness. the ever-courteous halifax gave him dinners; and asked him to drink to the resurrection of the whigs, which swift refused unless he would add "to their reformation." halifax persevered in his attentions, and was always entreating him to go down to hampton court; "which will cost me a guinea to his servants, and twelve shillings coach hire, and i will see him hanged first." swift, however, retained his old friendship with the wits of the party; dined with addison at his retreat in chelsea, and sent a trifle or two to the _tatler_. the elections began in october; swift had to drive through a rabble of westminster electors, judiciously agreeing with their sentiments to avoid dead cats and broken glasses; and though addison was elected ("i believe," says swift, "if he had a mind to be chosen king, he would hardly be refused"), the tories were triumphant in every direction. and meanwhile, the tory leaders were delightfully civil. on the 4th of october swift was introduced to harley, getting himself described (with undeniable truth) "as a discontented person, who was ill used for not being whig enough." the poor whigs lamentably confess, he says, their ill usage of him, "but i mind them not." their confession came too late. harley had received him with open arms, and won not only swift's adhesion, but his warm personal attachment. the fact is indisputable, though rather curious. harley appears to us as a shifty and feeble politician, an inarticulate orator, wanting in principles and resolution, who made it his avowed and almost only rule of conduct that a politician should live from hand to mouth.[21] yet his prolonged influence in parliament seems to indicate some personal attraction, which was perceptible to his contemporaries, though rather puzzling to us. all swift's panegyrics leave the secret in obscurity. harley seems indeed to have been eminently respectable and decorously religious, amiable in personal intercourse, and able to say nothing in such a way as to suggest profundity instead of emptiness. his reputation as a party manager was immense; and is partly justified by his quick recognition of swift's extraordinary qualifications. he had inferior scribblers in his pay, including, as we remember with regret, the shifty defoe. but he wanted a man of genuine ability and character. some months later the ministers told swift that they had been afraid of none but him; and resolved to have him. they got him. harley had received him "with the greatest kindness and respect imaginable." three days later (oct. 7th) the firstfruits business is discussed, and harley received the proposals as warmly as became a friend of the church, besides overwhelming swift with civilities. swift is to be introduced to st. john; to dine with harley next tuesday; and after an interview of four hours, the minister sets him down at st james's coffee-house in a hackney coach. "all this is odd and comical!" exclaims swift; "he knew my christian name very well," and, as we hear next day, begged swift to come to him often, but not to his levã©e: "that was not a place for friends to meet." on the 10th of october, within a week from the first introduction, harley promises to get the firstfruits business, over which the whigs had haggled for years, settled by the following sunday. swift's exultation breaks out. on the 14th he declares that he stands ten times better with the new people than ever he did with the old, and is forty times more caressed. the triumph is sharpened by revenge. nothing, he says of the sort was ever compassed so soon; "and purely done by my personal credit with mr. harley, who is so excessively obliging, that i know not what to make of it, unless to show the rascals of the other side that they used a man unworthily who deserved better." a passage on nov. 8th sums up his sentiments. "why," he says in answer to something from stella, "should the whigs think i came from ireland to leave them? sure my journey was no secret! i protest sincerely, i did all i could to hinder it, as the dean can tell you, though now i do not repent it. but who the devil cares what they think? am i under obligations in the least to any of them all? rot them for ungrateful dogs; i will make them repent their usage before i leave this place." the thirst for vengeance may not be edifying; the political zeal was clearly not of the purest; but in truth, swift's party prejudices and his personal resentments are fused into indissoluble unity. hatred of whig principles and resentment of whig "ill-usage" of himself, are one and the same thing. meanwhile, swift was able (on nov. 4) to announce his triumph to the archbishop. he was greatly annoyed by an incident, of which he must also have seen the humorous side. the irish bishops had bethought themselves after swift's departure that he was too much of a whig to be an effective solicitor. they proposed therefore to take the matter out of his hands and apply to ormond, the new lord lieutenant. swift replied indignantly; the thing was done, however, and he took care to let it be known that the whole credit belonged to harley, and of course, in a subordinate sense, to himself. official formalities were protracted for months longer, and formed one excuse for swift's continued absence from ireland; but we need not trouble ourselves with the matter further. swift's unprecedented leap into favour meant more than a temporary success. the intimacy with harley and with st. john rapidly developed. within a few months, swift had forced his way into the very innermost circle of official authority. a notable quarrel seems to have given the final impulse to his career. in february, 1711, harley offered him a fifty-pound note. this was virtually to treat him as a hireling instead of an ally. swift resented the offer as an intolerable affront. he refused to be reconciled without ample apology, and after long entreaties. his pride was not appeased for ten days, when the reconciliation was sealed by an invitation from harley to a saturday dinner.[22] on saturdays, the lord keeper (harcourt) and the secretary of state (st. john) dined alone with harley: "and at last," says swift, in reporting the event, "they have consented to let me among them on that day." he goes next day, and already chides lord rivers for presuming to intrude into the sacred circle. "they call me nothing but jonathan," he adds; "and i said i believed they would leave me jonathan, as they found me." these dinners were continued, though they became less select. harley called saturday his "whipping-day;" and swift was the heartiest wielder of the lash. from the same february, swift began to dine regularly with st. john every sunday; and we may note it as some indication of the causes of his later preference of harley, that on one occasion he has to leave st. john early. the company, he says, were in constraint, because he would suffer no man to swear or talk indecently in his presence. swift had thus conquered the ministry at a blow. what services did he render in exchange? his extraordinary influence seems to have been due in a measure to sheer force of personal ascendency. no man could come into contact with swift without feeling that magnetic influence. but he was also doing a more tangible service. in thus admitting swift to their intimacy, harley and st. john were in fact paying homage to the rising power of the pen. political writers had hitherto been hirelings, and often little better than spies. no preceding, and, we may add, no succeeding writer ever achieved such a position by such means. the press has become more powerful as a whole: but no particular representative of the press has made such a leap into power. swift came at the time when the influence of political writing was already great: and when the personal favour of a prominent minister could still work miracles. harley made him a favourite of the old stamp, to reward his supremacy in the use of the new weapon. swift had begun in october by avenging himself upon godolphin's coldness, in a copy of hudibrastic verses about the virtues of sid hamet the magician's rod--that is, the treasurer's staff of office--which had a wonderful success. he fell savagely upon the hated wharton not long after, in what he calls "a damned libellous pamphlet," of which 2000 copies were sold in two days. libellous, indeed, is a faint epithet to describe a production which, if its statements be true, proves that wharton deserved to be hunted from society. charges of lying, treachery, atheism, presbyterianism, debauchery, indecency, shameless indifference to his own reputation and his wife's, the vilest corruption and tyranny in his government are piled upon his victim as thickly as they will stand. swift does not expect to sting wharton. "i neither love nor hate him," he says. "if i see him after this is published, he will tell me 'that he is damnably mauled;' and then, with the easiest transition in the world, ask about the weather, or the time of day." wharton might possibly think that abuse of this kind might almost defeat itself by its own virulence. but swift had already begun writings of a more statesmanlike and effective kind. a paper war was already raging when swift came to london. the _examiner_ had been started by st. john, with the help of atterbury, prior, and others; and, opposed for a short time by addison, in the _whig examiner_. harley, after granting the first-fruits, had told swift, that the great want of the ministry was "some good pen," to keep up the spirits of the party. the _examiner_, however, was in need of a firmer and more regular manager; and swift took it in hand, his first weekly article appearing november 2nd, 1710, his last on june 14th, 1711. his _examiners_ achieved an immediate and unprecedented success. and yet to say the truth, a modern reader is apt to find them decidedly heavy. no one, indeed, can fail to perceive the masculine sense, the terseness and precision of the utterance. and yet many writings which produced less effect are far more readable now. the explanation is simple, and applies to most of swift's political writings. they are all rather acts than words. they are blows struck in a party-contest: and their merit is to be gauged by their effect. swift cares nothing for eloquence, or logic, or invective--and little, it must be added, for veracity--so long as he hits his mark. to judge him by a merely literary standard, is to judge a fencer by the grace of his attitudes. some high literary merits are implied in efficiency, as real grace is necessary to efficient fencing: but in either case, a clumsy blow which reaches the heart is better than the most dexterous flourish in the air. swift's eye is always on the end, as a good marksman looks at nothing but the target. what, then, is swift's aim in the _examiner_? mr. kinglake has told us how a great journal throve by discovering what was the remark that was on every one's lips, and making the remark its own. swift had the more dignified task of really striking the keynote for his party. he was to put the ministerial theory into that form in which it might seem to be the inevitable utterance of strong common-sense. harley's supporters were to see in swift's phrases just what they would themselves have said--if they had been able. the shrewd, sturdy, narrow prejudices of the average englishman were to be pressed into the service of the ministry, by showing how admirably they could be clothed in the ministerial formulas. the real question, again, as swift saw, was the question of peace. whig and tory, as he said afterwards,[23] were really obsolete words. the true point at issue was peace or war. the purpose, therefore, was to take up his ground so that peace might be represented as the natural policy of the church or tory party; and war as the natural fruit of the selfish whigs. it was necessary, at the same time, to show that this was not the utterance of high-flying toryism or downright jacobitism, but the plain dictate of a cool and impartial judgment. he was not to prove but to take for granted that the war had become intolerably burdensome; and to express the growing wish for peace in terms likely to conciliate the greatest number of supporters. he was to lay down the platform which could attract as many as possible, both of the zealous tories and of the lukewarm whigs. measured by their fitness for this end, the _examiners_ are admirable. their very fitness for the end implies the absence of some qualities which would have been more attractive to posterity. stirring appeals to patriotic sentiment may suit a chatham rousing a nation to action; but swift's aim is to check the extravagance in the name of selfish prosaic prudence. the philosophic reflections of burke, had swift been capable of such reflection, would have flown above the heads of his hearers. even the polished and elaborate invective of junius would have been out of place. no man, indeed, was a greater master of invective than swift. he shows it in the _examiners_ by onslaughts upon the detested wharton. he shows, too, that he is not restrained by any scruples when it comes in his way to attack his old patrons, and he adopts the current imputations upon their private character. he could roundly accuse cowper of bigamy, and somers--the somers whom he had elaborately praised some years before in the dedication to the _tale of a tub_--of the most abominable perversion of justice. but these are taunts thrown out by the way. the substance of the articles is not invective, but profession of political faith. one great name, indeed, is of necessity assailed. marlborough's fame was a tower of strength for the whigs. his duchess and his colleagues had fallen; but whilst war was still raging, it seemed impossible to dismiss the greatest living commander. yet whilst marlborough was still in power, his influence might be used to bring back his party. swift's treatment of this great adversary is significant. he constantly took credit for having suppressed many attacks[24] upon marlborough. he was convinced that it would be dangerous for the country to dismiss a general whose very name carried victory.[25] he felt that it was dangerous for the party to make an unreserved attack upon the popular hero. lord rivers, he says, cursed the _examiner_ to him for speaking civilly of marlborough; and st. john, upon hearing of this, replied that if the counsels of such men as rivers were taken, the ministry "would be blown up in twenty-four hours." yet marlborough was the war personified; and the way to victory lay over marlborough's body. nor had swift any regard for the man himself, who, he says,[26] is certainly a vile man, and has no sort of merit except the military--as "covetous as hell, and as ambitious as the prince of it."[27] the whole case of the ministry implied the condemnation of marlborough. most modern historians would admit that continuance of the war could at this time be desired only by fanatics or interested persons. a psychologist might amuse himself by inquiring what were the actual motives of its advocates; in what degrees personal ambition, a misguided patriotism, or some more sordid passions were blended. but in the ordinary dialect of political warfare there is no room for such refinements. the theory of swift and swift's patrons was simple. the war was the creation of the whig "ring;" it was carried on for their own purposes by the stock-jobbers and "monied men," whose rise was a new political phenomenon, and who had introduced the diabolical contrivance of public debts. the landed interest and the church had been hoodwinked too long by the union of corrupt interests supported by dutchmen, scotchmen, dissenters, freethinkers, and other manifestations of the evil principle. marlborough was the head and patron of the whole. and what was marlborough's motive? the answer was simple. it was that which has been assigned, with even more emphasis, by macaulay--avarice. the twenty-seventh _examiner_ (feb. 8th, 1711) probably contains the compliments to which rivers objected. swift, in fact, admits that marlborough had all the great qualities generally attributed to him; but all are spoilt by this fatal blemish. how far the accusation was true matters little. it is put at least with force and dignity; and it expressed in the pithiest shape swift's genuine conviction, that the war now meant corrupt self-interest. invective, as swift knew well enough in his cooler moments, is a dangerous weapon, apt to recoil on the assailant unless it carries conviction. the attack on marlborough does not betray personal animosity; but the deliberate and the highly plausible judgment of a man determined to call things by their right names, and not to be blinded by military glory. this, indeed, is one of the points upon which swift's toryism was unlike that of some later periods. he always disliked and despised soldiers and their trade. "it will no doubt be a mighty comfort to our grandchildren," he says in another pamphlet,[28] "when they see a few rags hung up in westminster hall which cost a hundred millions, whereof they are paying the arrears, to boast as beggars do that their grandfathers were rich and great." and in other respects he has some right to claim the adhesion of thorough whigs. his personal attacks, indeed, upon the party have a questionable sound. in his zeal he constantly forgets that the corrupt ring which he denounces were the very men from whom he expected preferment. "i well remember," he says[29] elsewhere, "the clamours often raised during the late reign of that party (the whigs) against the leaders by those who thought their merits were not rewarded; and they had, no doubt, reason on their side, because it is, no doubt, a misfortune to forfeit honour and conscience for nothing"--rather an awkward remark from a man who was calling somers "a false, deceitful rascal" for not giving him a bishopric! his eager desire to make the "ungrateful dogs" repent their ill-usage of him prompts attacks which injure his own character with that of his former associates. but he has some ground for saying that whigs have changed their principles, in the sense that their dislike of prerogative and of standing armies had curiously declined when the crown and the army came to be on their side. their enjoyment of power had made them soften some of the prejudices learnt in days of depression. swift's dislike of what we now call "militarism" really went deeper than any party sentiment; and in that sense, as we shall hereafter see, it had really most affinity with a radicalism which would have shocked whigs and tories alike. but in this particular case it fell in with the tory sentiment. the masculine vigour of the _examiners_ served the ministry, who were scarcely less in danger from the excessive zeal of their more bigoted followers than from the resistance of the whig minority. the pig-headed country squires had formed an october club, to muddle themselves with beer and politics, and hoped--good honest souls--to drive ministers into a genuine attack on the corrupt practices of their predecessors. all harley's skill in intriguing and wire-pulling would be needed. the ministry, said swift (on march 4th), "stood like an isthmus" between whigs and violent tories. he trembled for the result. they are able seamen, but the tempest "is too great, the ship too rotten, and the crew all against them." somers had been twice in the queen's closet. the duchess of somerset, who had succeeded the duchess of marlborough, might be trying to play mrs. masham's game. harley, "though the most fearless man alive," seemed to be nervous, and was far from well. "pray god preserve his health," says swift; "everything depends upon it." four days later, swift is in an agony. "my heart," he exclaims, "is almost broken." harley had been stabbed by guiscard (march 8th, 1711) at the council-board. swift's letters and journals show an agitation, in which personal affection seems to be even stronger than political anxiety. "pray pardon my distraction," he says to stella, in broken sentences. "i now think of all his kindness to me. the poor creature now lies stabbed in his bed by a desperate french popish villain. good night, and god bless you both, and pity me; i want it." he wrote to king under the same excitement. harley, he says, "has always treated me with the tenderness of a parent, and never refused me any favour i asked for a friend; therefore i hope your grace will excuse the character of this letter." he apologizes again in a postscript for his confusion; it must be imputed to the "violent pain of mind i am in--greater than ever i felt in my life." the danger was not over for three weeks. the chief effect seems to have been that harley became popular as the intended victim of an hypothetical popish conspiracy; he introduced an applauded financial scheme in parliament after his recovery, and was soon afterwards made earl of oxford by way of consolation. "this man," exclaimed swift, "has grown by persecutions, turnings out, and stabbings. what waiting and crowding and bowing there will be at his levee!" swift had meanwhile (april 26) retired to chelsea "for the air," and to have the advantage of a compulsory walk into town (two miles, or 5748 steps each way, he calculates). he was liable, indeed, to disappointment on a rainy day, when "all the three stage-coaches" were taken up by the "cunning natives of chelsea;" but he got a lift to town in a gentleman's coach for a shilling. he bathed in the river on the hot nights, with his irish servant, patrick, standing on the bank to warn off passing boats. the said patrick, who is always getting drunk, whom swift cannot find it in his heart to dismiss in england, who atones for his general carelessness and lying by buying a linnet for dingley, making it wilder than ever in his attempts to tame it, is a characteristic figure in the journal. in june swift gets ten days' holiday at wycombe, and in the summer he goes down pretty often with the ministers to windsor. he came to town in two hours and forty minutes on one occasion: "twenty miles are nothing here." the journeys are described in one of the happiest of his occasional poems- 'tis (let me see) three years or more (october next it will be four) since harley bid me first attend and chose me for an humble friend: would take me in his coach to chat and question me of this or that: as "what's o'clock?" and "how's the wind?" "whose chariot's that we left behind?" or gravely try to read the lines writ underneath the country signs. or, "have you nothing new to-day, from pope, from parnell, or from gay?" such tattle often entertains my lord and me as far as staines, as once a week we travel down to windsor, and again to town, where all that passes _inter nos_ might be proclaimed at charing cross. and when, it is said, st. john was disgusted by the frivolous amusements of his companions; and his political discourses might be interrupted by harley's exclamation, "swift, i am up; there's a cat"--the first who saw a cat or an old woman, winning the game. swift and harley were soon playing a more exciting game. prior had been sent to france to renew peace negotiations, with elaborate mystery. even swift was kept in ignorance. on his return prior was arrested by officious custom-house officers, and the fact of his journey became public. swift took advantage of the general interest by a pamphlet intended to "bite the town." its political purpose, according to swift, was to "furnish fools with something to talk of;" to draw a false scent across the trail of the angry and suspicious whigs. it seems difficult to believe that any such effect could be produced or anticipated; but the pamphlet, which purports to be an account of prior's journey given by a french valet, desirous of passing himself off as a secretary, is an amusing example of swift's power of grave simulation of realities. the peace negotiations brought on a decisive political struggle. parliament was to meet in september. the whigs resolved to make a desperate effort. they had lost the house of commons, but were still strong in the peers. the lords were not affected by the rapid oscillations of public opinion. they were free from some of the narrower prejudices of country squires, and true to a revolution which gave the chief power for more than a century to the aristocracy: while the recent creations had ennobled the great whig leaders, and filled the bench with low churchmen. marlborough and godolphin had come over to the whig junto, and an additional alliance was now made. nottingham had been passed over by harley, as it seems, for his extreme tory principles. in his wrath, he made an agreement with the other extreme. by one of the most disgraceful bargains of party history, nottingham was to join the whigs in attacking the peace, whilst the whigs were to buy his support by accepting the occasional conformity bill--the favourite high church measure. a majority in the house of lords could not indeed determine the victory. the government of england, says swift in 1715,[30] "cannot move a step while the house of commons continues to dislike proceedings or persons employed." but the plot went further. the house of lords might bring about a deadlock, as it had done before. the queen, having thrown off the rule of the duchess of marlborough, had sought safety in the rule of two mistresses, mrs. masham and the duchess of somerset. the duchess of somerset was in the whig interest; and her influence with the queen caused the gravest anxiety to swift and the ministry. she might induce anne to call back the whigs, and in a new house of commons, elected under a whig ministry wielding the crown influence and appealing to the dread of a discreditable peace, the majority might be reversed. meanwhile prince eugene was expected to pay a visit to england, bringing fresh proposals for war, and stimulating by his presence the enthusiasm of the whigs. towards the end of september the whigs began to pour in a heavy fire of pamphlets, and swift rather meanly begs the help of st. john and the law. but he is confident of victory. peace is certain; and a peace "very much to the honour and advantage of england." the whigs are furious; "but we'll wherret them, i warrant, boys." yet he has misgivings. the news comes of the failure of the tory expedition against quebec, which was to have anticipated the policy and the triumphs of chatham. harley only laughs as usual; but st. john is cruelly vexed, and begins to suspect his colleagues of suspecting him. swift listens to both, and tries to smooth matters; but he is growing serious. "i am half weary of them all," he exclaims, and begins to talk of retiring to ireland. harley has a slight illness, and swift is at once in a fright. "we are all undone without him," he says, "so pray for him, sirrahs!" meanwhile, as the parliamentary struggle comes nearer, swift launches the pamphlet which has been his summer's work. the _conduct of the allies_ is intended to prove what he had taken for granted in the _examiners_. it is to show, that is, that the war has ceased to be demanded by national interests. we ought always to have been auxiliaries; we chose to become principals; and have yet so conducted the war that all the advantages have gone to the dutch. the explanation of course is the selfishness or corruption of the great whig junto. the pamphlet, forcible and terse in the highest degree, had a success due in part to other circumstances. it was as much a state paper as a pamphlet; a manifesto obviously inspired by the ministry and containing the facts and papers which were to serve in the coming debates. it was published on nov. 27th; on december 1st the second edition was sold in five hours; and by the end of january 11,000 copies had been sold. the parliamentary struggle began on december 7th; and the amendment to the address, declaring that no peace could be safe which left spain to the bourbons, was moved by nottingham, and carried by a small majority. swift had foreseen this danger; he had begged ministers to work up the majority; and the defeat was due to harley's carelessness. it was swift's temper to anticipate though not to yield to the worst. he could see nothing but ruin. every rumour increased his fears, the queen had taken the hand of the duke of somerset on leaving the house of lords, and refused shrewsbury's. she must be going over. swift, in his despair, asked st. john to find him some foreign post, where he might be out of harm's way if the whigs should triumph. st. john laughed and affected courage, but swift refused to be comforted. harley told him that "all would be well;" but harley for the moment had lost his confidence. a week after the vote he looks upon the ministry as certainly ruined; and "god knows," he adds, "what may be the consequences." by degrees a little hope began to appear; though the ministry, as swift still held, could expect nothing till the duchess of somerset was turned out. by way of accelerating this event, he hit upon a plan, which he had reason to repent, and which nothing but his excitement could explain. he composed and printed one of his favourite squibs, the _windsor prophecy_, and though mrs. masham persuaded him not to publish it, distributed too many copies for secrecy to be possible. in this production, now dull enough, he calls the duchess "carrots," as a delicate hint at her red hair, and says that she murdered her second husband.[31] these statements, even if true, were not conciliatory; and it was folly to irritate without injuring. meanwhile reports of ministerial plans gave him a little courage; and in a day or two the secret was out. he was on his way to the post on saturday, december 28th, when the great news came. the ministry had resolved on something like a _coup d'ã©tat_, to be long mentioned with horror by all orthodox whigs and tories. "i have broke open my letter," scribbled swift in a coffee-house, "and tore it into the bargain, to let you know that we are all safe. the queen has made no less than twelve new peers ... and has turned out the duke of somerset. she is awaked at last, and so is lord treasurer. i want nothing now but to see the duchess out. but we shall do without her. we are all extremely happy. give me joy, sirrahs!" the duke of somerset was not out; but a greater event happened within three days; the duke of marlborough was removed from all his employments. the tory victory was for the time complete. here, too, was the culminating point of swift's career. fifteen months of energetic effort had been crowned with success. he was the intimate of the greatest men in the country; and the most powerful exponent of their policy. no man in england, outside the ministry, enjoyed a wider reputation. the ball was at his feet; and no position open to a clergyman beyond his hopes. yet from this period begins a decline. he continued to write, publishing numerous squibs, of which many have been lost, and occasionally firing a gun of heavier metal. but nothing came from him having the authoritative and masterly tone of the _conduct of the allies_. his health broke down. at the beginning of april, 1712, he was attacked by a distressing complaint; and his old enemy, giddiness, gave him frequent alarms. the daily journal ceased, and was not fairly resumed till december, though its place is partly supplied by occasional letters. the political contest had changed its character. the centre of interest was transferred to utrecht, where negotiations began in january, to be protracted over fifteen months: the ministry had to satisfy the demand for peace, without shocking the national self-esteem. meanwhile jealousies were rapidly developing themselves, which swift watched with ever-growing anxiety. swift's personal influence remained or increased. he drew closer to oxford, but was still friendly with st. john; and to the public his position seemed more imposing than ever. swift was not the man to bear his honours meekly. in the early period of his acquaintance with st. john (february 12, 1711), he sends the prime minister into the house of commons, to tell the secretary of state that "i would not dine with him if he dined late." he is still a novice at the saturday dinners when the duke of shrewsbury appears: swift whispers that he does not like to see a stranger among them; and st. john has to explain that the duke has written for leave. st. john then tells swift that the duke of buckingham desires his acquaintance. the duke, replied swift, has not made sufficient advances: and he always expects greater advances from men in proportion to their rank. dukes and great men yielded, if only to humour the pride of this audacious parson: and swift soon came to be pestered by innumerable applicants, attracted by his ostentation of influence. even ministers applied through him. "there is not one of them," he says, in january, 1713, "but what will employ me as gravely to speak for them to lord treasurer, as if i were their brother or his." he is proud of the burden of influence with the great, though he affects to complain. the most vivid picture of swift in all his glory, is in a familiar passage from bishop kennett's diary:- "swift," says kennett, in 1713, "came into the coffee-house, and had a bow from everybody but me. when i came to the antechamber to wait before prayers, dr. swift was the principal man of talk and business, and acted as minister of requests. he was soliciting the earl of arran to speak to his brother the duke of ormond to get a chaplain's place established in the garrison of hull, for mr. fiddes, a clergyman in that neighbourhood, who had lately been in jail, and published sermons to pay fees. he was promising mr. thorold to undertake with my lord treasurer that according to his petition he should obtain a salary of 200_l._ per annum, as minister of the english church at rotterdam. he stopped f. gwynne, esq., going in with the red bag to the queen, and told him aloud he had something to say to him from my lord treasurer. he talked with the son of dr. davenant to be sent abroad, and took out his pocket-book and wrote down several things as _memoranda_, to do for him. he turned to the fire, and took out his gold watch, and telling him the time of day, complained it was very late. a gentleman said, "it was too fast." "how can i help it," says the doctor, "if the courtiers give me a watch that won't go right?" then he instructed a young nobleman that the best poet in england was mr. pope (a papist), who had begun a translation of homer into english verse, for which, he said, he must have them all subscribe. 'for,' says he, 'the author _shall not_ begin to print till _i have_ a thousand guineas for him.' lord treasurer, after leaving the queen, came through the room, beckoning dr. swift to follow him; both went off just before prayers." there is undoubtedly something offensive in this blustering self-assertion. "no man," says johnson, with his usual force, "can pay a more servile tribute to the great than by suffering his liberty in their presence to aggrandize him in his own esteem." delicacy was not swift's strong point; his compliments are as clumsy as his invectives are forcible; and he shows a certain taint of vulgarity in his intercourse with social dignitaries. he is perhaps avenging himself for the humiliations received at moor park. he has a napoleonic absence of magnanimity. he likes to relish his triumph; to accept the pettiest as well as the greatest rewards; to flaunt his splendours in the eyes of the servile as well as to enjoy the consciousness of real power. but it would be a great mistake to infer that this ostentatiousness of authority concealed real servility. swift preferred to take the bull by the horns. he forced himself upon ministers by self-assertion; and he held them in awe of him as the lion-tamer keeps down the latent ferocity of the wild beast. he never takes his eye off his subjects, nor lowers his imperious demeanour. he retained his influence, as johnson observes, long after his services had ceased to be useful. and all this demonstrative patronage meant real and energetic work. we may note, for example, and it incidentally confirms kennett's accuracy, that he was really serviceable to davenant,[32] and that fiddes got the chaplaincy at hull. no man ever threw himself with more energy into the service of his friends. he declared afterwards that in the days of his credit he had done fifty times more for fifty people, from whom he had received no obligations, than temple had done for him.[33] the journal abounds in proofs that this was not overstated. there is "mr. harrison," for example, who has written "some mighty pretty things." swift takes him up; rescues him from the fine friends who are carelessly tempting him to extravagance; tries to start him in a continuation of the _tatler_; exults in getting him a secretaryship abroad, which he declares to be "the prettiest post in europe for a young gentleman;" and is most unaffectedly and deeply grieved when the poor lad dies of a fever. he is carrying 100_l._ to his young friend, when he hears of his death. "i told parnell i was afraid to knock at the door, my mind misgave me," he says. on his way to bring help to harrison, he goes to see a "poor poet, one mr. diaper, in a nasty garret, very sick," and consoles him with twenty guineas from lord bolingbroke. a few days before he has managed to introduce parnell to harley, or rather to contrive it so that "the ministry desire to be acquainted with parnell, and not parnell with the ministry." his old schoolfellow congreve was in alarm about his appointments. swift spoke at once to harley, and went off immediately to report his success to congreve: "so," he says, "i have made a worthy man easy, and that is a good day's work."[34] one of the latest letters in his journal refers to his attempt to serve his other schoolfellow, berkeley. "i will favour him as much as i can," he says; "this i think i am bound to in honour and conscience, to use all my little credit toward helping forward men of worth in the world." he was always helping less conspicuous men; and he prided himself, with justice, that he had been as helpful to whigs as to tories. the ministry complained that he never came to them "without a whig in his sleeve." besides his friend congreve, he recommended rowe for preferment, and did his best to protect steele and addison. no man of letters ever laboured more heartily to promote the interests of his fellow-craftsmen, as few have ever had similar opportunities. swift, it is plain, desired to use his influence magnificently. he hoped to make his reign memorable by splendid patronage of literature. the great organ of munificence was the famous brothers' club, of which he was the animating spirit. it was founded in june, 1711, during swift's absence at wycombe; it was intended to "advance conversation and friendship," and obtain patronage for deserving persons. it was to include none but wits and men able to help wits, and, "if we go on as we begun," says swift, "no other club in this town will be worth talking of." in march, 1712, it consisted, as swift tells us, of nine lords and ten commoners.[35] it excluded harley and the lord keeper (harcourt) apparently as they were to be the distributors of the patronage; but it included st. john and several leading ministers, harley's son and son-in-law, and harcourt's son; whilst literature was represented by swift, arbuthnot, prior, and friend, all of whom were more or less actively employed by the ministry. the club was therefore composed of the ministry and their dependents, though it had not avowedly a political colouring. it dined on thursday during the parliamentary session, when the political squibs of the day were often laid on the table, including swift's famous _windsor prophecy_, and subscriptions were sometimes collected for such men as diaper and harrison. it flourished, however, for little more than the first season. in the winter of 1712-13 it began to suffer from the common disease of such institutions. swift began to complain bitterly of the extravagance of the charges. he gets the club to leave a tavern in which the bill[36] "for four dishes and four, first and second course, without wine and drink," had been 21_l._ 6_s._ 8_d._ the number of guests, it seems, was fourteen. next winter the charges are divided. "it cost me nineteen shillings to-day for my club dinner," notes swift, dec. 18, 1712. "i don't like it." swift had a high value for every one of the nineteen shillings. the meetings became irregular: harley was ready to give promises, but no patronage: and swift's attendance falls off. indeed, it may be noted that he found dinners and suppers full of danger to his health. he constantly complains of their after-effects; and partly perhaps for that reason he early ceases to frequent coffee-houses. perhaps too his contempt for coffee-house society, and the increasing dignity which made it desirable to keep possible applicants at a distance, had much to do with this. the brothers' club, however, was long remembered by its members, and in later years they often address each other by the old fraternal title. one design which was to have signalized swift's period of power, suggested the only paper which he had ever published with his name. it was a "proposal for correcting, improving, and ascertaining the english language," published in may, 1712, in the form of a letter to harley. the letter itself, written offhand in six hours (feb. 21, 1712), is not of much value; but swift recurs to the subject frequently enough to show that he really hoped to be the founder of an english academy. had swift been his own minister instead of the driver of a minister, the project might have been started. the rapid development of the political struggle sent swift's academy to the limbo provided for such things; and few english authors will regret the failure of a scheme unsuited to our natural idiosyncrasy, and calculated, as i fancy, to end in nothing but an organization of pedantry. one remark meanwhile occurs which certainly struck swift himself. he says (march 17, 1712) that sacheverel, the tory martyr, has come to him for patronage, and observes that when he left ireland neither of them could have anticipated such a relationship. "this," he adds, "is the seventh i have now provided for since i came, and can do nothing for myself." hints at a desire for preferment do not appear for some time; but as he is constantly speaking of an early return to ireland, and is as regularly held back by the entreaties of the ministry, there must have been at least an implied promise. a hint had been given that he might be made chaplain to harley, when the minister became earl of oxford. "i will be no man's chaplain alive," he says. he remarks about the same time (may 23, 1711) that it "would look extremely little" if he returned without some distinction; but he will not beg for preferment. the ministry, he says in the following august, only want him for one bit of business (the _conduct of the allies_ presumably). when that is done, he will take his leave of them. "i never got a penny from them nor expect it." the only post for which he made a direct application was that of historiographer. he had made considerable preparations for his so-called _history of the last four years of queen anne_, which appeared posthumously; and which may be described as one of his political pamphlets without the vigour[37]--a dull statement of facts put together by a partisan affecting the historical character. this application, however, was not made till april, 1714, when swift was possessed of all the preferment that he was destined to receive. he considered in his haughty way that he should be entreated rather than entreat; and ministers were perhaps slow to give him anything which could take him away from them. a secret influence was at work against him. the _tale of a tub_ was brought up against him; and imputations upon his orthodoxy were common. nottingham even revenged himself by describing swift in the house of lords as a divine "who is hardly suspected of being a christian." such insinuations were also turned to account by the duchess of somerset, who retained her influence over anne in spite of swift's attacks. his journal in the winter of 1712-13 shows growing discontent. in december, 1712, he resolves to write no more till something is done for him. he will get under shelter before he makes more enemies. he declares that he is "soliciting nothing" (february 4, 1713), but he is growing impatient. harley is kinder than ever. "mighty kind!" exclaims swift, "with a ----; less of civility and more of interest;" or as he puts it in one of his favourite "proverbs" soon afterwards--"my grandmother used to say,- more of your lining and less of your dining." at last swift, hearing that he was again to be passed over, gave a positive intimation that he would retire if nothing was done; adding that he should complain of harley for nothing but neglecting to inform him sooner of the hopelessness of his position.[38] the dean of st. patrick's was at last promoted to a bishopric, and swift appointed to the vacant deanery. the warrant was signed on april 23, and in june swift set out to take possession of his deanery. it was no great prize; he would have to pay 1000_l._ for the house and fees, and thus, he says, it would be three years before he would be the richer for it; and, moreover, it involved what he already described as "banishment" to a country which he hated. his state of mind when entering upon his preferment was painfully depressed. "at my first coming," he writes to miss vanhomrigh, "i thought i should have died with discontent; and was horribly melancholy while they were installing me; but it begins to wear off, and change to dulness." this depression is singular, when we remember that swift was returning to the woman for whom he had the strongest affection, and from whom he had been separated for nearly three years; and moreover, that he was returning as a famous and a successful man. he seems to have been received with some disfavour by a society of whig proclivities; he was suffering from a fresh return of ill-health; and besides the absence from the political struggles in which he was so keenly interested, he could not think of them without deep anxiety. he returned to london in october at the earnest request of political friends. matters were looking serious; and though the journal to stella was not again taken up, we can pretty well trace the events of the following period. there can rarely have been a less congenial pair of colleagues than harley and st. john. their union was that of a still more brilliant, daring, and self-confident disraeli with a very inferior edition of sir robert peel, with smaller intellect and exaggerated infirmities. the timidity, procrastination, and "refinement" of the treasurer were calculated to exasperate his audacious colleague. from the earliest period swift had declared that everything depended upon the good mutual understanding of the two; he was frightened by every symptom of discord, and declares (in august, 1711) that he has ventured all his credit with the ministers to remove their differences. he knew, as he afterwards said (october 20, 1711), that this was the way to be sent back to his willows at laracor, but everything must be risked in such a case. when difficulties revived next year he hoped that he had made a reconciliation. but the discord was too vital. the victory of the tories brought on a serious danger. they had come into power to make peace. they had made it. the next question was that of the succession of the crown. here they neither reflected the general opinion of the nation nor were agreed amongst themselves. harley, as we now know, had flirted with the jacobites; and bolingbroke was deep in treasonable plots. the existence of such plots was a secret to swift, who indignantly denied their existence. when king hinted at a possible danger to swift from the discovery of st. john's treason, he indignantly replied that he must have been "a most false and vile man" to join in anything of the kind.[39] he professes elsewhere his conviction that there were not at this period 500 jacobites in england; and "amongst these not six of any quality or consequence."[40] swift's sincerity, here as everywhere, is beyond all suspicion; but his conviction proves incidentally that he was in the dark as to the "wheels within wheels"--the backstairs plots, by which the administration of his friends was hampered and distracted. with so many causes for jealousy and discord, it is no wonder that the political world became a mass of complex intrigue and dispute. the queen, meanwhile, might die at any moment, and some decided course of action become imperatively necessary. whenever the queen was ill, said harley, people were at their wits' end; as soon as she recovered they acted as if she were immortal. yet, though he complained of the general indecision, his own conduct was most hopelessly undecided. it was in the hopes of pacifying these intrigues that swift was recalled from ireland. he plunged into the fight, but not with his old success. two pamphlets which he published at the end of 1713 are indications of his state of mind. one was an attack upon a wild no-popery shriek emitted by bishop burnet, whom he treats, says johnson, "like one whom he is glad of an opportunity to insult." a man who, like burnet, is on friendly terms with those who assail the privileges of his order must often expect such treatment from its zealous adherents. yet the scornful assault, which finds out weak places enough in burnet's mental rhetoric, is in painful contrast to the dignified argument of earlier pamphlets. the other pamphlet was an incident in a more painful contest. swift had tried to keep on good terms with addison and steele. he had prevented steele's dismissal from a commissionership of stamps. steele, however, had lost his place of gazetteer for an attack upon harley. swift persuaded harley to be reconciled to steele, on condition that steele should apologize. addison prevented steele from making the required submission, "out of mere spite," says swift, at the thought that steele should require other help; rather, we guess, because addison thought that the submission would savour of party infidelity. a coldness followed; "all our friendship is over," says swift of addison (march 6th, 1711); and though good feeling revived between the principals, their intimacy ceased. swift, swept into the ministerial vortex, pretty well lost sight of addison; though they now and then met on civil terms. addison dined with swift and st. john upon april 3rd, 1713, and swift attended a rehearsal of _cato_--the only time when we see him at a theatre. meanwhile the ill feeling to steele remained, and bore bitter fruit. steele and addison had to a great extent retired from politics, and during the eventful years 1711-12 were chiefly occupied in the politically harmless _spectator_. but steele was always ready to find vent for his zeal; and in 1713 he fell foul of the _examiner_ in the _guardian_. swift had long ceased to write _examiners_ or to be responsible for the conduct of the paper, though he still occasionally inspired the writers. steele, naturally enough, supposed swift to be still at work; and in defending a daughter of steele's enemy, nottingham, not only suggested that swift was her assailant, but added an insinuation that swift was an infidel. the imputation stung swift to the quick. he had a sensibility to personal attacks, not rare with those who most freely indulge in them, which was ridiculed by the easy-going harley. an attack from an old friend--from a friend whose good opinion he still valued, though their intimacy had ceased; from a friend, moreover, whom in spite of their separation he had tried to protect; and, finally, an attack upon the tenderest part of his character, irritated him beyond measure. some angry letters passed, steele evidently regarding swift as a traitor, and disbelieving his professions of innocence and his claims to active kindness; whilst swift felt steele's ingratitude the more deeply from the apparent plausibility of the accusation. if steele was really unjust and ungenerous, we may admit as a partial excuse that in such cases the less prosperous combatant has a kind of right to bitterness. the quarrel broke out at the time of swift's appointment to the deanery. soon after the new dean's return to england, steele was elected member for stockbridge, and rushed into political controversy. his most conspicuous performance was a frothy and pompous pamphlet called the _crisis_, intended to rouse alarms as to french invasion and jacobite intrigues. swift took the opportunity to revenge himself upon steele. two pamphlets--_the importance of the "guardian" considered_, and _the public spirit of the whigs_ (the latter in answer to the _crisis_)--are fierce attacks upon steele personally and politically. swift's feeling comes out sufficiently in a remark in the first. he reverses the saying about cranmer, and says that he may affirm of steele, "do him a good turn, and he is your enemy for ever." there is vigorous writing enough, and effective ridicule of steele's literary style and political alarmism. but it is painfully obvious, as in the attack upon burnet, that personal animosity is now the predominant instead of an auxiliary feeling. swift is anxious beyond all things to mortify and humiliate an antagonist. and he is in proportion less efficient as a partizan, though more amusing. he has, moreover, the disadvantage of being politically on the defensive. he is no longer proclaiming a policy, but endeavouring to disavow the policy attributed to his party. the wrath which breaks forth, and the bitter personality with which it is edged, were far more calculated to irritate his opponents than to disarm the lookers-on of their suspicions. part of the fury was no doubt due to the growing unsoundness of his political position. steele in the beginning of 1714 was expelled from the house for the _crisis_; and an attack made upon swift in the house of lords for an incidental outburst against the hated scots in his reply to the _crisis_, was only staved off by a manoeuvre of the ministry. meanwhile swift was urging the necessity of union upon men who hated each other more than they regarded any public cause whatever. swift at last brought his two patrons together in lady masham's lodgings, and entreated them to be reconciled. if, he said, they would agree, all existing mischiefs could be remedied in two minutes. if they would not, the ministry would be ruined in two months. bolingbroke assented: oxford characteristically shuffled, said "all would be well," and asked swift to dine with him next day. swift, however, said that he would not stay to see the inevitable catastrophe. it was his natural instinct to hide his head in such moments; his intensely proud and sensitive nature could not bear to witness the triumph of his enemies, and he accordingly retired at the end of may, 1714, to the quiet parsonage of upper letcombe in berkshire. the public wondered and speculated; friends wrote letters describing the scenes which followed, and desiring swift's help; and he read, and walked, and chewed the cud of melancholy reflection, and thought of stealing away to ireland. he wrote, however, a very remarkable pamphlet, giving his view of the situation, which was not published at the time; events went too fast. swift's conduct at this critical point is most noteworthy. the pamphlet (_free thoughts upon the present state of affairs_) exactly coincides with all his private and public utterances. his theory was simple and straightforward. the existing situation was the culminating result of harley's policy of refinement and procrastination. swift two years before had written a very able remonstrance with the october club, who had sought to push harley into decisive measures; but though he preached patience, he really sympathized with their motives. instead of making a clean sweep of his opponents, harley had left many of them in office, either from "refinement"--that over-subtlety of calculation which swift thought inferior to plain common sense, and which, to use his favourite illustration, is like the sharp knife that mangles the paper, when a plain, blunt paper-knife cuts it properly--or else from inability to move the queen, which he had foolishly allowed to pass for unwillingness, in order to keep up the appearance of power. two things were now to be done; first, a clean sweep should be made of all whigs and dissenters from office and from the army; secondly, the court of hanover should be required to break off all intercourse with the opposition, on which condition the heir-presumptive (the infant prince frederick) might be sent over to reside in england. briefly, swift's policy was a policy of "thorough." oxford's vacillations were the great obstacle, and oxford was falling before the alliance of bolingbroke with lady masham. bolingbroke might have turned swift's policy to the account of the jacobites; but swift did not take this into account, and in the _free thoughts_ he declares his utter disbelief in any danger to the succession. what side, then, should he take? he sympathized with bolingbroke's avowed principles. bolingbroke was eager for his help, and even hoped to reconcile him to the red-haired duchess. but swift was bound to oxford by strong personal affection; by an affection which was not diminished even by the fact that oxford had procrastinated in the matter of swift's own preferment; and was, at this very moment, annoying him by delaying to pay the 1000_l._ incurred by his installation in the deanery. to oxford he had addressed (nov. 21, 1713) a letter of consolation upon the death of a daughter, possessing the charm which is given to such letters only by the most genuine sympathy with the feelings of the loser, and by a spontaneous selection of the only safe topic--praise of the lost, equally tender and sincere. every reference to oxford is affectionate. when, at the beginning of july, oxford was hastening to his fall, swift wrote to him another manly and dignified letter, professing an attachment beyond the reach of external accidents of power and rank. the end came soon. swift heard that oxford was about to resign. he wrote at once (july 25, 1714) to propose to accompany him to his country house. oxford replied two days later in a letter oddly characteristic. he begs swift to come with him; "if i have not tired you _tãªte-ã -tãªte_, fling away so much of your time upon one who loves you;" and then rather spoils the pathos by a bit of hopeless doggerel. swift wrote to miss vanhomrigh on august 1. "i have been asked," he says, "to join with those people now in power; but i will not do it. i told lord oxford i would go with him, when he was out; and now he begs it of me, and i cannot refuse him. i meddle not with his faults, as he was a minister of state; but you know his personal kindness to me was excessive; he distinguished and chose me above all other men, while he was great, and his letter to me the other day was the most moving imaginable." an intimacy which bore such fruit in time of trial was not one founded upon a servility varnished by self-assertion. no stauncher friend than swift ever lived. but his fidelity was not to be put to further proof. the day of the letter just quoted was the day of queen anne's death. the crash which followed ruined the "people now in power" as effectually as oxford. the party with which swift had identified himself, in whose success all his hopes and ambitions were bound up, was not so much ruined as annihilated. "the earl of oxford," wrote bolingbroke to swift, "was removed on tuesday. the queen died on sunday. what a world is this, and how does fortune banter us!" chapter vi. stella and vanessa. the final crash of the tory administration found swift approaching the end of his forty-seventh year. it found him in his own opinion prematurely aged both in mind and body. his personal prospects and political hopes were crushed. "i have a letter from dean swift," says arbuthnot in september; "he keeps up his noble spirit, and though like a man knocked down, you may behold him still with a stern countenance and aiming a blow at his adversaries." yet his adversaries knew, and he knew only too well, that such blows as he could now deliver could at most show his wrath without gratifying his revenge. he was disarmed as well as "knocked down." he writes to bolingbroke from dublin in despair. "i live a country life in town," he says, "see nobody, and go every day once to prayers, and hope in a few months to grow as stupid as the present situation of affairs will require. well, after all, parsons are not such bad company, especially when they are under subjection; and i let none but such come near me." oxford, bolingbroke, and ormond were soon in exile or the tower; and a letter to pope next year gives a sufficient picture of swift's feelings. "you know," he said, "how well i loved both lord oxford and bolingbroke, and how dear the duke of ormond is to me; do you imagine i can be easy while their enemies are endeavouring to take off their heads?--_i nunc et versus tecum meditare canoros!_" "you are to understand," he says in conclusion, "that i live in the corner of a vast unfurnished house; my family consists of a steward, a groom, a helper in the stable, a footman, and an old maid, who are all at board wages, and when i do not dine abroad or make an entertainment (which last is very rare), i eat a mutton pie and drink half a pint of wine; my amusements are defending my small dominions against the archbishop, and endeavouring to reduce my rebellious choir. _perditur hã¦c inter misero lux._" in another of the dignified letters which show the finest side of his nature, he offered to join oxford, whose intrepid behaviour, he says, "has astonished every one but me, who know you so well." but he could do nothing beyond showing sympathy; and he remained alone asserting his authority in his ecclesiastical domains, brooding over the past, and for the time unable to divert his thoughts into any less distressing channel. some verses written in october "in sickness" give a remarkable expression of his melancholy,- 'tis true--then why should i repine to see my life so fast decline? but why obscurely here alone where i am neither loved nor known? my state of health none care to learn, my life is here no soul's concern, and those with whom i now converse without a tear will tend my hearse. yet we might have fancied that his lot would not be so unbearable. after all, a fall which ends in a deanery should break no bones. his friends, though hard pressed, survived; and, lastly, was any one so likely to shed tears upon his hearse as the woman to whom he was finally returning? the answer to this question brings us to a story imperfectly known to us, but of vital importance in swift's history. we have seen in what masterful fashion swift took possession of great men. the same imperious temper shows itself in his relations to women. he required absolute submission. entrance into the inner circle of his affections could only be achieved by something like abasement; but all within it became as a part of himself, to be both cherished and protected without stint. his affectation of brutality was part of a system. on first meeting lady burlington at her husband's house, he ordered her to sing. she declined. he replied, "sing, or i will make you. why, madam, i suppose you take me for one of your english hedge-parsons; sing when i tell you." she burst into tears and retired. the next time he met her he began, "pray, madam, are you as proud and ill-natured as when i saw you last?" she good-humouredly gave in, and swift became her warm friend. another lady to whom he was deeply attached was a famous beauty, anne long. a whimsical treaty was drawn up, setting forth that "the said dr. swift, upon the score of his merit and extraordinary qualities, doth claim the sole and undoubted right that all persons whatever shall make such advance to him as he pleases to demand, any law, claim, custom, privilege of sex, beauty, fortune or quality to the contrary notwithstanding;" and providing that miss long shall cease the contumacy in which she has been abetted by the vanhomrighs, but be allowed in return, in consideration of her being "a lady of the toast," to give herself the reputation of being one of swift's acquaintance. swift's affection for miss long is touchingly expressed in private papers, and in a letter written upon her death in retirement and poverty. he intends to put up a monument to her memory, and wrote a notice of her, "to serve her memory," and also, as he characteristically adds, to spite the brother who had neglected her. years afterwards he often refers to the "edict" which he annually issued in england, commanding all ladies to make him the first advances. he graciously makes an exception in favour of the duchess of queensberry, though he observes incidentally that he now hates all people whom he cannot command. this humorous assumption, like all swift's humour, has a strong element of downright earnest. he gives whimsical prominence to a genuine feeling. he is always acting the part of despot, and acting it very gravely. when he stays at sir arthur acheson's, lady acheson becomes his pupil, and is "severely chid" when she reads wrong. mrs. pendarves, afterwards mrs. delany, says in the same way that swift calls himself "her master," and corrects her when she speaks bad english.[41] he behaved in the same way to his servants. delany tells us that he was "one of the best masters in the world," paid his servants the highest rate of wages known, and took great pains to encourage and help them to save. but, on engaging them, he always tested their humility. one of their duties, he told them, would be to take turns in cleaning the scullion's shoes, and if they objected, he sent them about their business. he is said to have tested a curate's docility in the same way by offering him sour wine. his dominion was most easily extended over women; and a long list might be easily made out of the feminine favourites who at all periods of his life were in more or less intimate relations with this self-appointed sultan. from the wives of peers and the daughters of lord-lieutenants down to dublin tradeswomen with a taste for rhyming, and even scullerymaids with no tastes at all, a whole hierarchy of female slaves bowed to his rule, and were admitted into higher and lower degrees of favour. esther johnson, or stella--to give her the name which she did not receive until after the period of the famous journals--was one of the first of these worshippers. as we have seen, he taught her to write, and when he went to laracor, she accepted the peculiar position already described. we have no direct statement of their mutual feelings before the time of the journal; but one remarkable incident must be noticed. during his stay in england in 1703-4 swift had some correspondence with a dublin clergyman named tisdall. he afterwards regarded tisdall with a contempt which, for the present, is only half perceptible in some good-humoured raillery. tisdall's intimacy with "the ladies," stella and mrs. dingley, is one topic, and in the last of swift's letters we find that tisdall has actually made an offer for stella. swift had replied in a letter (now lost), which tisdall called unfriendly, unkind, and unaccountable. swift meets these reproaches coolly, contemptuously, and straightforwardly. he will not affect unconsciousness of tisdall's meaning. tisdall obviously takes him for a rival in stella's affections. swift replies that he will tell the naked truth. the truth is that "if his fortune and humour served him to think of that state" (marriage) he would prefer stella to any one on earth. so much, he says, he has declared to tisdall before. he did not, however, think of his affection as an obstacle to tisdall's hopes. tisdall had been too poor to marry; but the offer of a living has removed that objection; and swift undertakes to act what he has hitherto acted, a friendly though passive part. he had thought, he declares, that the affair had gone too far to be broken off; he had always spoken of tisdall in friendly terms; "no consideration of my own misfortune in losing so good a friend and companion as her" shall prevail upon him to oppose the match, "since it is held so necessary and convenient a thing for ladies to marry, and that time takes off from the lustre of virgins in all other eyes but mine." the letter must have suggested some doubts to tisdall. swift alleges as his only reasons for not being a rival in earnest his "humour" and the state of his fortune. the last obstacle might be removed at any moment. swift's prospects, though deferred, were certainly better than tisdall's. unless, therefore, the humour was more insurmountable than is often the case, swift's coolness was remarkable or ominous. it may be that, as some have held, there was nothing behind. but another possibility undoubtedly suggests itself. stella had received tisdall's suit so unfavourably that it was now suspended, and that it finally failed. stella was corresponding with swift. it is easy to guess that between the "unaccountable" letter and the contemptuous letter, swift had heard something from stella, which put him thoroughly at ease in regard to tisdall's attentions. we have no further information until, seven years afterwards, we reach the _journal to stella_, and find ourselves overhearing the "little language." the first editors scrupled at a full reproduction of what might strike an unfriendly reader as almost drivelling; and mr. forster reprinted for the first time the omitted parts of the still accessible letters. the little language is a continuation of stella's infantile prattle. certain letters are a cipher for pet names which may be conjectured. swift calls himself pdfr, or podefar, meaning, as mr. forster guesses, "poor, dear foolish rogue." stella, or rather esther johnson, is ppt, say "poppet." md, "my dear," means stella, and sometimes includes mrs. dingley. fw means "farewell," or "foolish wenches;" lele is taken by mr. forster to mean "truly" or "lazy," or "there, there," or to have "other meanings not wholly discoverable." the phrases come in generally by way of leave-taking. "so i got into bed," he says, "to write to md, md, for we must always write to md, md, md, awake or asleep;" and he ends, "go to bed. help pdfr. rove pdfr, md, md. nite darling rogues." here is another scrap, "i assure oo it im vely late now; but zis goes to-morrow; and i must have time to converse with own deerichar md. nite de deer sollahs." one more leave-taking may be enough. "farewell, dearest hearts and souls, md. farewell, md, md, md. fw, fw, fw. me, me. lele, lele, lele, sollahs, lele." the reference to the golden farmer already noted is in the words, "i warrant oo don't remember the golden farmer neither, figgarkick solly," and i will venture to a guess at what mr. forster pronounces to be inexplicable.[42] may not solly be the same as "sollah," generally interpreted by the editors as "sirrah;" and "figgarkick" possibly be the same as pilgarlick, a phrase which he elsewhere applies to stella,[43] and which the dictionaries say means "poor, deserted creature"? swift says that as he writes his language he "makes up his mouth just as if he was speaking it." it fits the affectionate caresses in which he is always indulging. nothing, indeed, can be more charming than the playful little prattle which occasionally interrupts the gossip and the sharp utterances of hope or resentment. in the snatches of leisure, late at night or before he has got up in the morning, he delights in an imaginary chat; for a few minutes of little fondling talk help him to forget his worries, and anticipate the happiness of reunion. he caresses her letters, as he cannot touch her hand. "and now let us come and see what this saucy, dear letter of md says. come out, letter, come out from between the sheets; here it is underneath, and it will not come out. come out again, i says; so there. here it is. what says pdf to me, pray? says it. come and let me answer for you to your ladies. hold up your head then like a good letter." and so he begins a little talk, and prays that they may be never separated again for ten days, whilst he lives. then he follows their movements in dublin in passages which give some lively little pictures of their old habits. "and where will you go to-day? for i cannot be with you for the ladies." [he is off sight-seeing to the tower and bedlam with lady kerry and a friend.] "it is a rainy, ugly day; i would have you send for wales, and go to the dean's; but do not play small games when you lose. you will be ruined by manilio, basto, the queen, and two small trumps in red. i confess it is a good hand against the player. but, then, there are spadilio, punto, the king, strong trumps against you, which with one rump more are three tricks ten ace; for suppose you play your manilio--o, silly, how i prate and cannot get away from md in a morning. go, get you gone, dear naughty girls, and let me rise." he delights again in turning to account his queer talent for making impromptu proverbs,- be you lords or be you earls, you must write to naughty girls. or again,- mr. white and mr. red write to m.d. when abed: mr. black and mr. brown write to m.d. when you are down: mr. oak and mr. willow write to m.d. on your pillow. and here is one more for the end of the year,- would you answer m.d.'s letter on new year's day you will do it better: for when the year with m.d. 'gins it without m.d. never 'lins. "these proverbs," he explains, "have always old words in them; _lin_ is leave off." but if on new year you write nones m.d. then will bang your bones. reading these fond triflings we feel even now as though we were unjustifiably prying into the writer's confidence. what are we to say to them? we might simply say that the tender playfulness is charming; and that it is delightful to find the stern gladiator turning from party-warfare to soothe his wearied soul with these tender caresses. there is but one drawback. macaulay imitates some of this prattle in his charming letters to his younger sister, and there we can accept it without difficulty. but stella was not swift's younger sister. she was a beautiful and clever woman of thirty, when he was in the prime of his powers at forty-four. if tisdall could have seen the journal he would have ceased to call swift "unaccountable." did all this caressing suggest nothing to stella? swift does not write as an avowed lover; dingley serves as a chaperone even in these intimate confidences; and yet a word or two escapes which certainly reads like something more than fraternal affection. he apologizes (may 23, 1711) for not returning; "i will say no more, but beg you to be easy till fortune takes her course, and to believe that md's felicity is the great goal i aim at in all my pursuits." if such words addressed under such circumstances did not mean "i hope to make you my wife as soon as i get a deanery," there must have been some distinct understanding to limit their force. but another character enters the drama, mrs. vanhomrigh,[44] a widow rich enough to mix in good society, was living in london with two sons and two daughters, and made swift's acquaintance in 1708. her eldest daughter, hester, was then seventeen, or about ten years younger than stella. when swift returned to london in 1710, he took lodgings close to the vanhomrighs, and became an intimate of the family. in the daily reports of his dinner, the name van occurs more frequently than any other. dinner, let us observe in passing, had not then so much as now the character of a solemn religious rite, implying a formal invitation. the ordinary hour was three (though harley with his usual procrastination often failed to sit down till six), and swift, when not pre-engaged, looked in at court or elsewhere in search of an invitation. he seldom failed: and when nobody else offered he frequently went to the "vans." the name of the daughter is only mentioned two or three times; whilst it is perhaps a suspicious circumstance that he very often makes a quasi-apology for his dining-place. "i was so lazy i dined where my new gown was, at mrs. vanhomrigh's," he says, in may, 1711; and a day or two later explains that he keeps his "best gown and periwig" there whilst he is lodging at chelsea, and often dines there "out of mere listlessness." the phrase may not have been consciously insincere; but swift was drifting into an intimacy which stella could hardly approve, and, if she desired swift's love, would regard as ominous. when swift took possession of his deanery, he revealed his depression to miss vanhomrigh, who about this time took the title vanessa; and vanessa again received his confidences from letcombe. a full account of their relations is given in the remarkable poem called _cadenus and vanessa_, less remarkable, indeed, as a poem than as an autobiographical document. it is singularly characteristic of swift that we can use what, for want of a better classification, must be called a love poem, as though it were an affidavit in a law-suit. most men would feel some awkwardness in hinting at sentiments conveyed by swift in the most downright terms; to turn them into a poem would seem preposterous. swift's poetry, however, is always plain matter of fact, and we may read _cadenus_ (which means of course _decanus_) _and vanessa_ as swift's deliberate and palpably sincere account of his own state of mind. omitting a superfluous framework of mythology in the contemporary taste, we have a plain story of the relations of this new heloã¯se and abelard. vanessa, he tells us, united masculine accomplishments to feminine grace; the fashionable fops (i use swift's own words as much as possible) who tried to entertain her with the tattle of the day, stared when she replied by applications of plutarch's morals; the ladies from the purlieus of st. james's found her reading montaigne at her toilet, and were amazed by her ignorance of the fashions. both were scandalized at the waste of such charms and talents due to the want of so called knowledge of the world. meanwhile, vanessa, not yet twenty, met and straightway admired cadenus, though his eyes were dim with study and his health decayed. he had grown old in politics and wit; was caressed by ministers; dreaded and hated by half mankind, and had forgotten the arts by which he had once charmed ladies, though merely for amusement and to show his wit.[45] he did not understand what was love; he behaved to vanessa as a father might behave to a daughter; that innocent delight he took to see the virgin mind her book was but the master's secret joy in school to hear the finest boy. vanessa, once the quickest of learners, grew distracted. he apologized for having bored her by his pedantry, and offered a last adieu. she then startled him by a confession. he had taught her, she said, that virtue should never be afraid of disclosures; that noble minds were above common maxims (just what he had said to varina), and she therefore told him frankly that his lessons, aimed at her head, had reached her heart. cadenus was utterly taken aback. her words were too plain to be in jest. he was conscious of having never for a moment meant to be other than a teacher. yet every one would suspect him of intentions to win her heart and her five thousand pounds. he tried not to take things seriously. vanessa, however, became eloquent. she said that he had taught her to love great men through their books; why should she not love the living reality? cadenus was flattered and half converted. he had never heard her talk so well, and admitted that she had a most unfailing judgment and discerning head. he still maintained that his dignity and age put love out of the question, but he offered in return as much friendship as she pleased. she replies that she will now become tutor and teach him the lesson which he is so slow to learn. but--and here the revelation ends- but what success vanessa met is to the world a secret yet.[46] vanessa loved swift; and swift, it seems, allowed himself to be loved. one phrase in a letter written to him during his stay at dublin, in 1713, suggests the only hint of jealousy. if you are happy, she says, "it is ill-natured of you not to tell me so, except 'tis what is inconsistent with mine." soon after swift's final retirement to ireland, mrs. vanhomrigh died; her husband had left a small property at celbridge. one son was dead; the other behaved badly to his sisters; the daughters were for a time in money difficulties, and it became convenient for them to retire to ireland, where vanessa ultimately settled at celbridge. the two women who worshipped swift were thus almost in presence of each other. the situation almost suggests comedy; but unfortunately it was to take a most tragical and still partly mysterious development. the fragmentary correspondence between swift and vanessa establishes certain facts. their intercourse was subject to restraints. he begs her, when he is starting for dublin, to get her letters directed by some other hand, and to write nothing that may not be seen, for fear of "inconveniences." the post-office clerk surely would not be more attracted by vanessa's hand than by that of such a man as lewis, a subordinate of harley's who had formerly forwarded her letters. he adds that if she comes to ireland, he will see her very seldom. "it is not a place for freedom, but everything is known in a week and magnified a hundred times." poor vanessa soon finds the truth of this. she complains that she is amongst "strange prying deceitful people;" that he flies her and will give no reason except that they are amongst fools and must submit. his reproofs are terrible to her. "if you continue to treat me as you do," she says soon after, "you will not be made uneasy by me long." she would rather have borne the rack than those "killing, killing words" of his. she writes instead of speaking, because when she ventures to complain in person "you are angry, and there is something in your look so awful that it shakes me dumb"--a memorable phrase in days soon to come. she protests that she says as little as she can. if he knew what she thought, he must be moved. the letter containing these phrases is dated 1714, and there are but a few scraps till 1720; we gather that vanessa submitted partly to the necessities of the situation: and that this extreme tension was often relaxed. yet she plainly could not resign herself or suppress her passion. two letters in 1720 are painfully vehement. he has not seen her for ten long weeks, she says in her first, and she has only had one letter and one little note with an excuse. she will sink under his "prodigious neglect." time or accident cannot lessen her inexpressible passion. "put my passion under the utmost restraint; send me as distant from you as the earth will allow, yet you cannot banish those charming ideas which will stick by me, whilst i have the use of memory. nor is the love i bear you only seated in my soul, for there is not a single atom of my frame that is not blended with it." she thinks him changed, and entreats him not to suffer her to "live a life like a languishing death, which is the only life i can lead, if you have lost any of your tenderness for me." the following letter is even more passionate. she passes days in sighing and nights in watching and thinking of one who thinks not of her. she was born with "violent passions, which terminate all in one, that inexpressible passion i have for you." if she could guess at his thoughts, which is impossible ("for never any one living thought like you") she would guess that he wishes her "religious"--that she might pay her devotions to heaven. "but that should not spare you, for was i an enthusiast, still you'd be the deity i should worship." "what marks are there of a deity but what you are to be known by--you are (at?) present everywhere; your dear image is always before my eyes. sometimes you strike me with that prodigious awe, i tremble with fear; at other times a charming compassion shines through your countenance, which moves my soul. is it not more reasonable to adore a radiant form one has seen, than one only described?"[47] the man who received such letters from a woman whom he at least admired and esteemed, who felt that to respond was to administer poison, and to fail to respond was to inflict the severest pangs, must have been in the cruellest of dilemmas. swift, we cannot doubt, was grieved and perplexed. his letters imply embarrassment; and, for the most part, take a lighter tone; he suggests his universal panacea of exercise; tells her to fly from the spleen instead of courting it; to read diverting books, and so forth; advice more judicious probably than comforting. there are, however, some passages of a different tendency. there is a mutual understanding to use certain catch-words, which recall the "little language." he wishes that her letters were as hard to read as his, in case of accident. "a stroke thus ... signifies everything that may be said to _cad_, at the beginning and conclusion." and she uses this written caress, and signs herself--his own "skinage." there are certain "questions," to which reference is occasionally made; a kind of catechism, it seems, which he was expected to address to himself at intervals, and the nature of which must be conjectured. he proposes to continue the _cadenus and vanessa_--a proposal which makes her happy beyond "expression,"--and delights her by recalling a number of available incidents. he recurs to them in his last letter, and bids her "go over the scenes of windsor, cleveland row, rider street, st. james's street, kensington, the shrubbery, the colonel in france, &c. cad thinks often of these, especially on horseback,[48] as i am assured." this prosaic list of names recall, as we find, various old meetings. and, finally, one letter contains an avowal of a singular kind. "soyez assurã©e," he says, after advising her "to quit this scoundrel island," "que jamais personne du monde a ã©tã© aimã©e, honorã©e, estimã©e, adorã©e par votre ami que vous." it seems as though he were compelled to throw her just a crumb of comfort here: but, in the same breath, he has begged her to leave him for ever. if vanessa was ready to accept a "gown of forty-four," to overlook his infirmities in consideration of his fame, why should swift have refused? why condemn her to undergo this "languishing death,"--a long agony of unrequited passion? one answer is suggested by the report that swift was secretly married to stella in 1716. the fact is not proved, nor disproved:[49] nor, to my mind, is the question of its truth of much importance. the ceremony, if performed, was nothing but a ceremony. the only rational explanation of the fact, if it be taken for a fact, must be that swift, having resolved not to marry, gave stella this security that he would, at least, marry no one else. though his anxiety to hide the connexion with vanessa may only mean a dread of idle tongues, it is at least highly probable that stella was the person from whom he specially desired to keep it. yet his poetical addresses to stella upon her birthday (of which the first is dated 1719, and the last 1727) are clearly not the addresses of a lover. both in form and substance they are even pointedly intended to express friendship instead of love. they read like an expansion of his avowal to tisdall, that her charms for him, though for no one else, could not be diminished by her growing old without marriage. he addresses her with blunt affection, and tells her plainly of her growing size and waning beauty; comments even upon her defects of temper, and seems expressly to deny that he loved her in the usual way. thou, stella, wert no longer young when first for thee my harp i strung, without one word of cupid's darts of killing eyes and bleeding hearts; with friendship and esteem possess'd i ne'er admitted love a guest. we may almost say that he harps upon the theme of "friendship and esteem." his gratitude for her care of him is pathetically expressed; he admires her with the devotion of a brother for the kindest of sisters; his plain prosaic lines become poetical, or perhaps something better; but there is an absence of the lover's strain which is only not, if not, ostentatious. the connexion with stella, whatever its nature, gives the most intelligible explanation of his keeping vanessa at a distance. a collision between his two slaves might be disastrous. and, as the story goes (for we are everywhere upon uncertain ground), it came. in 1721 poor vanessa had lost her only sister,[50] and companion: her brothers were already dead, and, in her solitude, she would naturally be more than ever eager for swift's kindness. at last, in 1723, she wrote (it is said) a letter to stella, and asked whether she was swift's wife.[51] stella replied that she was, and forwarded vanessa's letter to swift. how swift could resent an attempt to force his wishes, has been seen in the letter to varina. he rode in a fury to celbridge. his countenance, says orrery, could be terribly expressive of the sterner passions. prominent eyes--"azure as the heavens" (says pope)--arched by bushy black eyebrows, could glare, we can believe from his portraits, with the green fury of a cat's. vanessa had spoken of the "something awful in his looks," and of his killing words. he now entered her room, silent with rage, threw down her letter on the table and rode off. he had struck vanessa's death-blow. she died soon afterwards, but lived long enough to revoke a will made in favour of swift, and leave her money between judge marshal and the famous bishop berkeley. berkeley, it seems, had only seen her once in his life. the story of the last fatal interview has been denied. vanessa's death, though she was under thirty-five, is less surprising when we remember that her younger sister and both her brothers had died before her; and that her health had always been weak, and her life for some time a languishing death. that there was in any case a terribly tragic climax to the half-written romance of _cadenus and vanessa_ is certain. vanessa requested that the poem and the letters might be published by her executors. berkeley suppressed the letters for the time; and they were not published in full until scott's edition of swift's works. whatever the facts, swift had reasons enough for bitter regret if not for deep remorse. he retired to hide his head in some unknown retreat; absolute seclusion was the only solace to his gloomy, wounded spirit. after two months he returned to resume his retired habits. a period followed, as we shall see in the next chapter, of fierce political excitement. for a time too he had a vague hope of escaping from his exile. an astonishing literary success increased his reputation. but another misfortune approached which crushed all hope of happiness in life. in 1726 swift at last revisited england. he writes in july that he has for two months been anxious about stella's health, and as usual feared the worst. he has seen through the disguises of a letter from mrs. dingley. his heart is so sunk that he will never be the same man again, but drag on a wretched life till it pleases god to call him away. then in an agony of distress he contemplates her death; he says that he could not bear to be present; he should be a trouble to her, and the greatest torment to himself. he forces himself to add that her death must not take place at the deanery. he will not return to find her just dead or dying. "nothing but extremity could make me so familiar with those terrible words applied to so dear a friend." "i think," he says in another letter, "that there is not a greater folly than that of entering into too strict a partnership or friendship with the loss of which a man must be absolutely miserable; but especially [when the loss occurs] at an age when it is too late to engage in a new friendship." the morbid feeling which could withhold a man from attending a friend's deathbed, or allow him to regret the affection to which his pain was due, is but too characteristic of swift's egoistic attachments. yet we forgive the rash phrase, when we read his passionate expressions of agony. swift returned to ireland in the autumn, and stella struggled through the winter. he was again in england in the following summer; and for a time in better spirits. but once more the news comes that stella is probably on her deathbed; and he replies in letters which we read as we listen to groans of a man in sorest agony. he keeps one letter for an hour before daring to open it. he does not wish to live to see the loss of the person for whose sake alone life was worth preserving. "what have i to do in the world? i never was in such agonies as when i received your letter, and had it in my pocket. i am able to hold up my sorry head no longer." in another distracted letter, he repeats in latin the desire that stella shall not die in the deanery, for fear of malignant misinterpretations. if any marriage had taken place, the desire to conceal it had become a rooted passion. swift returned to ireland to find stella still living. it is said that in the last period of her life swift offered to make the marriage public, and that she declined, saying that it was now too late.[52] she lingered till january 28, 1728. he sat down the same night to write a few scattered reminiscences. he breaks down; and writes again during the funeral, which he is too ill to attend. the fragmentary notes give us the most authentic account of stella, and show, at least, what she appeared in the eyes of her lifelong friend and protector. we may believe that she was intelligent and charming; as we can be certain that swift loved her in every sense but one. a lock of her hair was preserved in an envelope in which he had written one of those vivid phrases by which he still lives in our memory: "_only a woman's hair_." what does it mean? our interpretation will depend partly upon what we can see ourselves in a lock of hair. but i think that any one who judges swift fairly will read in those four words the most intense utterance of tender affection, and of pathetic yearning for the irrevocable past strangely blended with a bitterness springing not from remorse, but indignation at the cruel tragi-comedy of life. the destinies laugh at us whilst they torture us; they make cruel scourges of trifles, and extract the bitterest passion from our best affections. swift was left alone. before we pass on we must briefly touch the problems of this strange history. it was a natural guess that some mysterious cause condemned swift to his loneliness. a story is told by scott (on poor evidence) that delany went to archbishop king's library about the time of the supposed marriage. as he entered swift rushed out with a distracted countenance. king was in tears, and said to delany, "you have just met the most unhappy man on earth; but on the subject of his wretchedness you must never ask a question." this has been connected with a guess made by somebody that swift had discovered stella to be his natural sister. it can be shown conclusively that this is impossible; and the story must be left as picturesque but too hopelessly vague to gratify any inference whatever. we know without it that swift was unhappy; but we know nothing of any definite cause. another view is that there is no mystery. swift, it is said, retained through life the position of stella's "guide, philosopher and friend," and was never anything more. stella's address to swift (on his birthday, 1721), may be taken to confirm this theory. it says with a plainness like his own that he had taught her to despise beauty and hold her empire by virtue and sense. yet the theory is in itself strange. the less love entered into swift's relations to stella, the more difficult to explain his behaviour to vanessa. if he regarded stella only as a daughter or a younger sister, and she returned the same feeling, he had no reason for making any mystery about the woman who would not in that case be a rival. if, again, we accept this view, we naturally ask why swift "never admitted love a guest." he simply continued, it is suggested, to behave as teacher to pupil. he thought of her when she was a woman as he had thought of her when she was a child of eight years old. but it is singular that a man should be able to preserve such a relation. it is quite true that a connexion of this kind may blind a man to its probable consequences; but it is contrary to ordinary experience that it should render the consequences less probable. the relation might explain why swift should be off his guard; but could hardly act as a safeguard. an ordinary man who was on such terms with a beautiful girl as are revealed in the _journal to stella_ would have ended by falling in love with her. why did not swift? we can only reply by remembering the "coldness" of temper to which he refers in his first letter: and his assertion that he did not understand love, and that his frequent flirtations never meant more than a desire for distraction. the affair with varina is an exception: but there are grounds for holding that swift was constitutionally indisposed to the passion of love. the absence of any traces of such a passion from writings conspicuous for their amazing sincerity, and (it is added) for their freedoms of another kind, has been often noticed as a confirmation of this hypothesis. yet it must be said that swift could be strictly reticent about his strongest feelings--and was specially cautious, for whatever reason, in regard to his relation with stella.[53] if swift constitutionally differed from other men, we have some explanation of his strange conduct. but we must take into account other circumstances. swift had very obvious motives for not marrying. in the first place, he gradually became almost a monomaniac upon the question of money. his hatred of wasting a penny unnecessarily began at trinity college, and is prominent in all his letters and journals. it coloured even his politics, for a conviction that the nation was hopelessly ruined is one of his strongest prejudices. he kept accounts down to halfpence, and rejoices at every saving of a shilling. the passion was not the vulgar desire for wealth of the ordinary miser. it sprang from the conviction stored up in all his aspirations that money meant independence. "wealth," he says, "is liberty; and liberty is a blessing fittest for a philosopher--and gay is a slave just by two thousand pounds too little."[54] gay was a duchess's lapdog: swift, with all his troubles, at least a free man. like all swift's prejudices, this became a fixed idea which was always gathering strength. he did not love money for its own sake. he was even magnificent in his generosity. he scorned to receive money for his writings; he abandoned the profit to his printers in compensation for the risks they ran, or gave it to his friends. his charity was splendid relatively to his means. in later years he lived on a third of his income, gave away a third, and saved the remaining third for his posthumous charity,[55]--and posthumous charity which involves present saving is charity of the most unquestionable kind. his principle was that by reducing his expenditure to the lowest possible point, he secured his independence and could then make a generous use of the remainder. until he had received his deanery, however, he could only make both ends meet. marriage would therefore have meant poverty, probably dependence, and the complete sacrifice of his ambition. if under these circumstances swift had become engaged to stella upon temple's death, he would have been doing what was regularly done by fellows of colleges under the old system. there is, however, no trace of such an engagement. it would be in keeping with swift's character, if we should suppose that he shrank from the bondage of an engagement; that he designed to marry stella as soon as he should achieve a satisfactory position, and meanwhile trusted to his influence over her, and thought that he was doing her justice by leaving her at liberty to marry if she chose. the close connexion must have been injurious to stella's prospects of a match; but it continued only by her choice. if this were in fact the case, it is still easy to understand why swift did not marry upon becoming dean. he felt himself, i have said, to be a broken man. his prospects were ruined, and his health precarious. this last fact requires to be remembered in every estimate of swift's character. his life was passed under a damocles' sword. he suffered from a distressing illness which he attributed to an indigestion produced by an over-consumption of fruit at temple's when he was a little over twenty-one. the main symptoms were a giddiness, which frequently attacked him, and was accompanied by deafness. it is quite recently that the true nature of the complaint has been identified. dr. bucknill[56] seems to prove that the symptoms are those of "labyrinthine vertigo," or mã©niã¨re's disease, so called because discovered by mã©niã¨re in 1861. the references to his sufferings, brought together by sir william wilde in 1849,[57] are frequent in all his writings. it tormented him for days, weeks, and months, gradually becoming more permanent in later years. in 1731 he tells gay that his giddiness attacks him constantly, though it is less violent than of old; and in 1736 he says that it is continual. from a much earlier period it had alarmed and distressed him. some pathetic entries are given by mr. forster from one of his note-books:--"dec. 5 (1708).--horribly sick. 12th.--much better, thank god and m.d.'s prayers.... april 2nd (1709).--small giddy fit and swimming in the head. m.d. and god help me.... july, 1710.--terrible fit. god knows what may be the event. better towards the end." the terrible anxiety, always in the background, must count for much in swift's gloomy despondency. though he seems always to have spoken of the fruit as the cause, he must have had misgivings as to the nature and result. dr. bucknill tells us that it was not necessarily connected with the disease of the brain, which ultimately came upon him; but he may well have thought that this disorder of the head was prophetic of such an end. it was probably in 1717 that he said to young of the _night thoughts_, "i shall be like that tree; i shall die at the top." a man haunted perpetually by such forebodings might well think that marriage was not for him. in _cadenus and vanessa_ he insists upon his declining years with an emphasis which seems excessive even from a man of forty-four (in 1713 he was really forty-five) to a girl of twenty. in a singular poem called the _progress of marriage_ he treats the supposed case of a divine of fifty-two marrying a lively girl of fashion, and speaks with his usual plainness of the probable consequences of such folly. we cannot doubt that here as elsewhere he is thinking of himself. he was fifty-two when receiving the passionate love-letters of vanessa; and the poem seems to be specially significant. this is one of those cases in which we feel that even biographers are not omniscient; and i must leave it to my readers to choose their own theory, only suggesting that readers too are fallible. but we may still ask what judgment is to be passed upon swift's conduct. both stella and vanessa suffered from coming within the sphere of swift's imperious attraction. stella enjoyed his friendship through her life at the cost of a partial isolation from ordinary domestic happiness. she might and probably did regard his friendship as a full equivalent for the sacrifice. it is one of the cases in which, if the actors be our contemporaries, we hold that outsiders are incompetent to form a judgment, as none but the principals can really know the facts. is it better to be the most intimate friend of a man of genius or the wife of a commonplace tisdall? if stella chose, and chose freely, it is hard to say that she was mistaken, or to blame swift for a fascination which he could not but exercise. the tragedy of vanessa suggests rather different reflections. swift's duty was plain. granting what seems to be probable, that vanessa's passion took him by surprise, and that he thought himself disqualified for marriage by infirmity and weariness of life, he should have made his decision perfectly plain. he should have forbidden any clandestine relations. furtive caresses--even on paper, understandings to carry on a private correspondence, fond references to old meetings, were obviously calculated to encourage her passion. he should not only have pronounced it to be hopeless, but made her, at whatever cost, recognize the hopelessness. this is where swift's strength seems to have failed him. he was not intentionally cruel; he could not foresee the fatal event; he tried to put her aside, and he felt the "shame, disappointment, grief, surprise," of which he speaks on the avowal of her love. he gave her the most judicious advice, and tried to persuade her to accept it. but he did not make it effectual. he shrank from inflicting pain upon her and upon himself. he could not deprive himself of the sympathy which soothed his gloomy melancholy. his affection was never free from the egoistic element which prevented him from acting unequivocally as an impartial spectator would have advised him to act, or as he would have advised another to act in a similar case. and therefore when the crisis came the very strength of his affection produced an explosion of selfish wrath; and he escaped from the intolerable position by striking down the woman whom he loved, and whose love for him had become a burden. the wrath was not the less fatal because it was half composed of remorse, and the energy of the explosion proportioned to the strength of the feeling which had held it in check. chapter vii. wood's halfpence. in one of scott's finest novels, the old cameronian preacher, who had been left for dead by claverhouse's troopers, suddenly rises to confront his conquerors, and spends his last breath in denouncing the oppressors of the saints. even such an apparition was jonathan swift to comfortable whigs who were flourishing in the place of harley and st. john, when, after ten years' quiescence, he suddenly stepped into the political arena. after the first crushing fall he had abandoned partial hope, and contented himself with establishing supremacy in his chapter. but undying wrath smouldered in his breast till time came for an outburst. no man had ever learnt more thoroughly the lesson, "put not your faith in princes;" or had been impressed with a lower estimate of the wisdom displayed by the rulers of the world. he had been behind the scenes, and knew that the wisdom of great ministers meant just enough cunning to court the ruin which a little common sense would have avoided. corruption was at the prow and folly at the helm. the selfish ring which he had denounced so fiercely had triumphed. it had triumphed, as he held, by flattering the new dynasty, hoodwinking the nation, and maligning its antagonists. the cynical theory of politics was not for him, as for some comfortable cynics, an abstract proposition, which mattered very little to a sensible man; but was embodied in the bitter wrath with which he regarded his triumphant adversaries. pessimism is perfectly compatible with bland enjoyment of the good things in a bad world; but swift's pessimism was not of this type. it meant energetic hatred of definite things and people who were always before him. with this feeling, he had come to ireland; and ireland--i am speaking of a century and a half ago--was the opprobrium of english statesmanship. there swift had (or thought he had) always before him a concrete example of the basest form of tyranny. by ireland, i have said, swift meant, in the first place, the english in ireland. in the last years of his sanity he protested indignantly against the confusion between the "savage old irish," and the english gentry who, he said, were much better bred, spoke better english, and were more civilized than the inhabitants of many english counties.[58] he retained to the end of his life his antipathy to the scotch colonists. he opposed their demand for political equality as fiercely in the last as in his first political utterances. he contrasted them unfavourably[59] with the catholics, who had indeed been driven to revolt by massacre and confiscation under puritan rule, but who were now, he declared, "true whigs, in the best and most proper sense of the word," and thoroughly loyal to the house of hanover. had there been a danger of a catholic revolt, swift's feelings might have been different; but he always held, that they were "as inconsiderable as the women and children," mere "hewers of wood and drawers of water," "out of all capacity of doing any mischief, if they were ever so well inclined."[60] looking at them in this way, he felt a sincere compassion for their misery and a bitter resentment against their oppressors. the english, he said, in a remarkable letter,[61] should be ashamed of their reproaches of irish dulness, ignorance and cowardice. those defects were the products of slavery. he declared that the poor cottagers had "a much better natural taste for good sense, humour and raillery, than ever i observed among people of the like sort in england. but the millions of oppressions they lie under, the tyranny of their landlords, the ridiculous zeal of their priests, and the misery of the whole nation have been enough to damp the best spirits under the sun." such a view is now commonplace enough. it was then a heresy to english statesmen, who thought that nobody but a papist or a jacobite could object to the tyranny of whigs. swift's diagnosis of the chronic irish disease was thoroughly political. he considered that irish misery sprang from the subjection to a government not intentionally cruel, but absolutely selfish; to which the irish revenue meant so much convenient political plunder, and which acted on the principle quoted from cowley, that the happiness of ireland should not weigh against the "least conveniency" of england. he summed up his views in a remarkable letter,[62] to be presently mentioned, the substance of which had been orally communicated to walpole. he said to walpole, as he said in every published utterance:--first, that the colonists were still englishmen and entitled to english rights; secondly, that their trade was deliberately crushed, purely for the benefit of the english of england; thirdly, that all valuable preferments were bestowed upon men born in england, as a matter of course; and finally, that in consequence of this, the upper classes, deprived of all other openings, were forced to rack-rent their tenants to such a degree that not one farmer in the kingdom out of a hundred "could afford shoes or stockings to his children, or to eat flesh or drink anything better than sour milk and water twice in a year: so that the whole country, except the scotch plantation in the north, is a scene of misery and desolation hardly to be matched on this side lapland." a modern reformer would give the first and chief place to this social misery. it is characteristic that swift comes to it as a consequence from the injustice to his own class:--as, again, that he appeals to walpole not on the simple ground that the people are wretched, but on the ground that they will be soon unable to pay the tribute to england, which he reckons at a million a year. but his conclusion might be accepted by any irish patriot. whatever, he says, can make a country poor and despicable, concurs in the case of ireland. the nation is controlled by laws to which it does not consent; disowned by its brethren and countrymen; refused the liberty of trading even in its natural commodities; forced to seek for justice many hundred miles by sea and land; rendered in a manner incapable of serving the king and country in any place of honour, trust, or profit; whilst the governors have no sympathy with the governed, except what may occasionally arise from the sense of justice and philanthropy. i am not to ask how far swift was right in his judgments. every line which he wrote shows that he was thoroughly sincere and profoundly stirred by his convictions. a remarkable pamphlet, published in 1720, contained his first utterance upon the subject. it is an exhortation to the irish to use only irish manufactures. he applies to ireland the fable of _arachne and pallas_. the goddess, indignant at being equalled in spinning, turned her rival into a spider, to spin for ever out of her own bowels in a narrow compass. he always, he says, pitied poor arachne for so cruel and unjust a sentence, "which, however, is fully executed upon us by england with further additions of rigour and severity; for the greatest part of our bowels and vitals is extracted, without allowing us the liberty of spinning and weaving them." swift of course accepts the economic fallacy equally taken for granted by his opponents, and fails to see that england and ireland injured themselves as well as each other by refusing to interchange their productions. but he utters forcibly his righteous indignation against the contemptuous injustice of the english rulers, in consequence of which the "miserable people" are being reduced "to a worse condition than the peasants in france, or the vassals in germany and poland." slaves, he says, have a natural disposition to be tyrants; and he himself, when his betters give him a kick, is apt to revenge it with six upon his footman. that is how the landlords treat their tenantry. the printer of this pamphlet was prosecuted. the chief justice (whitshed) sent back the jury nine times and kept them eleven hours before they would consent to bring in a "special verdict." the unpopularity of the prosecution became so great that it was at last dropped. four years afterwards a more violent agitation broke out. a patent had been given to a certain william wood for supplying ireland with a copper coinage. many complaints had been made, and in september, 1723, addresses were voted by the irish houses of parliament, declaring that the patent had been obtained by clandestine and false representations: that it was mischievous to the country: and that wood had been guilty of frauds in his coinage. they were pacified by vague promises; but walpole went on with the scheme on the strength of a favourable report of a committee of the privy council; and the excitement was already serious when (in 1724) swift published the _drapier's letters_, which give him his chief title to eminence as a patriotic agitator. swift either shared or took advantage of the general belief that the mysteries of the currency are unfathomable to the human intelligence. they have to do with that world of financial magic in which wealth may be made out of paper, and all ordinary relations of cause and effect are suspended. there is, however, no real mystery about the halfpence. the small coins which do not form part of the legal tender may be considered primarily as counters. a penny is a penny, so long as twelve are change for a shilling. it is not in the least necessary for this purpose that the copper contained in the twelve penny pieces should be worth or nearly worth a shilling. a sovereign can never be worth much more than the gold of which it is made. but at the present day bronze worth only twopence is coined into twelve penny pieces.[63] the coined bronze is worth six times as much as the uncoined. the small coins must have some intrinsic value to deter forgery, and must be made of good materials to stand wear and tear. if these conditions be observed, and a proper number be issued, the value of the penny will be no more affected by the value of the copper than the value of the banknote by that of the paper on which it is written. this opinion assumes that the copper coins cannot be offered or demanded in payment of any but trifling debts. the halfpence coined by wood seem to have fulfilled these conditions, and as copper worth twopence (on the lowest computation) was coined into ten halfpence, worth fivepence, their intrinsic value was more than double that of modern halfpence. the halfpence, then, were not objectionable upon this ground. nay, it would have been wasteful to make them more valuable. it would have been as foolish to use more copper for the pence as to make the works of a watch of gold if brass is equally durable and convenient. but another consequence is equally clear. the effect of wood's patent was that a mass of copper worth about 60,000_l._,[64] became worth 100,800_l._ in the shape of halfpenny pieces. there was therefore a balance of about 40,000_l._ to pay for the expenses of coinage. it would have been waste to get rid of this by putting more copper in the coins; but if so large a profit arose from the transaction, it would go to somebody. at the present day it would be brought into the national treasury. this was not the way in which business was done in ireland. wood was to pay 1000_l._ a year for fourteen years to the crown.[65] but 14,000_l._ still leaves a large margin for profit. what was to become of it? according to the admiring biographer of sir r. walpole, the patent had been originally given by lord sunderland to the duchess of kendal, a lady whom the king delighted to honour. she already received 3000_l._ a year in pensions upon the irish establishment, and she sold this patent to wood for 10,000_l._ enough was still left to give wood a handsome profit; as in transactions of this kind, every accomplice in a dirty business expects to be well paid. so handsome, indeed, was the profit that wood received ultimately a pension of 3000_l._ for eight years, 24,000_l._, that is, in consideration of abandoning the patent. it was right and proper that a profit should be made on the transaction, but shameful that it should be divided between the king's mistress and william wood, and that the bargain should be struck without consulting the irish representatives, and maintained in spite of their protests. the duchess of kendal was to be allowed to take a share of the wretched halfpence in the pocket of every irish beggar. a more disgraceful transaction could hardly be imagined, or one more calculated to justify swift's view of the selfishness and corruption of the english rulers. swift saw his chance, and went to work in characteristic fashion, with unscrupulous audacity of statement, guided by the keenest strategical instinct. he struck at the heart as vigorously as he had done in the _examiner_, but with resentment sharpened by ten years of exile. it was not safe to speak of the duchess of kendal's share in the transaction, though the story, as poor archdeacon coxe pathetically declares, was industriously propagated. but the case against wood was all the stronger. is he so wicked, asks swift, as to suppose that a nation is to be ruined that he may gain three or fourscore thousand pounds? hampden went to prison, he says, rather than pay a few shillings wrongfully; i, says swift, would rather be hanged than have all my "property taxed at seventeen shillings in the pound at the arbitrary will and pleasure of the venerable mr. wood." a simple constitutional precedent might rouse a hampden; but to stir a popular agitation, it is as well to show that the evil actually inflicted is gigantic, independently of possible results. it requires, indeed, some audacity to prove that debasement of the copper currency can amount to a tax of seventeen shillings in the pound on all property. here, however, swift might simply throw the reins upon the neck of his fancy. anybody may make any inferences he pleases in the mysterious regions of currency; and no inferences, it seems, were too audacious for his hearers, though we are left to doubt how far swift's wrath had generated delusions in his own mind, and how far he perceived that other minds were ready to be deluded. he revels in prophesying the most extravagant consequences. the country will be undone; the tenants will not be able to pay their rents; "the farmers must rob, or beg, or leave the country; the shopkeepers in this and every other town must break or starve; the squire will hoard up all his good money to send to england and keep some poor tailor or weaver in his house, who will be glad to get bread at any rate."[66] concrete facts are given to help the imagination. squire conolly must have 250 horses to bring his half-yearly rents to town; and the poor man will have to pay thirty-six of wood's halfpence to get a quart of twopenny ale. how is this proved? one argument is a sufficient specimen. nobody, according to the patent, was to be forced to take wood's halfpence; nor could any one be obliged to receive more than fivepence halfpenny in any one payment. this, of course, meant that the halfpence could only be used as change, and a man must pay his debts in silver or gold whenever it was possible to use a sixpence. it upsets swift's statement about squire connolly's rents. but swift is equal to the emergency. the rule means, he says, that every man must take fivepence halfpenny in every payment, _if it be offered_; which, on the next page, becomes simply in every payment; therefore making an easy assumption or two, he reckons that you will receive 160_l._ a year in these halfpence; and therefore (by other assumptions) lose 140_l._ a year.[67] it might have occurred to swift, one would think, that both parties to the transaction could not possibly be losers. but he calmly assumes that the man who pays will lose in proportion to the increased number of coins; and the man who receives, in proportion to the depreciated value of each coin. he does not see, or think it worth notice, that the two losses obviously counterbalance each other; and he has an easy road to prophesying absolute ruin for everybody. it would be almost as great a compliment to call this sophistry, as to dignify with the name of satire a round assertion that an honest man is a cheat or a rogue. the real grievance, however, shows through the sham argument. "it is no loss of honour," thought swift, "to submit to the lion; but who, with the figure of a man, can think with patience of being devoured alive by a rat?" why should wood have this profit (even if more reasonably estimated) in defiance of the wishes of the nation? it is, says swift, because he is an englishman and has great friends. he proposes to meet the attempt by a general agreement not to take the halfpence. briefly, the halfpence were to be "boycotted." before this second letter was written the english ministers had become alarmed. a report of the privy council (july 24, 1724) defended the patent, but ended by recommending that the amount to be coined should be reduced to 40,000_l._ carteret was sent out as lord lieutenant to get this compromise accepted. swift replied by a third letter, arguing the question of the patent, which he can "never suppose," or in other words, which everybody knew, to have been granted as a "job for the interest of some particular person." he vigorously asserts that the patent can never make it obligatory to accept the halfpence, and tells a story much to the purpose from old leicester experience. the justices had reduced the price of ale to three-halfpence a quart. one of them therefore requested that they would make another order to appoint who should drink it, "for by god," said he, "i will not." the argument thus naturally led to a further and more important question. the discussion as to the patent brought forward the question of right. wood and his friends, according to swift, had begun to declare that the resistance meant jacobitism and rebellion; they asserted that the irish were ready to shake off their dependence upon the crown of england. swift took up the challenge and answered resolutely and eloquently. he took up the broadest ground. ireland, he declared, depended upon england in no other sense than that in which england depended upon ireland. whoever thinks otherwise, he said, "i, m. b. despair, desire to be excepted; for i declare, next under god, i depend only on the king my sovereign, and the laws of my own country. i am so far," he added, "from depending upon the people of england, that if they should rebel, i would take arms and lose every drop of my blood, to hinder the pretender from being king of ireland." it had been reported that somebody (walpole presumably) had sworn to thrust the halfpence down the throats of the irish. the remedy, replied swift, is totally in your own hands, "and therefore i have digressed a little ... to let you see that by the laws of god, of nature, of nations, and of your own country, you are and ought to be as free a people as your brethren in england." as swift had already said in the third letter, no one could believe that any english patent would stand half an hour after an address from the english houses of parliament such as that which had been passed against wood's by the irish parliament. whatever constitutional doubts might be raised, it was therefore come to be the plain question whether or not the english ministers should simply override the wishes of the irish nation. carteret, upon landing, began by trying to suppress his adversary. a reward of 300_l._ was offered for the discovery of the author of the fourth letter. a prosecution was ordered against the printer. swift went to the levã©e of the lord lieutenant, and reproached him bitterly for his severity against a poor tradesman who had published papers for the good of his country. carteret answered in a happy quotation from virgil, a feat which always seems to have brought consolation to the statesman of that day. res dura et regni novitas me talia cogunt moliri. another story is more characteristic. swift's butler had acted as his amanuensis, and absented himself one night whilst the proclamation was running. swift thought that the butler was either treacherous or presuming upon his knowledge of the secret. as soon as the man returned he ordered him to strip off his livery and begone. "i am in your power," he said, "and for that very reason i will not stand your insolence." the poor butler departed, but preserved his fidelity; and swift, when the tempest had blown over, rewarded him by appointing him verger in the cathedral. the grand jury threw out the bill against the printer in spite of all whitshed's efforts; they were discharged; and the next grand jury presented wood's halfpence as a nuisance. carteret gave way, the patent was surrendered, and swift might congratulate himself upon a complete victory. the conclusion is in one respect rather absurd. the irish succeeded in rejecting a real benefit at the cost of paying wood the profit which he would have made, had he been allowed to confer it. another point must be admitted. swift's audacious misstatements were successful for the time in rousing the spirit of the people. they have led, however, to a very erroneous estimate of the whole case. english statesmen and historians[68] have found it so easy to expose his errors that they have thought his whole case absurd. the grievance was not what it was represented, therefore it is argued that there was no grievance. the very essence of the case was that the irish people were to be plundered by the german mistress; and such plunder was possible because the english people, as swift says, never thought of ireland except when there was nothing else to be talked of in the coffee-houses.[69] owing to the conditions of the controversy, this grievance only came out gradually, and could never be fully stated. swift could never do more than hint at the transaction. his letters (including three which appeared after the last mentioned, enforcing the same case) have often been cited as models of eloquence, and compared to demosthenes. we must make some deduction from this, as in the case of his former political pamphlets. the intensity of his absorption in the immediate end, deprives them of some literary merits; and we, to whom the sophistries are palpable enough, are apt to resent them. anybody can be effective in a way, if he chooses to lie boldly. yet, in another sense, it is hard to over-praise the letters. they have in a high degree the peculiar stamp of swift's genius; the vein of the most nervous common-sense and pithy assertion with an undercurrent of intense passion, the more impressive because it is never allowed to exhale in mere rhetoric. swift's success, the dauntless front which he had shown to the oppressor, made him the idol of his countrymen. a drapier's club was formed in his honour, which collected the letters and drank toasts and sang songs to celebrate their hero. in a sad letter to pope, in 1737, he complains that none of his equals care for him; but adds that as he walks the streets he has "a thousand hats and blessings upon old scores which those we call the gentry have forgot." the people received him as their champion. when he returned from england in 1726, bells were rung, bonfires lighted and a guard of honour escorted him to the deanery. towns voted him their freedom and received him like a prince. when walpole spoke of arresting him, a prudent friend told the minister that the messenger would require a guard of 10,000 soldiers. corporations asked his advice in elections, and the weavers appealed to him on questions about their trade. in one of his satires,[70] swift had attacked a certain serjeant bettesworth- thus at the bar the booby bettesworth though half-a-crown o'erpays his sweat's worth. bettesworth called upon him with, as swift reports, a knife in his pocket, and complained in such terms as to imply some intention of personal violence. the neighbours instantly sent a deputation to the dean, proposing to take vengeance upon bettesworth, and though he induced them to disperse peaceably, they formed a guard to watch the house; and bettesworth complained that his attack upon the dean had lowered his professional income by 1200_l._ a year. a quaint example of his popularity is given by sheridan. a great crowd had collected to see an eclipse. swift thereupon sent out the bellman to give notice that the eclipse had been postponed by the dean's orders; and the crowd dispersed. influence with the people, however, could not bring swift back to power. at one time there seemed to be a gleam of hope. swift visited england twice in 1726 and 1727. he paid long visits to his old friend pope, and again met bolingbroke, now returned from exile, and trying to make a place in english politics. peterborough introduced the dean to walpole, to whom swift detailed his views upon irish politics. walpole was the last man to set about a great reform from mere considerations of justice and philanthropy, and was not likely to trust a confidant of bolingbroke. he was civil but indifferent. swift, however, was introduced by his friends to mrs. howard, the mistress of the prince of wales, soon to become george ii. the princess, afterwards queen caroline, ordered swift to come and see her, and he complied, as he says, after nine commands. he told her that she had lately seen a wild boy from germany, and now he supposed she wanted to see a wild dean from ireland. some civilities passed; swift offered some plaids of irish manufacture, and the princess promised some medals in return. when, in the next year, george i. died, the opposition hoped great things from the change. pulteney had tried to get swift's powerful help for the _craftsman_, the opposition organ; and the opposition hoped to upset walpole. swift, who had thought of going to france for his health, asked mrs. howard's advice. she recommended him to stay; and he took the recommendation as amounting to a promise of support. he had some hopes of obtaining english preferment in exchange for his deanery in what he calls (in the date to one of his letters[71]) "wretched dublin in miserable ireland." it soon appeared, however, that the mistress was powerless; and that walpole was to be as firm as ever in his seat. swift returned to ireland, never again to leave it: to lose soon afterwards his beloved stella, and nurse an additional grudge against courts and favourites. the bitterness with which he resented mrs. howard's supposed faithlessness is painfully illustrative in truth of the morbid state of mind which was growing upon him. "you think," he says to bolingbroke in 1729, "as i ought to think, that it is time for me to have done with the world; and so i would, if i could get into a better before i was called into the best, and not die here in a rage, like a poisoned rat in a hole." that terrible phrase expresses but too vividly the state of mind which was now becoming familiar to him. separated by death and absence from his best friends, and tormented by increasing illness, he looked out upon a state of things in which he could see no ground for hope. the resistance to wood's halfpence had staved off immediate ruin; but had not cured the fundamental evil. some tracts upon irish affairs, written after the drapier's letters, sufficiently indicate his despairing vein. "i am," he says in 1737, when proposing some remedy for the swarms of beggars in dublin, "a desponder by nature," and he has found out that the people will never stir themselves to remove a single grievance. his old prejudices were as keen as ever, and could dictate personal outbursts. he attacked the bishops bitterly for offering certain measures which in his view sacrificed the permanent interests of the church to that of the actual occupants. he showed his own sincerity by refusing to take fines for leases which would have benefited himself at the expense of his successors. with equal earnestness he still clung to the test acts, and assailed the protestant dissenters with all his old bitterness, and ridiculed their claims to brotherhood with churchmen. to the end he was a churchman before everything. one of the last of his poetical performances was prompted by the sanction given by the irish parliament to an opposition to certain "titles of ejectment." he had defended the right of the irish parliament against english rulers; but when it attacked the interests of his church his fury showed itself in the most savage satire that he ever wrote, the _legion club_. it is an explosion of wrath tinged with madness. could i from the building's top hear the rattling thunder drop, while the devil upon the roof (if the devil be thunder-proof) should with poker fiery red crack the stones and melt the lead, drive them down on every skull when the den of thieves is full; quite destroy the harpies' nest, how might this our isle be blest! what follows fully keeps up to this level. swift flings filth like a maniac, plunges into ferocious personalities, and ends fitly with the execration,- may their god, the devil, confound them. he was seized with one of his fits whilst writing the poem and was never afterwards capable of sustained composition. some further pamphlets--especially one on the state of ireland--repeat and enforce his views. one of them requires special mention. the _modest proposal_ (written in 1729) _for preventing the children of poor people in ireland from being a burden to their parents or country_--the proposal being that they should be turned into articles of food--gives the very essence of swift's feeling, and is one of the most tremendous pieces of satire in existence. it shows the quality already noticed. swift is burning with a passion, the glow of which makes other passions look cold, as it is said that some bright lights cause other illuminating objects to cast a shadow. yet his face is absolutely grave, and he details his plan as calmly as a modern projector suggesting the importation of australian meat. the superficial coolness may be revolting to tender-hearted people, and has indeed led to condemnation of the supposed ferocity of the author almost as surprising as the criticisms which can see in it nothing but an exquisite piece of humour. it is, in truth, fearful to read even now. yet we can forgive and even sympathize when we take it for what it really is--the most complete expression of burning indignation against intolerable wrongs. it utters, indeed, a serious conviction. "i confess myself," says swift in a remarkable paper,[72] "to be touched with a very sensible pleasure when i hear of a mortality in any country parish or village, where the wretches are forced to pay for a filthy cabin and two ridges of potatoes treble the worth; brought up to steal and beg for want of work; to whom death would be the best thing to be wished for, on account both of themselves and the public." he remarks in the same place on the lamentable contradiction presented in ireland to the maxim that the "people are the riches of a nation," and the _modest proposal_ is the fullest comment on this melancholy reflection. after many visionary proposals, he has at last hit upon the plan, which has at least the advantage that by adopting it "we can incur no danger of disobliging england. for this kind of commodity will not bear exportation, the flesh being of too tender a consistence to admit a long continuance in salt, although perhaps i could name a country which would be glad to eat up a whole nation without it." swift once asked delany[73] whether the "corruptions and villanies of men in power did not eat his flesh and exhaust his spirits?" "no," said delany. "why, how can you help it?" said swift. "because," replied delany, "i am commanded to the contrary--_fret not thyself because of the ungodly_." that, like other wise maxims, is capable of an ambiguous application. as delany took it, swift might perhaps have replied that it was a very comfortable maxim--for the ungodly. his own application of scripture is different. it tells us, he says, in his proposal for using irish manufactures, that "oppression makes a wise man mad." if, therefore, some men are not mad, it must be because they are not wise. in truth, it is characteristic of swift that he could never learn the great lesson of submission even to the inevitable. he could not, like an easy-going delany, submit to oppression which might possibly be resisted with success; but as little could he submit when all resistance was hopeless. his rage, which could find no better outlet, burnt inwardly and drove him mad. it is very interesting to compare swift's wrathful denunciations with berkeley's treatment of the same before in the _querist_ (1735-7). berkeley is full of luminous suggestions upon economical questions which are entirely beyond swift's mark. he is in a region quite above the sophistries of the _drapier's letters_. he sees equally the terrible grievance that no people in the world is so beggarly, wretched, and destitute as the common irish. but he thinks all complaints against the english rule useless and therefore foolish. if the english restrain our trade ill-advisedly, is it not, he asks, plainly our interest to accommodate ourselves to them (no. 136)? have we not the advantage of english protection without sharing english responsibilities? he asks, "whether england doth not really love us and wish well to us as bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh? and whether it be not our part to cultivate this love and affection all manner of ways?" (nos. 322, 323.) one can fancy how swift must have received this characteristic suggestion of the admirable berkeley, who could not bring himself to think ill of any one. berkeley's main contention is no doubt sound in itself, namely, that the welfare of the country really depended on the industry and economy of its inhabitants, and that such qualities would have made the irish comfortable in spite of all english restrictions and government abuses. but, then, swift might well have answered that such general maxims are idle. it is all very well for divines to tell people to become good and to find out that then they will be happy. but how are they to be made good? are the irish intrinsically worse than other men, or is their laziness and restlessness due to special and removable circumstances? in the latter case is there not more real value in attacking tangible evils than in propounding general maxims and calling upon all men to submit to oppression, and even to believe in the oppressor's good-will in the name of christian charity? to answer those questions would be to plunge into interminable and hopeless controversies. meanwhile swift's fierce indignation against english oppression might almost as well have been directed against a law of nature for any immediate result. whether the rousing of the national spirit was any benefit is a question which i must leave to others. in any case, the work, however darkened by personal feeling or love of class-privilege, expressed as hearty a hatred of oppression as ever animated a human being. chapter viii. gulliver's travels. the winter of 1713-14 passed by swift in england was full of anxiety and vexation. he found time, however, to join in a remarkable literary association. the so-called scriblerus club does not appear, indeed, to have had any definite organization. the rising young wits, pope and gay, both of them born in 1688, were already becoming famous, and were taken up by swift, still in the zenith of his political power. parnell, a few years their senior, had been introduced by swift to oxford as a convert from whiggism. all three became intimate with swift and arbuthnot, the most learned and amiable of the whole circle of swift's friends. swift declared him to have every quality that could make a man amiable and useful with but one defect--he had "a sort of slouch in his walk;" he was loved and respected by every one, and was one of the most distinguished of the brothers. swift and arbuthnot and their three juniors discussed literary plans in the midst of the growing political excitement. even oxford used, as pope tells us, to amuse himself during the very crisis of his fate by scribbling verses and talking nonsense with the members of this informal club, and some doggerel lines exchanged with him remain as a specimen--a poor one it is to be hoped--of their intercourse. the familiarity thus begun continued through the life of the members. swift can have seen very little of pope. he hardly made his acquaintance till the latter part of 1713; they parted in the summer of 1714; and never met again except in swift's two visits to england in 1726-27. yet their correspondence shows an affection which was no doubt heightened by the consciousness of each that the friendship of his most famous contemporary author was creditable; but which, upon swift's side at least, was thoroughly sincere and cordial, and strengthened with advancing years. the final cause of the club was supposed to be the composition of a joint-stock satire. we learn from an interesting letter[74] that pope formed the original design; though swift thought that arbuthnot was the only one capable of carrying it out. the scheme was to write the memoirs of an imaginary pedant, who had dabbled with equal wrong-headedness in all kinds of knowledge; and thus recalls swift's early performances--the _battle of the books_ and the _tale of a tub_. arbuthnot begs swift to work upon it during his melancholy retirement at letcombe. swift had other things to occupy his mind; and upon the dispersion of the party the club fell into abeyance. fragments of the original plan were carried out by pope and arbuthnot, and form part of the _miscellanies_, to which swift contributed a number of poetical scraps, published under pope's direction in 1726-27. it seems probable that _gulliver_ originated in swift's mind in the course of his meditations upon scriblerus. the composition of _gulliver_ was one of the occupations by which he amused himself after recovering from the great shock of his "exile." he worked, as he seems always to have done, slowly and intermittently. part of brobdingnag at least, as we learn from a letter of vanessa's, was in existence by 1722. swift brought the whole manuscript to england in 1726, and it was published anonymously in the following winter. the success was instantaneous and overwhelming. "i will make over all my profits" (in a work then being published) "to you," writes arbuthnot, "for the property of _gulliver's travels_, which, i believe, will have as great a run as john bunyan." the anticipation was amply fulfilled. _gulliver's travels_ is one of the very few books some knowledge of which may be fairly assumed in any one who reads anything. yet something must be said of the secret of the astonishing success of this unique performance. one remark is obvious. _gulliver's travels_ (omitting certain passages) is almost the most delightful children's book ever written. yet it has been equally valued as an unrivalled satire. old sarah, duchess of marlborough, was "in raptures with it," says gay, "and can dream of nothing else." she forgives his bitter attacks upon her party in consideration of his assault upon human nature. he gives, she declares, "the most accurate" (that is, of course, the most scornful) "account of kings, ministers, bishops, and courts of justice, that is possible to be writ." another curious testimony may be noticed. godwin, when tracing all evils to the baneful effects of government, declares that the author of _gulliver_ showed a "more profound insight into the true principles of political justice than any preceding or contemporary author." the playful form was unfortunate, thinks this grave philosopher, as blinding mankind to the "inestimable wisdom" of the work. this double triumph is remarkable. we may not share the opinions of the cynics of the day, or of the revolutionists of a later generation; but it is strange that they should be fascinated by a work which is studied with delight, without the faintest suspicion of any ulterior meaning, by the infantile mind. the charm of gulliver for the young depends upon an obvious quality, which is indicated in swift's report of the criticism by an irish bishop, who said that "the book was full of improbable lies, and for his part he hardly believed a word of it." there is something pleasant in the intense gravity of the narrative, which recalls and may have been partly suggested by _robinson crusoe_, though it came naturally to swift. i have already spoken of his delight in mystification, and the detailed realization of pure fiction seems to have been delightful in itself. the partridge pamphlets and its various practical jokes are illustrations of a tendency which fell in with the spirit of the time, and of which _gulliver_ may be regarded as the highest manifestation. swift's peculiarity is in the curious sobriety of fancy, which leads him to keep in his most daring flights upon the confines of the possible. in the imaginary travels of lucian and rabelais, to which _gulliver_ is generally compared, we frankly take leave of the real world altogether. we are treated with arbitrary and monstrous combinations which may be amusing, but which do not challenge even a semblance of belief. in _gulliver_ this is so little the case that it can hardly be said in strictness that the fundamental assumptions are even impossible. why should there not be creatures in human form with whom as in lilliput, one of our inches represents a foot, or, as in brobdingnag, one of our feet represents an inch? the assumption is so modest that we are presented--it may be said--with a definite and soluble problem. we have not, as in other fictitious worlds, to deal with a state of things in which the imagination is bewildered, but with one in which it is agreeably stimulated. we have certainly to consider an extreme and exceptional case; but one to which all the ordinary laws of human nature are still strictly applicable. in voltaire's trifle, _micromegas_, we are presented to beings eight leagues in height and endowed with seventy-two senses. for voltaire's purpose the stupendous exaggeration is necessary; for he wishes to insist upon the minuteness of human capacities. but the assumption of course disqualifies us from taking any intelligent interest in a region where no precedent is available for our guidance. we are in the air; anything and everything is possible. but swift modestly varies only one element in the problem. imagine giants and dwarfs as tall as a house or as low as a footstool, and let us see what comes of it. that is a plain, almost a mathematical problem; and we can therefore judge his success, and receive pleasure from the ingenuity and verisimilitude of his creations. "when you have once thought of big men and little men," said johnson, perversely enough, "it is easy to do the rest." the first step might perhaps seem in this case to be the easiest; yet nobody ever thought of it before swift; and nobody has ever had similar good fortune since. there is no other fictitious world the denizens of which have become so real for us, and which has supplied so many images familiar to every educated mind. but the apparent ease is due to the extreme consistency and sound judgment of swift's realization. the conclusions follow so inevitably from the primary data that when they are once drawn we agree that they could not have been otherwise; and infer, rashly, that anybody else could have drawn them. it is as easy as lying; but everybody who has seriously tried the experiment knows that even lying is by no means so easy as it appears at first sight. in fact, swift's success is something unique. the charming plausibility of every incident, throughout the two first parts, commends itself to children, who enjoy definite concrete images, and are fascinated by a world which is at once full of marvels, surpassing jack the giant killer and the wonders seen by sinbad, and yet as obviously and undeniably true as the adventures of robinson crusoe himself. nobody who has read the book can ever forget it; and we may add that besides the childlike pleasure which arises from a distinct realization of a strange world of fancy, the two first books are sufficiently good-humoured. swift seems to be amused as well as amusing. they were probably written during the least intolerable part of his exile. the period of composition includes the years of the vanessa tragedy and of the war of wood's halfpence; it was finished when stella's illness was becoming constantly more threatening, and published little more than a year before her death. the last books show swift's most savage temper; but we may hope that in spite of disease, disappointments, and a growing alienation from mankind, swift could still enjoy an occasional piece of spontaneous, unadulterated fun. he could still forget his cares, and throw the reins on the neck of his fancy. at times there is a certain charm even in the characters. every one has a liking for the giant maid of all work, glumdalelitch, whose affection for her plaything is a quaint inversion of the ordinary relations between swift and his feminine adorers. the grave, stern, irascible man can relax after a sort, though his strange idiosyncrasy comes out as distinctly in his relaxation as in his passions. i will not dwell upon this aspect of _gulliver_, which is obvious to every one. there is another question which we are forced to ask, and which is not very easy to answer. what does _gulliver_ mean? it is clearly a satire--but who and what are its objects? swift states his own view very unequivocally. "i heartily hate and detest that animal called man," he says,[75] "although i heartily love john, peter, thomas, and so forth." he declares that man is not an _animal rationale_, but only _rationis capax_: and he then adds, "upon this great foundation of misanthropy ... the whole building of my travels is erected." "if the world had but a dozen arbuthnots in it," he says in the same letter, "i would burn my travels." he indulges in a similar reflection to sheridan.[76] "expect no more from man," he says, "than such an animal is capable of, and you will every day find my description of yahoos more resembling. you should think and deal with every man as a villain, without calling him so, or flying from him or valuing him less. this is an old true lesson." in spite of these avowals, of a kind which, in swift, must not be taken too literally, we find it rather hard to admit that the essence of _gulliver_ can be an expression of this doctrine. the tone becomes morose and sombre, and even ferocious; but it has been disputed whether in any case it can be regarded simply as an utterance of misanthropy. _gulliver's travels_ belongs to a literary genus full of grotesque and anomalous forms. its form is derived from some of the imaginary travels of which lucian's _true history_--itself a burlesque of some early travellers' tales--is the first example. but it has an affinity also to such books as bacon's _atlantis_, and more's _utopia_; and, again, to later philosophical romances like _candide_ and _rasselas_; and not least, perhaps, to the ancient fables, such as _reynard the fox_, to which swift refers in the _tale of a tub_. it may be compared, again, to the _pilgrim's progress_, and the whole family of allegories. the full-blown allegory resembles the game of chess said to have been played by some ancient monarch, in which the pieces were replaced by real human beings. the movements of the actors were not determined by the passions proper to their character, but by the external set of rules imposed upon them by the game. the allegory is a kind of picture-writing, popular, like picture-writing at a certain stage of development, but wearisome at more cultivated periods, when we prefer to have abstract theories conveyed in abstract language, and limit the artist to the intrinsic meanings of the images in which he deals. the whole class of more or less allegorical writing has thus the peculiarity that something more is meant than meets the ear. part of its meaning depends upon a tacit convention in virtue of which a beautiful woman, for example, is not simply a beautiful woman, but also a representative of justice and charity. and as any such convention is more or less arbitrary, we are often in perplexity to interpret the author's meaning, and also to judge of the propriety of the symbols. the allegorical intention, again, may be more or less present: and such a book as gulliver must be regarded as lying somewhere between the allegory and the direct revelation of truth, which is more or less implied in the work of every genuine artist. its true purpose has thus rather puzzled critics. hazlitt[77] urges, for example, with his usual brilliancy, that swift's purpose was to "strip empty pride and grandeur of the imposing air which external circumstances throw around them." swift accordingly varies the scale, so as to show the insignificance or the grossness of our self-love. he does this with "mathematical precision;" he tries an experiment upon human nature; and with the result that "nothing solid, nothing valuable is left in his system but wisdom and virtue." so gulliver's carrying off the fleet of blefuscu is "a mortifying stroke, aimed at national glory." "after that, we have only to consider which of the contending parties was in the right." hazlitt naturally can see nothing misanthropical or innocent in such a conclusion. the mask of imposture is torn off the world, and only imposture can complain. this view, which has no doubt its truth, suggests some obvious doubts. we are not invited, as a matter of fact, to attend to the question of right and wrong, as between lilliput and blefuscu. the real sentiment in swift is that a war between these miserable pygmies is, in itself, contemptible; and therefore, as he infers, war between men six feet high is equally contemptible. the truth is that, although swift's solution of the problem may be called mathematically precise, the precision does not extend to the supposed argument. if we insist upon treating the question as one of strict logic, the only conclusion which could be drawn from gulliver is the very safe one that the interest of the human drama does not depend upon the size of the actors. a pygmy or a giant endowed with all our functions and thoughts would be exactly as interesting as a being of the normal stature. it does not require a journey to imaginary regions to teach us so much. and if we say that swift has shown us in his pictures the real essence of human life, we only say for him what might be said with equal force of shakspeare or balzac, or any great artist. the bare proof that the essence is not dependent upon the external condition of size is superfluous and irrelevant; and we must admit that swift's method is childish, or that it does not adhere to this strict logical canon. hazlitt, however, comes nearer the truth, as i think, when he says that swift takes a view of human nature such as might be taken by a being of a higher sphere. that, at least, is his purpose; only, as i think, he pursues it by a neglect of "scientific reasoning." the use of the machinery is simply to bring us into a congenial frame of mind. he strikes the key-note of contempt by his imagery of dwarfs and giants. we despise the petty quarrels of beings six inches high; and therefore we are prepared to despise the wars carried on by a marlborough and a eugene. we transfer the contempt based upon mere size, to the motives, which are the same in big men and little. the argument, if argument there be, is a fallacy; but it is equally efficacious for the feelings. you see the pettiness and cruelty of the lilliputians, who want to conquer an empire defended by toy-ships; and you are tacitly invited to consider whether the bigness of french men-of-war makes an attack upon them more respectable. the force of the satire depends ultimately upon the vigour with which swift has described the real passions of human beings, big or little. he really means to express a bitter contempt for statesmen and warriors, and seduces us to his side, for the moment, by asking us to look at a diminutive representation of the same beings. the quarrels which depend upon the difference between the high-boots and the low-heeled shoes; or upon breaking eggs at the big or little end; the party intrigues which are settled by cutting capers on the tight-rope, are meant, of course, in ridicule of political and religious parties; and its force depends upon our previous conviction that the party-quarrels between our fellows are, in fact, equally contemptible. swift's satire is congenial to the mental attitude of all who have persuaded themselves that men are, in fact, a set of contemptible fools and knaves, in whose quarrels and mutual slaughterings the wise and good could not persuade themselves to take a serious interest. he "proves" nothing, mathematically or otherwise. if you do not share his sentiments, there is nothing in the mere alteration of the scale to convince you that they are right; you may say, with hazlitt, that heroism is as admirable in a lilliputian as in a brobdingnagian, and believe that war calls forth patriotism, and often advances civilization. what swift has really done is to provide for the man who despises his species a number of exceedingly effective symbols for the utterance of his contempt. a child is simply amused with bigendians and littleendians; a philosopher thinks that the questions really at the bottom of church quarrels are in reality of more serious import: but the cynic who has learnt to disbelieve in the nobility or wisdom of the great mass of his species finds a most convenient metaphor for expressing his disbelief. in this way _gulliver's travels_ contains a whole gallery of caricatures thoroughly congenial to the despisers of humanity. in brobdingnag swift is generally said to be looking, as scott expresses it, through the other end of the telescope. he wishes to show the grossness of men's passions, as before he has shown their pettiness. some of the incidents are devised in this sense; but we may notice that in brobdingnag he recurs to the lilliput view. he gives such an application to his fable as may be convenient, without bothering himself as to logical consistency. he points out indeed the disgusting appearances which would be presented by a magnified human body; but the king of brobdingnag looks down upon gulliver, just as gulliver looked down upon the lilliputians. the monarch sums up his view emphatically enough by saying, after listening to gulliver's version of modern history, that "the bulk of your natives appear to me to be the most pernicious race of little odious vermin that nature ever suffered to crawl upon the face of the earth." in lilliput and brobdingnag, however, the satire scarcely goes beyond pardonable limits. the details are often simply amusing, such as gulliver's fear when he gets home, of trampling upon the pygmies whom he sees around him. and even the severest satire may be taken without offence by every one who believes that petty motives, folly and selfishness, play a large enough part in human life to justify some indignant exaggerations. it is in the later parts that the ferocity of the man utters itself more fully. the ridicule of the inventors in the third book is, as arbuthnot said at once, the least successful part of the whole; not only because swift was getting beyond his knowledge, and beyond the range of his strongest antipathies, but also because there is no longer the ingenious plausibility of the earlier books. the voyage to the houyhnhnms, which forms the best part, is more powerful, but more painful and repulsive. a word must here be said of the most unpleasant part of swift's character. a morbid interest in the physically disgusting is shown in several of his writings. some minor pieces, which ought to have been burnt, simply make the gorge rise. mrs. pilkington tells us, and we can for once believe her, that one "poem" actually made her mother sick. it is idle to excuse this on the ground of contemporary freedom of speech. his contemporaries were heartily disgusted. indeed, though it is true that they revealed certain propensities more openly, i see no reason to think that such propensities were really stronger in them than in their descendants. the objection to swift is not that he spoke plainly, but that he brooded over filth unnecessarily. no parallel can be found for his tendency even in writers, for example, like smollett and fielding, who can be coarse enough when they please, but whose freedom of speech reveals none of swift's morbid tendency. his indulgence in revolting images is to some extent an indication of a diseased condition of his mind, perhaps of actual mental decay. delany says that it grew upon him in his later years, and, very gratuitously, attributes it to pope's influence. the peculiarity is the more remarkable, because swift was a man of the most scrupulous personal cleanliness. he was always enforcing this virtue with special emphasis. he was rigorously observant of decency in ordinary conversation. delany once saw him "fall into a furious resentment" with stella for "a very small failure of delicacy." so far from being habitually coarse, he pushed fastidiousness to the verge of prudery. it is one of the superficial paradoxes of swift's character that this very shrinking from filth became perverted into an apparently opposite tendency. in truth, his intense repugnance to certain images led him to use them as the only adequate expression of his savage contempt. instances might be given in some early satires, and in the attack upon dissenters in the _tale of a tub_. his intensity of loathing leads him to besmear his antagonists with filth. he becomes disgusting in the effort to express his disgust. as his misanthropy deepened, he applied the same method to mankind at large. he tears aside the veil of decency to show the bestial elements of human nature; and his characteristic irony makes him preserve an apparent calmness during the revolting exhibition. his state of mind is strictly analogous to that of some religious ascetics, who stimulate their contempt for the flesh by fixing their gaze upon decaying bodies. they seek to check the love of beauty by showing us beauty in the grave. the cynic in mr. tennyson's poem tells us that every face, however full- padded round with flesh and blood, is but moulded on a skull. swift--a practised self-tormentor, though not in the ordinary ascetic sense--mortifies any disposition to admire his fellows by dwelling upon the physical necessities which seem to lower and degrade human pride. beauty is but skin deep; beneath it is a vile carcase. he always sees the "flayed woman" of the _tale of a tub_. the thought is hideous, hateful, horrible, and therefore it fascinates him. he loves to dwell upon the hateful, because it justifies his hate. he nurses his misanthropy, as he might tear his flesh to keep his mortality before his eyes. the yahoo is the embodiment of the bestial element in man; and swift in his wrath takes the bestial for the predominating element. the hideous, filthy, lustful monster yet asserts its relationship to him in the most humiliating fashion: and he traces in its conduct the resemblance to all the main activities of the human being. like the human being it fights and squabbles for the satisfaction of its lust, or to gain certain shiny yellow stones; it befouls the weak and fawns upon the strong with loathsome compliance; shows a strange love of dirt, and incurs diseases by laziness and gluttony. gulliver gives an account of his own breed of yahoos, from which it seems that they differ from the subjects of the houyhnhnms only by showing the same propensities on a larger scale; and justifies his master's remark that all their institutions are owing to "gross defects in reason and by consequence in virtue." the houyhnhnms meanwhile represent swift's utopia; they prosper and are happy, truthful and virtuous, and therefore able to dispense with lawyers, physicians, ministers and all the other apparatus of an effete civilization. it is in this doctrine, as i may observe in passing, that swift falls in with godwin and the revolutionists, though they believed in human perfectibility, whilst they traced every existing evil to the impostures and corruptions essential to all systems of government. swift's view of human nature, is too black to admit of any hopes of their millennium. the full wrath of swift against his species shows itself in this ghastly caricature. it is lamentable and painful, though even here we recognize the morbid perversion of a noble wrath against oppression. one other portrait in swift's gallery demands a moment's notice. no poetic picture in dante or milton can exceed the strange power of his prose description of the struldbrugs--those hideous immortals who are damned to an everlasting life of drivelling incompetence. it is a translation of the affecting myth of tithonus into the repulsive details of downright prose. it is idle to seek for any particular moral from these hideous phantoms of swift's dismal _inferno_. they embody the terror which was haunting his imagination as old age was drawing upon him. the sight, he says himself, should reconcile a man to death. the mode of reconciliation is terribly characteristic. life is but a weary business at best; but, at least, we cannot wish to drain so repulsive a cup to the dregs, when even the illusions which cheered us at moments have been ruthlessly destroyed. swift was but too clearly prophesying the melancholy decay into which he was himself to sink. the later books of _gulliver_ have been in some sense excised from the popular editions of the travels. the yahoos, and houyhnhnms, and struldbrugs, are indeed known by name almost as well as the inhabitants of lilliput and brobdingnag; but this part of the book is certainly not reading for babes. it was probably written during the years when he was attacking public corruption, and when his private happiness was being destroyed, when therefore his wrath against mankind and against his own fate was stimulated to the highest pitch. readers who wish to indulge in a harmless play of fancy will do well to omit the last two voyages; for the strain of misanthropy which breathes in them is simply oppressive. they are probably the sources from which the popular impression of swift's character is often derived. it is important, therefore, to remember that they were wrung from him in later years, after a life tormented by constant disappointment and disease. most people hate the misanthropist even if they are forced to admire his power. yet we must not be carried too far by the words. swift's misanthropy was not all ignoble. we generally prefer flattery even to sympathy. we like the man who is blind to our faults better than the man who sees them and yet pities our distresses. we have the same kind of feeling for the race as we have in our own case. we are attracted by the kindly optimist who assures us that good predominates in everything and everybody, and believes that a speedy advent of the millennium must reward our manifold excellence. we cannot forgive those who hold men to be "mostly fools," or, as swift would assert, mere brutes in disguise, and even carry out that disagreeable opinion in detail. there is something uncomfortable and therefore repellent of sympathy in the mood which dwells upon the darker side of society, even though with wrathful indignation against the irremovable evils. swift's hatred of oppression, burning and genuine as it was, is no apology with most readers for his perseverance in asserting its existence. "speak comfortable things to us" is the cry of men to the prophet in all ages; and he who would assault abuses must count upon offending many who do not approve them, but who would therefore prefer not to believe in them. swift, too, mixed an amount of egoism with his virtuous indignation, which clearly lowers his moral dignity. he really hates wrongs to his race; but his sensitiveness is roused when they are injuries to himself, and committed by his enemies. the indomitable spirit which made him incapable even of yielding to necessity, which makes him beat incessantly against the bars which it was hopeless to break, and therefore waste powers which might have done good service by aiming at the unattainable, and nursing grudges against inexorable necessity, limits our sympathy with his better nature. yet some of us may take a different view, and rather pity than condemn the wounded spirit so tortured and perverted, in consideration of the real philanthropy which underlies the misanthropy, and the righteous hatred of brutality and oppression which is but the seamy side of a generous sympathy. at least we should be rather awed than repelled by this spectacle of a nature of magnificent power struck down, bruised and crushed under fortune, and yet fronting all antagonists with increasing pride, and comforting itself with scorn even when it can no longer injure its adversaries. chapter ix. decline. swift survived his final settlement in ireland for more than thirty years, though during the last five or six it was but the outside shell of him that lived. during every day in all those years swift must have eaten and drunk, and somehow or other got through the twenty-four hours. the war against wood's halfpence employed at most a few months in 1724, and all his other political writings would scarcely fill a volume of this size. a modern journalist who could prove that he had written as little in six months would deserve a testimonial. _gulliver's travels_ appeared in 1727; and ten years were to pass before his intellect became hopelessly clouded. how was the remainder of his time filled? the death of stella marks a critical point. swift told gay in 1723 that it had taken three years to reconcile him to the country to which he was condemned for ever. he came back "with an ill head and an aching heart."[78] he was separated from the friends he had loved, and too old to make new friends. a man, as he says elsewhere,[79] who had been bred in a coal-pit might pass his time in it well enough; but if sent back to it after a few months in upper air, he would find content less easy. swift, in fact, never became resigned to the "coal-pit," or, to use another of his phrases, the "wretched, dirty dog-hole and prison," of which he could only say that it was a "place good enough to die in." yet he became so far acclimatized as to shape a tolerable existence out of the fragments left to him. intelligent and cultivated men in dublin, especially amongst the clergy and the fellows of trinity college, gathered round their famous countryman. swift formed a little court; he rubbed up his classics to the academical standard, read a good deal of history, and even amused himself with mathematics. he received on sundays at the deanery, though his entertainments seem to have been rather too economical for the taste of his guests. "the ladies," stella and mrs. dingley, were recognized as more or less domesticated with him. stella helped to receive his guests, though not ostensibly as mistress of the household; and, if we may accept swift's estimate of her social talents, must have been a very charming hostess. if some of swift's guests were ill at ease in presence of the imperious and moody exile, we may believe that during stella's life there was more than a mere semblance of agreeable society at the deanery. her death, as delany tells us,[80] led to a painful change. swift's temper became sour and ungovernable; his avarice grew into a monomania; at times he grudged even a single bottle of wine to his friends; the giddiness and deafness which had tormented him by fits, now became a part of his life. reading came to be impossible, because (as delany thinks) his obstinate refusal to wear spectacles had injured his sight. he still struggled hard against disease; he rode energetically, though two servants had to accompany him in case of accidents from giddiness; he took regular "constitutionals" up and down stairs when he could not go out. his friends thought that he injured himself by over-exercise; and the battle was necessarily a losing one. gradually the gloom deepened; friends dropped off by death, and were alienated by his moody temper; he was surrounded, as they thought, by designing sycophants. his cousin, mrs. whiteway, who took care of him in his last years, seems to have been both kindly and sensible; but he became unconscious of kindness, and in 1741 had to be put under restraint. we may briefly fill up some details in the picture. swift at dublin recalls napoleon at elba. the duties of a deanery are not supposed, i believe, to give absorbing employment for all the faculties of the incumbent; but an empire, however small, may be governed; and swift at an early period set about establishing his supremacy within his small domains. he maintained his prerogatives against the archbishop, and subdued his chapter. his inferiors submitted, and could not fail to recognize his zeal for the honour of the body. but his superiors found him less amenable. he encountered episcopal authority with his old haughtiness. he bade an encroaching bishop remember that he was speaking "to a clergyman, and not to a footman."[81] he fell upon an old friend, sterne, the bishop of clogher, for granting a lease to some "old fanatic knight." he takes the opportunity of reviling the bishops for favouring "two abominable bills for beggaring and enslaving the clergy (which took their birth from hell)," and says that he had thereupon resolved to have "no more commerce with persons of such prodigious grandeur, who, i feared, in a little time, would expect me to kiss their slipper."[82] he would not even look into a coach, lest he should see such a thing as a bishop--a sight that would strike him with terror. in a bitter satire he describes satan as the bishop to whom the rest of the irish bench are suffragans. his theory was that the english government always appointed admirable divines, but that unluckily all the new bishops were murdered on hounslow heath by highwaymen, who took their robes and patents, and so usurped the irish sees. it is not surprising that swift's episcopal acquaintance was limited. in his deanery swift discharged his duties with despotic benevolence. he performed the services, carefully criticized young preachers, got his musical friends to help him in regulating his choir, looked carefully after the cathedral repairs, and improved the revenues at the cost of his own interests. his pugnacity broke out repeatedly even in such apparently safe directions. he erected a monument to the duke of schomberg after an attempt to make the duke's descendants pay for it themselves. he said that if they tried to avoid the duty by reclaiming the body, he would take up the bones, and put the skeleton "in his register office, to be a memorial of their baseness to all posterity."[83] he finally relieved his feelings by an epitaph, which is a bitter taunt against the duke's relations. happily he gave less equivocal proofs of the energy which he could put into his duties. his charity was unsurpassed both for amount and judicious distribution. delany declares that in spite of his avarice he would give five pounds more easily than richer men would give as many shillings. "i never," says this good authority, "saw poor so carefully and conscientiously attended to in my life as those of his cathedral." he introduced and carried out within his own domains a plan for distinguishing the deserving poor by badges--in anticipation of modern schemes for "organization of charity." with the first five hundred pounds which he possessed he formed a fund for granting loans to industrious tradesmen and citizens, to be repaid by weekly instalments. it was said that by this scheme he had been the means of putting more than 200 families in a comfortable way of living.[84] he had, says delany, a whole "seraglio" of distressed old women in dublin; there was scarcely a lane in the whole city where he had not such a "mistress." he saluted them kindly, inquired into their affairs, bought trifles from them, and gave them such titles as pullagowna, stumpa-nympha, and so forth. the phrase "seraglio" may remind us of johnson's establishment, who has shown his prejudice against swift in nothing more than in misjudging a charity akin to his own, though apparently directed with more discretion. the "rabble," it is clear, might be grateful for other than political services. to personal dependents he was equally liberal. he supported his widowed sister, who had married a scapegrace in opposition to his wishes. he allowed an annuity of 52_l._ a year to stella's companion, mrs. dingley, and made her suppose that the money was not a gift, but the produce of a fund for which he was trustee. he showed the same liberality to mrs. ridgway, daughter of his old housekeeper, mrs. brent; paying her an annuity of 20_l._, and giving her a bond to secure the payment in case of accidents. considering the narrowness of swift's income, and that he seems also to have had considerable trouble about obtaining his rents and securing his invested savings, we may say that his so-called "avarice" was not inconsistent with unusual munificence. he pared his personal expenditure to the quick, not that he might be rich, but that he might be liberal. though for one reason or other swift was at open war with a good many of the higher classes, his court was not without distinguished favourites. the most conspicuous amongst them were delany and sheridan. delany (1685-1768), when swift first knew him, was a fellow of trinity college. he was a scholar, and a man of much good feeling and intelligence, and eminently agreeable in society; his theological treatises seem to have been fanciful, but he could write pleasant verses, and had great reputation as a college tutor. he married two rich wives, and swift testifies that his good qualities were not the worse for his wealth, nor his purse generally fuller. he was so much given to hospitality as to be always rather in difficulties. he was a man of too much amiability and social suavity not to be a little shocked at some of swift's savage outbursts, and scandalized by his occasional improprieties. yet he appreciated the nobler qualities of the staunch, if rather alarming, friend. it is curious to remember that his second wife, who was one of swift's later correspondents, survived to be the venerated friend of fanny burney (1752-1840), and that many living people may thus remember one who was familiar with the latest of swift's female favourites. swift's closest friend and crony, however, was the elder sheridan, the ancestor of a race fertile in genius, though unluckily his son, swift's biographer, seems to have transmitted without possessing any share of it. thomas sheridan, the elder, was the typical irishman--kindly, witty, blundering, full of talents and imprudences, careless of dignity, and a child in the ways of the world. he was a prosperous schoolmaster in dublin when swift first made his acquaintance (about 1718), so prosperous as to decline a less precarious post, of which swift got him the offer. after the war of wood's halfpence swift became friendly with carteret, whom he respected as a man of genuine ability, and who had besides the virtue of being thoroughly distrusted by walpole. when carteret was asked how he had succeeded in ireland, he replied that he had pleased dr. swift. swift took advantage of the mutual goodwill to recommend several promising clergymen to carteret's notice. he was specially warm in behalf of sheridan, who received the first vacant living and a chaplaincy. sheridan characteristically spoilt his own chances by preaching a sermon upon the day of the accession of the hanoverian family, from the text, "sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." the sermon was not political, and the selection of the text a pure accident; but sheridan was accused of jacobitism, and lost his chaplaincy in consequence. though generously compensated by the friend in whose pulpit he had committed this "sheridanism," he got into difficulties. his school fell off; he exchanged his preferments for others less preferable; he failed in a school at cavan, and ultimately the poor man came back to die at dublin, in 1738, in distressed circumstances. swift's relations with him were thoroughly characteristic. he defended his cause energetically; gave him most admirably good advice in rather dictatorial terms; admitted him to the closest familiarity, and sometimes lost his temper when sheridan took a liberty at the wrong moment, or resented the liberties taken by himself. a queer character of the "second solomon," written, it seems, in 1729, shows the severity with which swift could sometimes judge his shiftless and impulsive friend, and the irritability with which he could resent occasional assertions of independence. "he is extremely proud and captious," says swift, and "apt to resent as an affront or indignity what was never intended for either," but what, we must add, had a strong likeness to both. one cause of poor sheridan's troubles was doubtless that assigned by swift. mrs. sheridan, says this frank critic, is "the most disagreeable beast in europe," a "most filthy slut, lazy, and slothful, luxurious, ill-natured, envious, suspicious," and yet managing to govern sheridan. this estimate was apparently shared by her husband, who makes various references to her detestation of swift. in spite of all jars, swift was not only intimate with sheridan and energetic in helping him, but to all appearance really loved him. swift came to sheridan's house when the workmen were moving the furniture, preparatory to his departure for cavan. swift burst into tears, and hid himself in a dark closet before he could regain his self-possession. he paid a visit to his old friend afterwards; but was now in that painful and morbid state in which violent outbreaks of passion made him frequently intolerable. poor sheridan rashly ventured to fulfil an old engagement that he would tell swift frankly of a growing infirmity, and said something about avarice. "doctor," replied swift, significantly, "did you never read _gil blas_?" when sheridan soon afterwards sold his school to return to dublin, swift received his old friend so inhospitably that sheridan left him, never again to enter the house. swift indeed had ceased to be swift; and sheridan died soon afterwards. swift often sought relief from the dreariness of the deanery by retiring to, or rather by taking possession of, his friends' country-houses. in 1725 he stayed for some months, together with "the ladies," at quilca, a small country-house of sheridan's, and compiled an account of the deficiencies of the establishment--meant to be continued weekly. broken tables, doors without locks, a chimney stuffed with the dean's great-coat, a solitary pair of tongs forced to attend all the fireplaces and also to take the meat from the pot, holes in the floors, spikes protruding from the bedsteads, are some of the items; whilst the servants are all thieves, and act upon the proverb, "the worse their sty, the longer they lie." swift amused himself here and elsewhere by indulging his taste in landscape gardening, without the consent and often to the annoyance of the proprietor. in 1728--the year of stella's death--he passed eight months at sir arthur acheson's, near market hill. he was sickly, languid, and anxious to escape from dublin, where he had no company but that of his "old presbyterian housekeeper, mrs. brent." he had, however, energy enough to take the household in hand after his usual fashion. he superintended lady acheson's studies, made her read to him, gave her plenty of good advice; bullied the butler; looked after the dairy and the garden, and annoyed sir arthur by summarily cutting down an old thorn-tree. he liked the place so much that he thought of building a house there, which was to be called drapier's hall, but abandoned the project for reasons which, after his fashion, he expressed with great frankness in a poem. probably the chief reason was the very obvious one which strikes all people who are tempted to build; but that upon which he chiefly dwells is sir arthur's defects as an entertainer. the knight used, it seems, to lose himself in metaphysical moonings when he should have been talking to swift and attending to his gardens and farms. swift entered a house less as a guest than a conqueror. his dominion, it is clear, must have become burdensome in his later years, when his temper was becoming savage and his fancies more imperious. such a man was the natural prey of sycophants, who would bear his humours for interested motives. amongst swift's numerous clients some doubtless belonged to this class. the old need of patronizing and protecting still displays itself; and there is something very touching in the zeal for his friends which survived breaking health and mental decay. his correspondence is full of eager advocacy. poor miss kelly, neglected by an unnatural parent, comes to swift as her natural adviser. he intercedes on behalf of the prodigal son of a mr. fitzherbert in a letter which is a model of judicious and delicate advocacy. his old friend, barber, had prospered in business; he was lord mayor of london in 1733, and looked upon swift as the founder of his fortunes. to him, "my dear good old friend in the best and worst times," swift writes a series of letters, full of pathetic utterances of his regrets for old friends amidst increasing infirmities, and full also of appeals on behalf of others. he induced barber to give a chaplaincy to pilkington, a young clergyman of whose talent and modesty swift was thoroughly convinced. mrs. pilkington was a small poetess, and the pair had crept into some intimacy at the deanery. unluckily swift had reasons to repent his patronage. the pair were equally worthless. the husband tried to get a divorce; and the wife sank into misery. one of her last experiments was to publish by subscription certain "memoirs," which contain some interesting but untrustworthy anecdotes of swift's later years.[85] he had rather better luck with mrs. barber, wife of a dublin woollendraper, who, as swift says, was "poetically given, and, for a woman, had a sort of genius that way." he pressed her claims not only upon her namesake, the mayor, but upon lord carteret, lady betty germaine, and gay and his duchess. a forged letter to queen caroline in swift's name on behalf of this poetess naturally raised some suspicions. swift, however, must have been convinced of her innocence. he continued his interest in her for years, during which we are glad to find that she gave up poetry for selling irish linens and letting lodgings at bath; and one of swift's last acts before his decay was to present her, at her own request, with the copyright of his _polite conversations_. everybody, she said, would subscribe for a work of swift's, and it would put her in easy circumstances. mrs. barber clearly had no delicacy in turning swift's liberality to account; but she was a respectable and sensible woman, and managed to bring up two sons to professions. liberality of this kind came naturally to swift. he provided for a broken-down old officer, captain creichton, by compiling his memoirs for him, to be published by subscription. "i never," he says in 1735, "got a farthing by anything i wrote--except once by pope's prudent management." this probably refers to _gulliver_, for which he seems to have received 200_l._ he apparently gave his share in the profits of the _miscellanies_ to the widow of a dublin printer. a few words may now be said about these last writings. in reading some of them, we must remember his later mode of life. he generally dined alone, or with old mrs. brent, then sat alone in his closet till he went to bed at eleven. the best company in dublin, he said, was barely tolerable, and those who had been tolerable were now unsupportable. he could no longer read by candle-light, and his only resource was to write rubbish, most of which he burnt. the merest trifles that he ever wrote, he says in 1731, "are serious philosophical lucubrations in comparison to what i now busy myself about." this, however, was but the development of a lifelong practice. his favourite maxim, _vive la bagatelle_, is often quoted by pope and bolingbroke. as he had punned in his youth with lord berkeley, so he amused himself in later years by a constant interchange of trifles with his friends, and above all with sheridan. many of these trifles have been preserved; they range from really good specimens of swift's rather sardonic humour down to bad riddles and a peculiar kind of playing upon words. a brief specimen of one variety will be amply sufficient. sheridan writes to swift. _times a re veri de ad nota do it oras hi lingat almi e state._ the words separately are latin, and are to be read into the english: "times are very dead; not a doit or a shilling at all my estate." swift writes to sheridan in english, which reads into latin, "am i say vain a rabble is," means, _amice venerabilis_--and so forth. whole manuscript books are still in existence filled with jargon of this kind. charles fox declared that swift must be a goodnatured man to have had such a love of nonsense. we may admit some of it to be a proof of good-humour in the same sense as a love of the backgammon in which he sometimes indulged. it shows, that is, a willingness to kill time in company. but it must be admitted that the impression becomes different when we think of swift in his solitude wasting the most vigorous intellect in the country upon ingenuities beneath that of the composer of double acrostics. delany declares that the habit helped to weaken his intellect. rather it showed that his intellect was preying upon itself. once more we have to think of the "conjured spirit," and the ropes of sand. nothing can well be more lamentable. books full of this stuff impress us like products of the painful ingenuity by which some prisoner for life has tried to relieve himself of the intolerable burden of solitary confinement. swift seems to betray the secret when he tells bolingbroke that at his age "i often thought of death; but now it is never out of my mind." he repeats this more than once. he does not fear death, he says; indeed he longed for it. his regular farewell to a friend was, "good night; i hope i shall never see you again." he had long been in the habit of "lamenting" his birthday, though, in earlier days, stella and other friends had celebrated the anniversary. now it became a day of unmixed gloom, and the chapter in which job curses the hour of his birth lay open all day on his table. "and yet," he says, "i love _la bagatelle_ better than ever." rather we should say, "and therefore," for in truth the only excuse for such trifling was the impossibility of finding any other escape from settled gloom. friends indeed seem to have adopted at times the theory that a humourist must always be on the broad grin. they called him the "laughter-loving" dean, and thought gulliver a "merry book." a strange effect is produced when between two of the letters in which swift utters the bitterest agonies of his soul during stella's illness, we have a letter from bolingbroke to the "three yahoos of twickenham" (pope, gay, and swift), referring to swift's "divine science, _la bagatelle_" and ending with the benediction, "mirth be with you!" from such mirth we can only say, may heaven protect us; for it would remind us of nothing but the mirth of redgauntlet's companions when they sat dead (and damned) at their ghastly revelry, and their laughter passed into such wild sounds as made the daring piper's "very nails turn blue." it is not, however, to be inferred that all swift's recreations were so dreary as this anglo-latin, or that his facetiousness always covered an aching heart. there is real humour, and not all of bitter flavour, in some of the trifles which passed between swift and his friends. the most famous is the poem called _the grand question debated_, the question being whether an old building called hamilton's bawn, belonging to sir a. acheson, should be turned into a malthouse or a barrack. swift takes the opportunity of caricaturing the special object of his aversion, the blustering and illiterate soldier, though he indignantly denies that he had said anything disagreeable to his hospitable entertainer. lady acheson encouraged him in writing such "lampoons." her taste cannot have been very delicate,[86] and she perhaps did not perceive how a rudeness which affects to be only playful may be really offensive. if the poem shows that swift took liberties with his friends, it also shows that he still possessed the strange power of reproducing the strain of thought of a vulgar mind which he exhibited in mr. harris's petition. two other works which appeared in these last years are more remarkable proofs of the same power. _the complete collection of genteel and ingenious conversation_ and the _directions to servants_, are most singular performances, and curiously illustrative of swift's habits of thought and composition. he seems to have begun them during some of his early visits to england. he kept them by him and amused himself by working upon them, though they were never quite finished. the _polite conversation_ was given, as we have seen, to mrs. barber in his later years, and the _directions to servants_ came into the printer's hands when he was already imbecile. they show how closely swift's sarcastic attention was fixed through life upon the ways of his inferiors. they are a mass of materials for a natural history of social absurdities such as mr. darwin was in the habit of bestowing upon the manners and customs of worms. the difference is that darwin had none but kindly feelings for worms, whereas swift's inspection of social vermin is always edged with contempt. the conversations are a marvellous collection of the set of cant phrases which at best have supplied the absence of thought in society. incidentally there are some curious illustrations of the customs of the day; though one cannot suppose that any human beings had ever the marvellous flow of pointless proverbs with which lord sparkish, mr. neverout, miss notable and the rest manage to keep the ball incessantly rolling. the talk is nonsensical, as most small-talk would be, if taken down by a reporter, and, according to modern standard, hideously vulgar, and yet it flows on with such vivacity that it is perversely amusing. _lady answerall._ but, mr. neverout, i wonder why such a handsome, straight young gentleman as you don't get some rich widow? _lord sparkish._ straight! ay, straight as my leg, and that's crooked at the knee. _neverout._ truth, madam, if it rained rich widows, none would fall upon me. egad, i was born under a threepenny planet, never to be worth a groat. and so the talk flows on, and to all appearance might flow for ever. swift professes in his preface to have sat many hundred times with his table-book ready, without catching a single phrase for his book in eight hours. truly he is a kind of boswell of inanities; and one is amazed at the quantity of thought which must have gone into this elaborate trifling upon trifles. a similar vein of satire upon the emptiness of writers is given in his _tritical essay upon the faculties of the human mind_; but that is a mere skit compared with this strange performance. the _directions to servants_ shows an equal amount of thought exerted upon the various misdoings of the class assailed. some one has said that it is painful to read so minute and remorseless an exposure of one variety of human folly. undoubtedly it suggests that swift must have appeared to be an omniscient master. delany, as i have said, testifies to his excellence in that capacity. many anecdotes attest the close attention which he bestowed upon every detail of his servants' lives, and the humorous reproofs which he administered. "sweetheart," he said to an ugly cookmaid who had overdone a joint, "take this down to the kitchen and do it less." "that is impossible," she replied. "then," he said, "if you must commit faults, commit faults that can be mended." another story tells how when a servant had excused himself for not cleaning boots on the ground that they would soon be dirty again, swift made him apply the same principle to eating breakfast, which would be only a temporary remedy for hunger. in this, as in every relation of life, swift was under a kind of necessity of imposing himself upon every one in contact with him, and followed out his commands into the minutest details. in the _directions to servants_ he has accumulated the results of his experience in one department; and the reading may not be without edification to the people who every now and then announce as a new discovery that servants are apt to be selfish, indolent, and slatternly, and to prefer their own interests to their master's. probably no fault could be found with the modern successors of eighteenth-century servants, which has not already been exemplified in swift's presentment of that golden age of domestic comfort. the details are not altogether pleasant; but, admitting such satire to be legitimate, swift's performance is a masterpiece. swift, however, left work of a more dignified kind. many of the letters in his correspondence are admirable specimens of a perishing art. the most interesting are those which passed between him, pope, and bolingbroke, and which were published by pope's contrivance during swift's last period. "i look upon us three," says swift, "as a peculiar triumvirate, who have nothing to expect or fear, and so far fittest to converse with one another." we may perhaps believe swift when he says that he "never leaned on his elbow to consider what he should write" (except to fools, lawyers, and ministers), though we certainly cannot say the same of his friends. pope and bolingbroke are full of affectations, now transparent enough; but swift in a few trenchant, outspoken phrases, dashes out a portrait of himself as impressive as it is in some ways painful. we must, indeed, remember in reading his inverse hypocrisy, his tendency to call his own motives by their ugliest names--a tendency which is specially pronounced in writing letters to the old friends whose very names recall the memories of past happiness, and lead him to dwell upon the gloomiest side of the present. there is too a characteristic reserve upon some points. in his last visit to pope, swift left his friend's house after hearing the bad accounts of stella's health, and hid himself in london lodgings. he never mentioned his anxieties to his friend, who heard of them first from sheridan; and in writing afterwards from dublin, swift excuses himself for the desertion by referring to his own ill-health--doubtless a true cause ("two sick friends never did well together")--and his anxiety about his affairs, without a word about stella. a phrase of bolingbroke's in the previous year about "the present stella, whoever she may be," seems to prove that he too had no knowledge of stella except from the poems addressed to the name. there were depths of feeling which swift could not lay bare to the friend in whose affection he seems most thoroughly to have trusted. meanwhile he gives full vent to the scorn of mankind and himself, the bitter and unavailing hatred of oppression, and above all for that strange mingling of pride and remorse which is always characteristic of his turn of mind. when he leaves arbuthnot and pope he expresses the warmth of his feelings by declaring that he will try to forget them. he is deeply grieved by the death of congreve, and the grief makes him almost regret that he ever had a friend. he would give half his fortune for the temper of an easy-going acquaintance who could take up or lose a friend as easily as a cat. "is not this the true happy man?" the loss of gay cuts him to the heart; he notes on the letter announcing it that he had kept the letter by him five days "by an impulse foreboding some misfortune." he cannot speak of it except to say that he regrets that long living has not hardened him; and that he expects to die poor and friendless. pope's ill-health "hangs on his spirits." his moral is that if he were to begin the world again, he would never run the risk of a friendship with a poor or sickly man--for he cannot harden himself. "therefore i argue that avarice and hardness of heart are the two happiest qualities a man can acquire who is late in his life, because by living long we must lessen our friends or may increase our fortunes." this bitterness is equally apparent in regard to the virtues on which he most prided himself. his patriotism was owing to "perfect rage and resentment, and the mortifying sight of slavery, folly, and baseness;" in which, as he says, he is the direct contrary of pope, who can despise folly and hate vice without losing his temper or thinking the worse of individuals. "oppression tortures him," and means bitter hatred of the concrete oppressor. he tells barber in 1738 that for three years he has been but the shadow of his former self, and has entirely lost his memory, "except when it is roused by perpetual subjects of vexation." commentators have been at pains to show that such sentiments are not philanthropic; yet they are the morbid utterance of a noble and affectionate nature soured by long misery and disappointment. they brought their own punishment. the unhappy man was fretting himself into melancholy and was losing all sources of consolation. "i have nobody now left but you," he writes to pope in 1736; his invention is gone; he makes projects which end in the manufacture of waste paper; and what vexes him most is that his "female friends have now forsaken him." "years and infirmities," he says in the end of the same year (about the date of the _legion club_), "have quite broke me; i can neither read, nor write, nor remember, nor converse. all i have left is to walk and ride." a few letters are preserved in the next two years--melancholy wails over his loss of health and spirit--pathetic expressions of continual affection for his "dearest and almost only constant friend," and a warm request or two for services to some of his acquaintance. the last stage was rapidly approaching. swift who had always been thinking of death in these later years, had anticipated the end in the remarkable verses _on the death of dr. swift_. this and two or three other performances of about the same period, especially the _rhapsody on poetry_ (1733) and the _verses to a lady_ are swift's chief title to be called a poet. how far that name can be conceded to him is a question of classification. swift's originality appears in the very fact that he requires a new class to be made for him. he justified dryden's remark in so far as he was never a poet in the sense in which milton or wordsworth or shelley or even dryden himself were poets. his poetry may be called rhymed prose, and should perhaps be put at about the same level in the scale of poetry as _hudibras_. it differs from prose not simply in being rhymed, but in that the metrical form seems to be the natural and appropriate mode of utterance. some of the purely sarcastic and humorous phrases recall _hudibras_ more nearly than anything else; as, for example, the often-quoted verses upon small critics in the _rhapsody_. the vermin only tease and pinch their foes superior by an inch. so, naturalists observe a flea has smaller fleas that on him prey, and these have smaller still to bite 'em, and so proceed _ad infinitum_. in the verses on his own death, the suppressed passion, the glow and force of feeling which we perceive behind the merely moral and prosaic phrases seem to elevate the work to a higher level. it is a mere running of every-day language into easy-going verse; and yet the strangely mingled pathos and bitterness, the peculiar irony of which he was the great master, affect us with a sentiment which may be called poetical in substance, more forcibly than far more dignified and in some sense imaginative performances. whatever name we may please to give to such work, swift has certainly struck home and makes an impression which it is difficult to compress into a few phrases. it is the essence of all that is given at greater length in the correspondence; and starts from a comment upon rochefoucauld's congenial maxim about the misfortunes of our friends. he tells how his acquaintance watch his decay, tacitly congratulating themselves that "it is not yet so bad with us;" how, when he dies, they laugh at the absurdity of his will. to public uses! there's a whim! what had the public done for him? mere envy, avarice, and pride, he gave it all--but first he died. then we have the comments of queen caroline and sir robert and the rejoicings of grub street at the chance of passing off rubbish by calling it his. his friends are really touched. poor pope will grieve a month, and gay a week, and arbuthnot a day, st. john himself will scarce forbear to bite his pen and drop a tear, the rest will give a shrug and cry, "'tis pity, but we all must die!" the ladies talk over it at their cards. they have learnt to show their tenderness, and receive the news in doleful dumps. the dean is dead (pray what is trumps?); then, lord have mercy on his soul! (ladies, i'll venture for the _vole_). the poem concludes, as usual, with an impartial character of the dean. he claims, with a pride not unjustifiable, the power of independence, love of his friends, hatred of corruption and so forth; admits that he may have had "too much satire in his vein," though adding the very questionable assertion that he "lashed the vice but spared the name." marlborough, wharton, burnet, steele, walpole and a good many more might have had something to say upon that head. the last phrase is significant,- he gave the little wealth he had to build a house for fools and mad; and showed by one satiric touch no nation needed it so much, that kingdom he hath left his debtor, i wish it soon may have a better! for some years, in fact, swift had spent much thought and time in arranging the details of this bequest. he ultimately left about 12,000_l._, with which, and some other contributions, st. patrick's hospital was opened for fifty patients in the year 1757. the last few years of swift's life were passed in an almost total eclipse of intellect. one pathetic letter to mrs. whiteway gives almost the last touch. "i have been very miserable all night, and to-day extremely deaf and full of pain. i am so stupid and confounded that i cannot express the mortification i am under both of body and mind. all i can say is that i am not in torture; but i daily and hourly expect it. pray let me know how your health is and your family. i hardly understand one word i write. i am sure my days will be very few, for miserable they must be. if i do not blunder, it is saturday, july 26, 1740. if i live till monday, i shall hope to see you, perhaps for the last time." even after this he occasionally showed gleams of his former intelligence, and is said to have written a well-known epigram during an outing with his attendants:- behold a proof of irish sense! here irish wit is seen! when nothing's left that's worth defence they build a magazine. occasionally he gave way to furious outbursts of violent temper; and once suffered great torture from a swelling in the eye. but his general state seems to have been apathetic; sometimes he tried to speak, but was unable to find words. a few sentences have been recorded. on hearing that preparations were being made for celebrating his birthday, he said, "it is all folly; they had better let it alone." another time he was heard to mutter, "i am what i am; i am what i am." few details have been given of this sad period of mental eclipse; nor can we regret their absence. it is enough to say that he suffered occasional tortures from the development of the brain-disease; though as a rule he enjoyed the painlessness of torpor. the unhappy man lingered till the 19th of october, 1745, when he died quietly at three in the afternoon, after a night of convulsions. he was buried in st. patrick's cathedral, and over his grave was placed an epitaph, containing the last of those terrible phrases which cling to our memory whenever his name is mentioned. swift lies, in his own words,- ubi sã¦va indignatio cor ulterius lacerare nequit. what more can be added? the end. london: gilbert and rivington, limited, st. john's square. footnotes: [1] _deane swift_, p. 15. [2] readers may remember a clever adaptation of this incident in lord lytton's _my novel_. [3] possibly this was his cousin thomas, but the probabilities are clearly in favour of jonathan. [4] in the _short character of thomas, earl of wharton_. [5] it will be seen that i accept dr. barrett's statements, _earlier part of the life of swift_, pp. 13, 14. his arguments seem to me sufficiently clear and conclusive, and they are accepted by monck mason, though treated contemptuously by mr. forster, p. 34. on the other hand, i agree with mr. forster that swift's complicity in the _terr㦠filius_ oration is not proved, though it is not altogether improbable. [6] temple had the reversion of his father's office. [7] it may be noticed in illustration of the growth of the swift legend, that two demonstrably false anecdotes--one imputing a monstrous crime, the other a romantic piece of benevolence to swift--refer to this period. [8] m. maralt. see appendix to courtenay's _life of temple_. [9] the publichouse at the point thus named on the ordnance map is now (i regret to say) called the jolly farmer. [10] the most direct statement to this effect was made in an article in the _gentleman's magazine_ for 1757. it professes to speak with authority, but includes such palpable blunders as to carry little weight. [11] i am not certain whether this means 1681 or 1681-82. i have assumed the former date in mentioning stella's age; but the other is equally possible. [12] wotton first accused swift of borrowing the idea of the battle from a french book, by one coutray, called _histoire poã©tique de la guerre nouvellement declarã©e entre les anciens et modernes_. swift declared (i have no doubt truly) that he had never seen or heard of this book. but coutray, like swift, uses the scheme of a mock homeric battle. the book is prose, but begins with a poem. the resemblance is much closer than mr. forster's language would imply; but i agree with him that it does not justify johnson and scott in regarding it as more than a natural coincidence. every detail is different. [13] this was a treatise by thomas, twin brother of henry vaughan, the "silurist." it led to a controversy with henry more. vaughan was a rosicrucian. swift's contempt for mysteries is characteristic. sendivogus was a famous alchemist (1566-1646). [14] see forster, p. 117. [15] he was in england from april to september in 1701, from april to november in 1702, from november 1703 till may 1704, for an uncertain part of 1705, and again for over fifteen months from the end of 1707 till the beginning of 1709. [16] mr. forster found the original ms., and gives us the exact numbers: 96 omitted, 44 added, 22 altered. the whole was 178 lines _after_ the omissions. [17] see letter to _peterborough_, may 6, 1711. [18] in most of their principles the two parties seem to have shifted opinions since their institution in the reign of charles ii. _examiner_, no. 43. may 31, 1711. [19] delany, p. 211. [20] letter to king, jan. 6th, 1709. [21] swift to king, july 12, 1711. [22] these dinners, it may be noticed, seem to have been held on thursdays when harley had to attend the court at windsor. this may lead to some confusion with the brothers' club, which met on thursdays during the parliamentary session. [23] _letter to a whig lord_, 1712. [24] _journal to stella_, feb. 6th, 1712, and jan. 8th and 25th, 1712. [25] _ib._ jan. 7th, 1711. [26] _ib._ jan. 21st, 1712. [27] _ib._ dec. 31st, 1710. [28] _conduct of the allies._ [29] _advice to october club._ [30] _behaviour of queen's ministry._ [31] there was enough plausibility in this scandal to give it a sting. the duchess had left her second husband, a mr. thynne, immediately after the marriage ceremony, and fled to holland. there count coningsmark paid her his addresses, and, coming to england, had mr. thynne shot by ruffians in pall mall. see the curious case in the _state trials_, vol. ix. [32] letters from smalridge and dr. davenant in 1713. [33] letter to lord palmerston, jan. 29th, 1726. [34] june 22nd, 1711. [35] the list, so far as i can make it out from references in the journal, appears to include more names. one or two had probably retired. the peers are as follows:--the dukes of shrewsbury (perhaps only suggested), ormond and beaufort; lords orrery, rivers, dartmouth, dupplin, masham, bathurst, and lansdowne (the last three were of the famous twelve); and the commoners are swift, sir r. raymond, jack hill, disney, sir w. wyndham, st. john, prior, friend, arbuthnot, harley (son of lord oxford), and harcourt (son of lord harcourt). [36] feb. 28th, 1712. [37] its authenticity was doubted, but, as i think, quite gratuitously, by johnson, by lord stanhope, and, as stanhope says, by macaulay. the dulness is easily explicable by the circumstances of the composition. [38] april 13, 1713. [39] letter to king, dec. 16th, 1716. [40] _inquiry into the behaviour of the queen's last ministry._ [41] _autobiography_, i. 407. [42] _foster_, p. 108. [43] oct. 20th, 1711. the last use i have observed of this word is in a letter of carlyle's, nov. 7th, 1824. "strange pilgarlic-looking figures." froude's _life of carlyle_, i. 247. [44] lord orrery instructs us to pronounce this name vanummery. [45] this simply repeats what he says in his first published letters about his flirtations at leicester. [46] the passage which contains this line was said by orrery to cast an unmanly insinuation against vanessa's virtue. as the accusation has been repeated, it is perhaps right to say that one fact sufficiently disproves its possibility. the poem was intended for vanessa alone; and would never have appeared had it not been published after her death by her own direction. [47] compare pope's _eloisa_ to _abelard_ which appeared in 1717. if vanessa had read it, she might almost be suspected of borrowing; but her phrases seem to be too genuine to justify the hypothesis. [48] scott appropriately quotes hotspur. the phrase is apparently a hint at swift's usual recipe of exercise. [49] i cannot here discuss the evidence. the original statements are in _orrery_, p. 22 &c.; _delany_, p. 52; _dean swift_, p. 93; _sheridan_, p. 282; _monck berkeley_, p. xxxvi. scott accepted the marriage, and the evidence upon which he relied was criticized by monck mason, p. 297, &c. monck mason makes some good points, and especially diminishes the value of the testimony of bishop berkeley, showing by dates that he could not have heard the story, as his grandson affirms, from bishop ashe, who is said to have performed the ceremony. it probably came, however, from berkeley, who, we may add, was tutor to ashe's son, and had special reasons for interest in the story. on the whole, the argument for the marriage comes to this: that it was commonly reported by the end of swift's life, that it was certainly believed by his intimate friend delany, in all probability by the elder sheridan and by mrs. whiteway. mrs. sican, who told the story to sheridan, seems also to be a good witness. on the other hand, dr. lyon, a clergyman who was one of swift's guardians in his imbecility, says that it was denied by mrs. dingley and by mrs. brent, swift's old housekeeper, and by stella's executors. the evidence seems to me very indecisive. much of it may be dismissed as mere gossip, but a certain probability remains. [50] _monck mason_, p. 310, note. [51] this is sheridan's story. orrery speaks of the letter as written to swift himself. [52] scott heard this from mrs. whiteway's grandson. sheridan tells the story as though stella had begged for publicity, and swift cruelly refused. delany's statement (p. 56), which agrees with mrs. whiteway's, appears to be on good authority, and, if true, proves the reality of the marriage. [53] besides scott's remarks (see v. of his life) see orrery, _letter_ 10; _deane swift_, p. 93, _sheridan_, p. 297. [54] _letter to pope_, july 16th, 1728. [55] _sheridan_, p. 23. [56] _brain_ for jan., 1882. [57] _closing years of dean swift's life._ [58] letter to pope, july 13th, 1737. [59] _catholic reasons for repealing the test._ [60] _letters on sacramental test in 1738._ [61] to sir charles wigan, july, 1732. [62] to lord peterborough, april 21st, 1726. [63] the ton of bronze, i am informed, is coined into 108,000 pence, that is 450_l._ the metal is worth about 74_l._ [64] simon, in his work on the irish coinage, makes the profit 60,000_l._; but he reckons the copper at 1_s._ a lb., whereas from the report of the privy council it would seem to be properly 1_s._ 6_d._ a lb. swift and most later writers say 108,000_l._, but the right sum is 100,800_l._ 360 tons coined into 2_s._ 6_d._ a lb. [65] monck mason says only 300_l._ a year, but this is the sum mentioned in the report and by swift. [66] letter i. [67] letter ii. [68] see for example lord stanhope's account. for the other view see mr. lecky's _history of the eighteenth century_, and mr. froude's _english in ireland_. [69] letter iv. [70] "on the words brother protestants, &c." [71] to lord stafford, nov. 26, 1725. [72] _maxims controuled in ireland._ [73] _delany_, p. 148. [74] it is in the forster library, and, i believe, unpublished, in answer to arbuthnot's letter mentioned in the text. [75] letter to pope, sept. 29th, 1725. [76] letter to sheridan, sept. 11th, 1725. [77] _lectures on the english poets._ [78] to bolingbroke, may, 1719. [79] to pope and gay, oct. 15th, 1726. [80] _delany_, p. 144. [81] bishop of meath, may 22nd, 1719. [82] to bishop of clogher, july, 1733. [83] to carteret, may 10th, 1728. [84] substance of a speech to the mayor of dublin. franklin left a sum of money to be employed in a similar way. [85] see also the curious letters from mrs. pilkington in richardson's correspondence. [86] or she would hardly have written the _panegyric_. now publishing, in crown 8vo, price 2_s._ 6_d._ each. english men of letters. edited by john morley. "enjoyable and excellent little books."--_academy._ "this admirable series."--_british quarterly review._ "these excellent biographies should be made class-books for schools."--_westminster review._ johnson. by leslie stephen. scott. by r. h. hutton. gibbon. by j. c. morison. shelley. by j. a. symonds. hume. by professor huxley, f.r.s. goldsmith. by william black. defoe. by w. minto. burns. by principal shairp. spenser. by r. w. church, dean of st. paul's. thackeray. by anthony trollope. burke. by john morley. milton. by mark pattison. hawthorne. by henry james, jun. southey. by edward dowden. chaucer. by a. w. ward. cowper. by goldwin smith. bunyan. by j. a. froude. byron. by john nichol. locke. by thomas fowler. pope. by leslie stephen. charles lamb. by rev. alfred ainger. de quincey. by david masson. landor. by sidney colvin. dryden. by george saintsbury. wordsworth. by f. w. h. myers. bentley. by professor r. c. jebb. swift. by leslie stephen. dickens. by a. w. ward. gray. by e. w. gosse. sterne. by h. d. traill. macaulay. by j. c. morison. fielding. by austin dobson. sheridan. by mrs. oliphant. [_just ready._ _other volumes to follow._ _now publishing, in crown 8vo. 4s. 6d. each volume._ macmillan's new 4s. 6d. series. a memoir of daniel macmillan. by thomas hughes, q.c. with a portrait engraved by c. h. jeens. (fourth thousand.) the burgomaster's wife: a tale of the siege of leyden. by dr. georg ebers, author of "the egyptian princess," etc. translated by clara bell. only a word. by dr. georg ebers. translated by clara bell. a new novel by an american writer. mr. isaacs: a tale of modern india. by f. marion crawford. democracy: an american novel. popular edition, in paper wrapper. crown 8vo. 1_s._ a new novel by miss yonge. stray pearls from the memoirs of margaret de ribaumont, vicomtesse de bellaise. by charlotte m. yonge, author of "the heir of redclyffe," &c. two vols. unknown to history: a novel. by charlotte m. yonge, author of "the heir of redclyffe." two vols. the burman: his life and notions. by shway yoe. two vols. lectures on art. delivered in support of the society for protection of ancient buildings. by reginald stuart poole, professor w. b. richmond, e. j. poynter, r.a., j. t. micklethwaite, and william morris. the story of milicent. by fayr madoc. [_in the press._ the expansion of england. by professor j. r. seeley. [_in the press._ _other volumes to follow._ macmillan's globe library. _price 3s. 6d. per volume, in cloth. also kept in a variety of calf and morocco bindings at moderate prices._ "the 'globe' editions are admirable for their scholarly editing, their typographical excellence, their compendious form, and their cheapness."--saturday review. shakespeare's complete works.--edited by w. g. clark, m.a., and w. aldis wright, m.a., editors of the "cambridge shakespeare." with glossary. spenser's complete works.--edited, from the original editions and manuscripts, by r. morris, with a memoir by j. w. hales, m.a. with glossary. sir walter scott's poetical works.--edited, with a biographical and critical memoir, by francis turner palgrave, and copious notes. complete works of robert burns.--edited from the best printed and manuscript authorities, with glossarial index, notes, and a biographical memoir by alexander smith. robinson crusoe.--edited after the original editions, with a biographical introduction by henry kingsley. goldsmith's miscellaneous works.--edited, with biographical introduction, by professor masson. pope's poetical works.--edited, with notes and introductory memoir, by a. w. ward, m.a., professor of history in owens college, manchester. dryden's poetical works.--edited, with a memoir, revised text and notes, by w. d. christie, m.a., of trinity college, cambridge. cowper's poetical works.--edited, with notes and biographical introduction, by william benham, b.d. morte d'arthur.--sir thomas mallory's book of king arthur and of his noble knights of the round table.--the original edition of caxton, revised for modern use. with an introduction by sir edward strachey, bart. the works of virgil.--rendered into english prose, with introductions, notes, running analysis, and an index. by james lonsdale, m.a., and samuel lee, m.a. the works of horace.--rendered into english prose, with introductions, running analysis, notes, and index. by james lonsdale, m.a., and samuel lee, m.a. milton's poetical works.--edited, with introductions, by professor masson. _now publishing in crown 8vo. price 3s. 6d. each._ the english citizen. _a series of short books on_ his rights and responsibilities. this series is intended to meet the demand for accessible information of the ordinary conditions, and the current terms, of our political life. ignorance of these not only takes from the study of history the interest which comes from a contact with practical politics, but, still worse, it unfits men for their place as intelligent citizens. the series will deal with the details of the machinery whereby our constitution works, and the broad lines upon which it has been constructed. the books are not intended to interpret disputed points in acts of parliament, nor to refer in detail to clauses or sections of those acts; but to select and sum up the salient features of any branch of legislation, so as to place the ordinary citizen in possession of the main points of the law. they are intended further to show how such legislation arose, and (without going into minute historical or antiquarian details) to show how it has been the outcome of our history, how circumstances have led up to it, and what is its significance as affecting the relation between the individual and the state. _the following are the titles of the volumes_:-1. central government. h. d. traill, d.c.l., late fellow of st. john's college, oxford. [_ready._ 2. the electorate and the legislature. spencer walpole, author of "the history of england from 1815." [_ready._ 3. local government. m. d. chalmers. [_ready._ 4. justice and police. f. pollock, late fellow of trinity college, cambridge. 5. the national budget: the national debt, taxes and rates. a. j. wilson. [_ready._ 6. the state and education. henry craik, m.a. 7. the poor law. rev. t. w. fowle. [_ready._ 8. the state in its relation to trade. t. h. farrer. [_ready._ 9. the state in relation to labour. w. stanley jevons, ll.d., m.a., f.r.s. [_ready._ 10. the state and the land. f. pollock, late fellow of trinity college, cambridge. [_in the press._ 11. the state and the church. hon. a. d. elliot, m.p. [_ready._ 12. foreign relations. spencer walpole, author of "the history of england from 1815." [_ready._ 13. (1) india. j. s. cotton, late fellow of queen's college, oxford. (2) colonies and dependencies. e. j. payne, fellow of university college, oxford. [_in the press._ macmillan & co., london. february 1892_) i have endeavoured to indicate, i trust more or less successfully, the manner in which an enthusiastic public received the first of oscar wilde's comedies. let us now glance at the attitude affected by the critics. it is not too much to say that it was of undoubted hostility. their verdict was decidedly an inimical one. they had received an unexpected shock, and were staggering under it in an angry, helpless way. the new dramatist was a surprise, and an unpleasing one. he had in one evening destroyed the comfortable conventions of the stage, hitherto so dear to the critic's heart. he had dared to break down the barriers of ancient prejudice, and attempt something new, something original. in a word, he had dared to be himself, the most heinous offence of all! they could not entirely ignore his undeniable talent. public opinion was on his side. so they dragged in side issues to point _their_ little moral, and adorn _their_ little tale. this is how mr clement scott writes after the first performance of "lady windermere's fan": "supposing, after all, mr oscar wilde is a cynic of deeper significance than we take him to be. supposing he intends to reform and revolutionise society at large by sublime self-sacrifice. there are two sides to every question, and mr oscar wilde's piety in social reform has not as yet been urged by anybody. his attitude has been so extraordinary that i am inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. it is possible he may have said to himself, 'i will show you, and prove to you, to what an extent bad manners are not only recognised, but endorsed in this wholly free and unrestricted age. i will do on the stage of a public theatre what i should not dare to do at a mass meeting in the park. i will uncover my head in the presence of refined women, but i refuse to put down my cigarette. the working man may put out his pipe when he spouts, but my cigarette is too 'precious' for destruction. i will show no humility, and i will stand unrebuked. i will take greater liberties with the public than any author who has ever preceded me in history. and i will retire scatheless. the society that allows boys to puff cigarette smoke in the faces of ladies in the theatre corridors will condone the originality of a smoking author on the stage.' this may be the form of mr oscar wilde's curious cynicism. he may say, 'i will test this question of manners, and show that they are not nowadays recognised.'" so far mr clement scott, then the leader of the critic band who took his tone and cheerfully followed where he led--the old story of "les brebis de pannege." and to show how universal was this inordinate enmity, i will quote a paragraph from, at that time, the leading journal of historical criticism, written on the withdrawal of the play after a successful "run" of nine months. after endorsing the general opinion of the play as "a comedy of society manners pure and simple which may fairly claim its place among the recognised names in that almost extinct class of drama," the writer goes on to say in the conclusion of his article--"not the least amusing reminiscence will be the ferocious wrath which, on its first appearance, the play provoked among the regular stage-critics, almost to a man. except that mr wilde smoked a cigarette when called on, it is difficult to see why--unless it was because the comedy ran off the beaten track which is just what they are always deprecating." in this last sentence lies the _clou_ of the whole situation. the entire band had been clamouring for years for something fresh, "off the beaten track," and this is how they received it when they got it! verily, the ways of criticism are indeed marvellous, and difficult of comprehension. but the author triumphed over them all and won his laurels despite the forces arrayed against him. his first comedy was a splendid success. it must be conceded that there is nothing new in the plot of "lady windermere's fan." it is an old tale of intrigue which has done duty on the stage over and over again. it has inspired many a play. but as i before observed, it is in its treatment by the accomplished hand that the novelty of drama lies. and here we have an interesting example of how old lamps may be made to look new at the touch of the magician's wand. lord and lady windermere have been married for a couple of years when the action of the play commences. it was a love-match, and the sky of happiness has hitherto been without a cloud. but the cloud at last appears in the guise of a certain mrs erlynne, a somewhat notorious _divorcée_, who has managed to gain admission into society, in a half-acknowledged way, by means of her charms and her cash. the cash is supplied by lord windermere, and is in the nature of hush-money. for mrs erlynne turns out to be no other than lady windermere's mother, supposed to be long dead, and the "cloud" might prove an uncommonly inconvenient one if allowed suddenly to burst upon the unsuspicious _ménage_. so she is kept quiet by the cheques of her son-in-law. but her friends are not backward in enlightening lady windermere as to her husband's frequent visits to mrs erlynne, and one of them, the duchess of berwick, is more outspoken than the others, and succeeds in persuading poor innocent-minded lady windermere that the worst constructions should be placed upon his lordship's conduct. mrs erlynne has managed to induce lord windermere to send her a card for his wife's birthday ball, whereat, lady windermere, when she hears of this from her husband's lips, declares she will insult the guest openly if she arrives. but she does arrive and she is not insulted, although the celebrated fan is grasped ready to strike the blow! the ball passes off quietly enough, without any open scandal. but lady windermere, surprising, as she imagines, her husband in a compromising _tête-à-tête_ with the fascinating intruder, determines in a moment of nervous tension to leave the house, and betake herself to the rooms of lord darlington, who earlier in the evening has offered her his sympathy, and his heart. before she departs, however, she writes her husband a letter informing him of her intentions. this letter she leaves on a bureau where he is sure to find it. it is not he who finds it, however, but mrs erlynne. with the instinct born of a past and vast experience she scents danger, and opens and reads it. then her better feelings and worse heart are suddenly awakened, and she determines, at all risks, to save her daughter. whereupon she follows her to lord darlington's rooms, and, after a long scene between the two women, induces lady windermere to return to her husband before her flight is discovered. but it is too late. lord darlington, with a party of friends including lord windermere, is returning. their voices are heard outside the door. lady windermere hides behind a curtain ready to escape on the first opportunity, while mrs erlynne--when lord windermere's suspicions are aroused at the sight of his wife's fan, and he insists on searching the room--comes forth from the place where she had concealed herself, and boldly takes upon herself the ownership of the fatal _pièce á conviction_. lady windermere is saved, and at the end of the play is reconciled to her husband without uncomfortable explanations, while mrs erlynne marries an elderly adorer, who is brother to the duchess of berwick. such, in brief, is the plot of "lady windermere's fan." every playgoer will at once recognise its situations, and hail its intrigue as an old and well-tried friend; the loving husband and wife, the fascinating adventuress who comes between them and cannot be explained; the tempter who offers substantial consolation to the outraged wife; the compromising fan, or scarf, or glove (_selon les gôuts_) found by the husband in the room of the other man; the convenient curtain closely drawn as if to invite concealment; the hairbreadth escape of the wife leaving the _onus_ of the scandal to fall upon the shoulders of some self-sacrificing friend; the final reconciliation of husband and wife without any infelicitous catechism; are not these things written in the pages of all the plays that--as george meredith so happily puts it--"deal with human nature in the drawing-rooms of civilised men and women." with certain variations they are the mainstay--the french word is _l'armature_--of every comedy of genteel passions and misunderstandings that ever existed. now, how does oscar wilde contrive to clothe this dramatic skeleton with the flesh and blood of real life? how invest the familiar figures with the plausible presentment of new-born interest? simply by the wonderful power of his personality, which dominates all he touches, and rejuvenates the venerable bones of his _dramatis personæ_, compelling them, after the fashion of the "pied piper," to dance to any tune he chooses to call. or, perhaps, "sing" would be a better expression than "dance." for it is in what they say, rather than what they do, that our chief interest in them lies. we do not ask: "what are they going to do next?" that is more or less a forgone conclusion. but what we wait for with alert attention is what they are going to say next. and so we come back to that brilliant dialogue which is, as it should be, the chief feature of the play albeit that play is as well constructed as any could desire, straightforward and convincing. as a critic once wrote of it from the craftsman's point of view: "'lady windermere's fan' as a specimen of true comedy is a head and shoulders above any of its contemporaries. it has nothing in common with farcical comedy, with didactic comedy, or the 'literary' comedy of which we have heard so much of late from disappointed authors, whose principal claim to literature appears to consist in being undramatic. it is a distinguishing note of mr wilde that he has condescended to learn his business, and has written a workmanlike play as well as a good comedy. without that it would be worthless." in corroboration of this statement it is only necessary to note how skilfully, when it comes to the necessity of dramatic action, these scenes are handled. take the one in the second act, where mrs erlynne, more or less, forces her way into lady windermere's ballroom. it is an episode of extreme importance, and how well led up to! lord and lady windermere are on the stage together. _lord windermere._ margaret, i _must_ speak to you. _lady windermere._ will you hold my fan for me, lord darlington? thanks. (_comes down to him._) _lord windermere._ (_crossing to her._) margaret, what you said before dinner was, of course, impossible? _lady windermere._ that woman is not coming here to-night! _lord windermere._ (_r.c._) mrs erlynne is coming here, and if you in any way annoy or wound her, you will bring shame and sorrow on us both. remember that! ah, margaret! only trust me! a wife should trust her husband. _lady windermere._ london is full of women who trust their husbands. one can always recognise them. they look so thoroughly unhappy. i am not going to be one of them. (_moves up._) lord darlington, will you give me back my fan, please? thanks.... a useful thing a fan, isn't it?... i want a friend to-night, lord darlington. i didn't know i would want one soon. _lord darlington._ lady windermere! i knew the time would come some day: but why to-night? _lord windermere._ i _will_ tell her. i must. it would be terrible if there were any scene. margaret.... _parker_ (_announcing_). mrs erlynne. (_lord windermere starts. mrs erlynne enters, very beautifully dressed and very dignified. lady windermere clutches at her fan, then lets it drop on the floor. she bows coldly to mrs erlynne, who bows to her sweetly in turn, and sails into the room._) if this is not effective stagecraft, i do not know what is. and the dramatist strikes a deeper, and more tragic, note in the scene later on (in the same act) where mrs erlynne discovers the letter of farewell that lady windermere had written to her husband. (_parker enters, and crosses towards the ballroom, r. enter mrs erlynne._) _mrs erlynne._ is lady windermere in the ballroom? _parker._ her ladyship has just gone out. _mrs erlynne._ gone out? she's not on the terrace? _parker._ no, madam. her ladyship has just gone out of the house. _mrs erlynne_ (_starts and looks at the servant with a puzzled expression on her face_). out of the house? _parker._ yes, madam--her ladyship told me she had left a letter for his lordship on the table. _mrs erlynne._ a letter for lord windermere? _parker._ yes, madam. _mrs erlynne._ thank you. (_exit parker. the music in the ballroom stops._) gone out of her house! a letter addressed to her husband! (_goes over to bureau and looks at letter. takes it up and lays it down again with a shudder of fear._) no, no! it would be impossible! life doesn't repeat its tragedies like that! oh, why does this horrible fancy come across me? why do i remember now the one moment of my life i most wish to forget? does life repeat its tragedies? (_tears letter open and reads it, then sinks down into a chair with a gesture of anguish._) oh, how terrible! the same words that twenty years ago i wrote to her father! and how bitterly i have been punished for it! no; my punishment, my real punishment is to-night, is now! i have quoted these two episodes from the second act to demonstrate how equal was the playwright to the exigencies of his art. but it is in the third act, laid in lord darlington's rooms, that he reaches the level of high dramatic skill. first, in the scene between the mother and daughter, written with extraordinary power and pathos, and later on, when each of the women are hidden, the "man's scene" which ranks with the famous club scene in lord lytton's "money." the _blasé_ and genial tone of these men of the world is admirably caught. their conversation sparkles with wit and wisdom--of the world _bien entendu_. but it is in mrs erlynne's appeal to her daughter, with all its tragic intent that the author surpasses himself. just read it over. it is a masterpiece of restrained emotion. _mrs erlynne._ (_starts with a gesture of pain. then restrains herself, and comes over to where lady windermere is sitting. as she speaks, she stretches out her hands towards her, but does not dare to touch her._) believe what you choose about me. i am not without a moment's sorrow. but don't spoil your beautiful young life on my account. you don't know what may be in store for you, unless you leave this house at once. you don't know what it is to fall into the pit, to be despised, mocked, abandoned, sneered at--to be an outcast! to find the door shut against one, to have to creep in by hideous byways, afraid every moment lest the mask should be stripped from one's face, and all the while to hear the laughter of the world, a thing more tragic than all the tears the world has ever shed. you don't know what it is. one pays for one's sin, and then one pays again, and all one's life one pays. you must never know that. as for me, if suffering be an expiation, then at this moment i have expiated all my faults, whatever they have been; for to-night you have made a heart in one who had it not, made it and broken it. but let that pass. i may have wrecked my own life, but i will not let you wreck yours. you--why you are a mere girl, you would be lost. you haven't got the kind of brains that enables a woman to get back. you have neither the wit nor the courage. you couldn't stand dishonour. no! go back, lady windermere, to the husband who loves you, whom you love. you have a child, lady windermere. go back to that child who even now, in pain or in joy, may be calling to you. (_lady windermere rises._) god gave you that child. he will require from you that you make his life fine, that you watch over him. what answer will you make to god, if his life is ruined through you? back to your house, lady windermere--your husband loves you. he has never swerved for a moment from the love he bears you. but even if he had a thousand loves, you must stay with your child. if he was harsh to you, you must stay with your child. if he ill-treated you, you must stay with your child. if he abandoned you your place is with your child. (_lady windermere bursts into tears and buries her face in her hands._) (_rushing to her_). lady windermere! _lady windermere_ (_holding out her hands to her, helplessly, as a child might do_). take me home. take me home. few people who witnessed that situation could have done so without being deeply moved. it is oscar wilde the poet who speaks, not to the brain but to the heart. then turn from the shadow of that scene to the shimmer of the one that follows immediately, full of smartness and _jeu d'esprit_. the sprightly and irresponsible chatter of men of the world. _dumby._ awfully commercial, women nowadays. our grandmothers threw their caps over the mill, of course, but, by jove, their granddaughters only throw their caps over mills that can raise the wind for them. _lord augustus._ you want to make her out a wicked woman. she is not! _cecil graham._ oh! wicked women bother one. good women bore one. that is the only difference between them. * * * * * _dumby._ in this world there are only two tragedies. one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it. the last is much the worst, the last is a real tragedy. * * * * * _cecil graham._ what is a cynic? _lord darlington._ a man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing. _cecil graham._ and a sentimentalist, my dear darlington, is a man who sees an absurd value in everything, and doesn't know the market price of any single thing. * * * * * _dumby._ experience is the name everyone gives to their mistakes. * * * * * _lord windermere._ what is the difference between scandal and gossip? _cecil graham._ oh! gossip is charming! history is merely gossip. but scandal is gossip made tedious by morality. now i never moralise. a man who moralises is usually a hypocrite, and a woman who moralises is invariably plain. there is nothing in the whole world so unbecoming to a woman as a nonconformist conscience. and most women know it, i'm glad to say. and so we take our leave of "lady windermere's fan." "a woman of no importance" (_first produced at the haymarket theatre by mr beerbohm tree on 19th april 1903_) perhaps of all oscar wilde's plays "the woman of no importance" provoked the most discussion at the time of its production. it was his second venture in the histrionic field, and people expected much. they felt that he should now be finding his feet, that whatever shortcomings, from the point of view of stagecraft, there may have been in "lady windermere's fan," should now be made good. his first comedy was a well-constructed play of plot and incidents. but now, expectation rose high, and required of the author something better, something greater, something more considerable than what he had achieved before. how far were these expectations realised? how did the first-night audience of public, and critics, receive the new play? it must be confessed it was with a feeling akin to disappointment. people at first were undeniably disconcerted. they had come prepared to witness drama, possibly of stirring interest, and what they heard was dialogue of brilliant quality, indeed, but which, up to a certain point, had little to do in forwarding the action of the piece. it was a surprise, and, to most of them, a not altogether grateful one. and it came in the first act. here the author had actually been bold enough to defy popular traditions, and to place his characters seated in a semicircle uttering epigram after epigram, and paradox upon paradox, without any regard to whatever plot there might be; for it is not until the curtain is about to fall that we get an indication, for the first time, that something is going to happen in the next act. here was an upset indeed! a subversion of all preconceived ideas as to how a play should begin! "words! words!" they muttered captiously, although the words were as the pearls and diamonds that fell from the mouth of the maiden in the fairy tale. and so on, through scene after scene, until we come to the unexpected meeting of lord illingworth with the woman he had, long ago, betrayed and abandoned. then quickly follows the pathetic interview between mother and son, culminating in mrs arbuthnot's confession that the man who would befriend her son is no other than his own father, to whom he should owe nothing, save the disgrace of his birth, leading up to the _scene-à-faire_ in the final act, where lord illingworth's offer to make reparation to the woman he has wronged is acknowledged by a blow across the face. here at last was drama, treated in the right spirit, and of an emotional value that cannot be too highly recognised. but the shock of the earlier acts had been a severe one, and it took all the intense human interest of the last two acts to atone for the outraged conventions of the two first. it speaks volumes of praise for the playwright's powers that he was enabled to carry his work to a successful issue, and secure for it a long run. and not only that, but to stand the critical test of revival. for, at the moment of writing these words, mr tree has reproduced "the woman of no importance" at his majesty's theatre, which is crowded, night after night, with audiences eager to bring a posthumous tribute to the genius of the author. _apropos_ of the first act where all the _dramatis personæ_ are seated in a semicircle engaged only in conversation, and which was likened, on the occasion of the first production of the play, by an eminent critic to "christy minstrelism crystallised," it may not be uninteresting to note, _en passant_, a similar arrangement of characters in a play of mr bernard shaw's recently performed at the court theatre. this is called "don juan in hell"--the dream from "man and superman"--mercifully omitted when that play was produced. it had nothing whatever to do with the comedy in which it was included, but is a niagara of ideas, clumsily put together, and is more or less an exposition of the shawian philosophy. "hear the result"--i quote from the critique in one of our leading journals--"the curtain rose at half-past two on a darkened stage draped in black. enter, in turn, don juan, dona ana de ulloa, the statue of her father, and the devil. they sat down, and for an hour and a half delivered those opinions of mr shaw with which we are all so terribly familiar. every now and then there was a laugh, as, for example, when don juan said: 'wherever ladies are is hell,' or, again, when he said: 'have you ever had servants who were not devils?' it was all supposed to be very funny and very naughty, of course, especially when the statue said to don juan: 'if you dwelt in heaven, as i do, you would realise your advantages.' and so on, and so on, _ad nauseum_." see now, how the parallel scene of "only talk" as written by oscar wilde was noticed upon its revival the other day. i quote from another journal. "let all that can be urged against this play be granted. none the less is it worth watching the _dramatis personæ_ do nothing, so long as the mind may be tickled by this unscrupulous, fastidious wit. and, even if all the characters speak in the same accents of paradox, their moods, the essentials of them, are differentiated with a brilliancy of expression which condones the lack of dramatic movement. these things, alone, evoke my gratitude to mr tree for reviving so interesting and individual a comedy.... for even those utterances which seem to be mere phraseological inversions are fraught with much wisdom, and the major part of the dialogue reflects the mind of a subtle and daring social observer." and it was this "mind," keen of observation, and equipped with no ordinary wit, that dominates an audience and compels them to sit, as it were, spellbound before the demonstration of the power of its unique personality. i am informed that, to-day, in germany, the only two modern english dramatists who are listened to are oscar wilde and bernard shaw--the poet and the proser. truly may it be remarked: "_les extrêmes se touchent_." the story of "the woman of no importance" is quickly told. lord illingworth, a cynical _roué_, has, in his youth, betrayed a too trusting young lady, who, in consequence, gave birth to a son, by her named gerald. when the play begins this young fellow is nineteen years old, and has, most hopelessly it would seem, fallen in love with an american heiress whose name is hester worsley. he is living with his mother, called mrs arbuthnot, at a quiet country village, where also resides lady hunstanton, who acts as hostess to all the smart society folk who appear upon the scene, and among whom lord illingworth is the most prominent. his lordship, ignorant of their real relationship, has taken a fancy to gerald, and offers him a private secretaryship. whereupon his future prospects brighten up considerably. but when mrs arbuthnot discovers that lord illingworth is no other than the man who had wronged her, she does all in her power to persuade her (and his) son to refuse the offer, and, driven to extremity in her distress, tells gerald her own history, as that of another woman. her efforts are futile. the boy only says that the woman must have been as bad as the man, and that, as far as he can see, lord illingworth is now a very good fellow, and so he means to stick to him. consequently, when his lordship insists upon gerald keeping to the bargain, and reminds his mother that the boy will be her "judge as well as her son," should the truth of her past be brought to light, mrs arbuthnot is induced to hold it still secret. unfortunately for this secret, mrs allonby, one of lady hunstanton's guests, has goaded lord illingworth into promising to kiss miss hester worsley. this he does, much to the disgust of the fair puritan, who loudly announces that she has been insulted. gerald's eyes are suddenly opened to lord illingworth's turpitude, and with the unbridled passion of the headstrong lover cries out that he will kill him! which, apparently, he would have done, had not mrs arbuthnot stepped forward, and to everybody's surprise intervened with the dramatic: "no--he is your father!" _tableau._ in the final act hester worsley, now that she knows mrs arbuthnot, and is determined in spite of all to marry gerald, solves every difficulty by carrying off the mother and son to her home in the new world, where we may presume the young couple marry, and live happily ever afterwards. before her departure from england, however, mrs arbuthnot, maddened by the cynical offer of tardy reparation by marriage on the part of lord illingworth, strikes him across the face with a glove, and at the end of the play alludes to him as "a man of no importance"; which balances his earlier description of her as "a woman of no importance." as i have pointed out elsewhere, many of the epigrams in this play were lifted bodily from "the picture of dorian gray," but after these are eliminated there remain enough to establish the reputation of any dramatist as a wit and epigrammatist of the very first rank. much would be forgiven for one definition alone, that of the foxhunter--"the unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable." and sheridan himself might envy the pronouncement that "the youth of america is its oldest tradition." but apart from brilliant repartee and amusing paradox, the piece is full of passages of rare beauty and moments of touching pathos. hester worsley's speech anent society, which she describes as being "like a leper in purple," "a dead thing smeared with gold," is as finely written a piece of declamation as any actress could desire, apart from its high literary qualities; and mrs arbuthnot's confession to her boy and her appeal to him for mercy are conceived in a spirit of delicacy and reticence that only the highest art can attain. her pathetic peroration: "child of my shame, be still the child of my shame," touches the deepest chords of human sorrow and anguish. with a masterly knowledge of what the theatre requires, he gives us hester at the beginning of the play inveighing against any departure from the moral code and quoting the old testament anent the sins of the father being visited on the children. "it is god's law," she ends up--"it is god's terrible law." later, when she begs mrs arbuthnot to come away to other climes, "where there are green valleys and fresh waters" and the poor woman for whom the world is shrivelled to a palm's breadth confronts her with her own pronouncement, how beautifully introduced is her recantation: "don't say that, god's law is only love." it has been objected to hester that she is a prig, but no girl could be a prig who could utter a sentiment like that. she is a fine specimen of the girlhood of the late nineteenth century, travelled, cultured, frank, and fearless, and above all pure. in the artificial atmosphere of hunstanton, where the guests are all mere worldlings, her purity and goodness stand out in high relief. if there is a prig it is gerald who, whether he be listening to lord illingworth's worldly teaching as to "a well-tied tie being the first serious step in life," or hearing the story of his mother's sin, is a singularly uninteresting and commonplace young man. as to the other characters they are all admirable sketches of society folk. lady caroline pontefract tyrannising over her husband and making that gay old gentleman put on his goloshes and muffler is a delightful type of those old-fashioned _grandes dames_ who have the peerage at their fingers' ends. nothing could be more delightfully characteristic than her opining, when hester tells her that some of the states of america are as big as france and england put together, that they must find it very draughty. lady hunstanton too, who prattles away about everybody and everything and gets mixed up in all her statements, as for instance, when referring to somebody as a clergyman who wanted to be a lunatic, she is uncertain if it was not a lunatic who wanted to be a clergyman, but who at anyrate wore straws in his hair or something equally odd, is drawn with a fidelity to nature that shows what a really great student of character oscar wilde was. no less admirable a portrayal is that of the worldly archdeacon whose wife is almost blind, quite deaf and a confirmed invalid, yet, nevertheless, is quite happy, for though she can no longer hear his sermons she reads them at home. he it is whom lord illingworth shocks so profoundly, first by his assertion that every saint has a past and every sinner has a future, and finally by the flippant remark that the secret of life is to be always on the lookout for temptations, which are becoming so exceedingly scarce that he sometimes passes a whole day without coming across one. as literature alone, the play deserves to live, and will live, as a _piece de théâtre_. it has met with more success than any play of the first class within the last twenty years. the reason for that is not far to seek--it is essentially human, and the woman's interest--the keynote of the story--appeals to man and woman equally. i have seen rough lancashire audiences, bucolic boors in small country towns, and dour hard-headed scotsmen, sit spellbound as the story of the woman's sin and her repentance was unfolded before them. a play that can do that is imperishable, and it is no disparagement to the other brilliant dramatic works of the author that, as a popular play which will ever find favour with audiences of every class and kind, on account of its human interest and its pathos, "a woman of no importance" is certain of immortality. "the ideal husband" (_first produced at the haymarket theatre, under the management of mr lewis waller and mr h. h. morell on 3rd january 1895_) this, the third of oscar wilde's plays in their order of production, is undoubtedly the most dramatic. the action is rapid, the interest of the story sustained to the very end, and the dialogue always to the point. each of the principal characters concerned in the carrying out of the plot is a distinct individualised type. what each one says or does is entirely in keeping with his, or her, personality. and that personality is in each case a well-marked and skilfully drawn one. the four _personæ_ who are engaged in conducting the intrigue of this comedy are sir robert chiltern, lady chiltern (his wife), lord goring, and mrs cheveley. a charming _ingénue_ in the person of miss mabel chiltern (sir robert's sister) is also instrumental in bringing the love-interest to a happy hymeneal issue. the author of their being has handed down to us, in his own inimitable way, his conception of them. here it is: "_sir robert chiltern._ a man of forty, but looking somewhat younger. clean-shaven, with finely-cut features, dark-haired and dark-eyed. a personality of mark. not popular--few personalities are. but intensely admired by the few, and deeply respected of the many. the note of his manner is that of perfect distinction, with a slight touch of pride. one feels that he is conscious of the success he has made in life. a nervous temperament, with a tired look. the firmly-chiselled mouth and chin contrast strikingly with the romantic expression in the deep-set eyes. the variance is suggestive of an almost complete separation of passion and intellect, as though thought and emotion were each isolated in its own sphere through some violence of will-power. there is no nervousness in the nostrils, and in the pale, thin, pointed hands. it would be inaccurate to call him picturesque. picturesqueness cannot survive the house of commons. but vandyck would have liked to paint his head." of _lady chiltern_ we do not get more than that she is "a woman of grave greek beauty about twenty-seven years of age." this is _lord goring_: "thirty-four, but always says he is younger. a well-bred expressionless face. he is clever, but would not like to be thought so. a flawless dandy, he would be annoyed if he were considered romantic. he plays with life, and is on perfectly good terms with the world. he is fond of being misunderstood. it gives him a post of vantage." _mrs cheveley_, the _âme damée_ of the plot, is thus portrayed: "tall, and rather slight. lips very thin and highly coloured, a line of scarlet on a pallid face. venetian red hair, aquiline nose, a long throat. rouge accentuates the natural paleness of her complexion. grey-green eyes that move restlessly. she is in heliotrope, with diamonds. she looks rather like an orchid, and makes great demands on one's curiosity. in all her movements she is extremely graceful. a work of art on the whole, but showing the influence of too many schools." in these delicious word-pictures we gain for once an idea as to how the author considered his characters, both physically and psychically. it is interesting to note that of the four published plays this is the only one in which such intimate directions are to be found. was the author, for once in a way, allowing himself a measure of poetic licence, and giving free but eminently unpractical play to his imagination? who may tell? at anyrate, however high he may have soared in his requirements of the performers, he comes down steadily to earth in his management of the plot, which is acted out on these lines. in the first act we find lady chiltern, whose husband is under-secretary for foreign affairs, giving a party at her house in grosvenor square. here, among other fashionable folk who flit across the scene, we are introduced to lord goring, between whom and mabel chiltern there is evidently a more or less serious flirtation going on, especially on the young lady's side. shortly after his first entrance lord goring "saunters over to mabel chiltern." _mabel chiltern._ you are very late! _lord goring._ have you missed me? _mabel chiltern._ awfully! _lord goring._ then i am sorry i did not stay away longer. i like being missed. _mabel chiltern._ how very selfish of you. _lord goring._ i am very selfish. _mabel chiltern._ you are always telling me of your bad qualities, lord goring. _lord goring._ i have only told you half of them as yet, miss mabel.... _mabel chiltern._ well, i delight in your bad qualities. i wouldn't have you part with one of them. _lord goring._ how very nice of you! but then you are always nice. by the way, i want to ask you a question, miss mabel. who brought mrs cheveley here? that woman in heliotrope who has just gone out of the room with your brother? _mabel chiltern._ oh, i think lady markby brought her. why do you ask? _lord goring._ i hadn't seen her for years, that is all. but lord goring did not say, of course, all he knew about the brilliant mrs cheveley, who is very _répondue_ in the diplomatic world at vienna, and has, in her day, been the heroine of much pretty gossip. the object of her present visit to london is to obtain an introduction to sir robert chiltern, and it is when they first meet that the dramatic interest of the story commences. the lady, it appears, has invested largely, too largely, in a great political and financial scheme called the argentine canal company, acting on the advice of a certain baron arnheim, now dead, who was also a friend of sir robert chiltern's. when mrs cheveley informs sir robert what her position is, he denounces the scheme as "a commonplace stock exchange swindle." _sir robert chiltern._ believe me, mrs cheveley, it is a swindle.... i sent out a special commission to inquire into the matter privately and they report that the works are hardly begun, and as for the money already subscribed, no one seems to know what has become of it. a little later on he says "the success of the canal depends of course on the attitude of england, and i am going to lay the report of the commissioners before the house of commons." _mrs cheveley._ that you must not do. in your own interests, sir robert, to say nothing of mine, you must not do that. _sir robert chiltern._ (_looking at her in wonder._) in my own interests? my dear mrs cheveley, what do you mean? (_sits down beside her._) _mrs cheveley._ sir robert, i will be quite frank with you. i want you to withdraw the report that you had intended to lay before the house, on the ground that you have reason to believe that the commissioners had been prejudiced or misinformed or something.... will you do that for me? (_naturally sir robert is indignant at the proposition, and proposes to call the lady's carriage for her._) _sir robert chiltern._ you have lived so long abroad, mrs cheveley, that you seem to be unable to realise that you are talking to an english gentleman. _mrs cheveley._ (_detains him by touching his arm with her fan, and keeping it there while she is talking._) i realise that i am talking to a man who laid the foundation of his fortune by selling to a stock exchange speculator a cabinet secret. this is unfortunately only too true. for, years ago, when secretary to lord radley, "a great important minister," sir robert has written to baron arnheim a letter telling the baron to buy suez canal shares--a letter written three days before the government announced its own purchase, and which letter also is in mrs cheveley's possession! here is a fine situation with a vengeance! by threatening to publish the scandal and the proofs of it in some leading newspaper, mrs cheveley induces the unfortunate sir robert to consent to withdraw the report, and state in the house that he believes there are possibilities in the scheme. in return for which she will give him back the compromising letter. so far, so good. she has won her cause. but, true woman as she is, she cannot conceal her triumph from lady chiltern as she is leaving the party. _lady chiltern._ why did you wish to meet my husband, mrs cheveley? _mrs cheveley._ oh, i will tell you. i wanted to interest him in this argentine canal scheme, of which i daresay you have heard. and i found him most susceptible--susceptible to reason,--i mean. a rare thing in a man. i converted him in ten minutes. he is going to make a speech in the house to-morrow night, in favour of the idea. we must go to the ladies' gallery and hear him. it will be a great occasion. and so she goes gaily away, leaving her hostess perplexed and troubled. but in weaving her web round the hapless husband, she had not reckoned on the influence of the wife to disentangle it, and set the victim free. yet, in a finely-conceived, and equally well-written, scene this is what actually happened. the company have all departed and they are alone together. _lady chiltern._ robert, it is not true, is it? you are not going to lend your support to this argentine speculation? you couldn't. _sir robert chiltern._ (_starting._) who told you i intended to do so? _lady chiltern._ that woman who has just gone out.... robert, i know this woman. you don't. we were at school together.... she was sent away for being a thief. why do you let her influence you? then after much painful probing as to why he has so suddenly changed his attitude towards the scheme, she elicits the reason. _sir robert chiltern._ but if i told you--- _lady chiltern._ what? _sir robert chiltern._ that it was necessary, vitally necessary. _lady chiltern._ it can never be necessary to do what is not honourable.... robert, tell me why you are going to do this dishonourable thing? _sir robert chiltern._ gertrude, you have no right to use that word. i told you it was a question of rational compromise. it is no more than that. but lady chiltern is not to be so easily put off as that. her suspicions are aroused. she says she knows that there are "men with horrible secrets in their lives--men who had done some shameful thing, and who, in some critical moment, have to pay for it, by doing some other act of shame." she asks him boldly, is he one of these? then, driven to bay, he tells her the one lie of his life. _sir robert chiltern._ gertrude, there is nothing in my past life that you might not know. she is satisfied. but he must write a letter to mrs cheveley, taking back any promise he may have given her, and that letter must be written at once. he tries to gain time, offers to go and see mrs cheveley to-morrow; it is too late to-night. but lady chiltern is inexorable, and so sir robert yields, and the missive is despatched to claridge's hotel. then, seized with a sudden terror of what the consequences may be, he turns, with nerves all a-quiver, to his wife, pleadingly- _sir robert chiltern._ o, love me always, gertrude, love me always. _lady chiltern._ i will love you always, because you will always be worthy of love. we needs must love the highest when we see it! (_kisses him, rises and goes out._) and the curtain falls upon this intensely emotional situation. if i may seem to have quoted too freely from the dialogue, it is in part to refute the charge, so often urged by the critics, that oscar wilde's "talk is often an end in itself, it has no vital connection with the particular play of which it forms a part, it might as well be put into the mouth of one character as another...." now in the first act of "the ideal husband," when the action of the piece is being carried on at high pressure, there is not a word of the dialogue that is not pertinent, no sentence that is not significant. whatever of wit the author may have allowed himself to indulge in springs spontaneously from the woof of the story, it is not, as was suggested in his earlier plays, "a mere parasitic growth attached to it," in which this particular comedy under consideration marks an immense advance on the methods of "the woman of no importance." here is strenuous drama, treated strenuously, and dealing with the whole gamut of human emotions. the playwright, as he progresses in his art, does not here permit himself to endanger the interest of the plot by any adventitious pleasantries on the part of the characters. in the second act we are again in grosvenor square, this time in a morning-room, where sir robert chiltern and lord goring are discussing the awkward state of affairs. to lord goring the action of sir robert appears inexcusable. _lord goring._ robert, how could you have sold yourself for money? _sir robert chiltern._ (_excitedly._) i did not sell myself for money. i bought success at a great price. that is all. such was his point of view. lord goring's now is that he should have told his wife. but sir robert assures him that such a confession to such a woman would mean a lifelong separation. she must remain in ignorance. but now the vital question is--how is he to defend himself against mrs cheveley? lord goring answers that he must fight her. _sir robert chiltern._ but how? _lord goring._ i can't tell you how at present. i have not the smallest idea. but everyone has some weak point. there is some flaw in each one of us. the conversation is interrupted by the entrance of lady chiltern. sir robert goes out and leaves lord goring and his wife together. and there follows a scene, brief, but as fine as any in the play, in which lord goring endeavours to prepare lady chiltern very skilfully for the blow that may possibly fall upon her. he deals in generalities: "i think that in practical life there is something about success that is a little unscrupulous, something about ambition that is unscrupulous always." and again: "in every nature there are elements of weakness, or worse than weakness. supposing, for instance, that--that any public man, my father or lord merton, or robert, say, had, years ago, written some foolish letter to someone...." _lady chiltern._ what do you mean by a foolish letter? _lord goring._ a letter gravely compromising one's position. i am only putting an imaginary case. _lady chiltern._ robert is as incapable of doing a foolish thing, as he is of doing a wrong thing. she is still unshaken in the belief of her husband's rectitude. and lord goring departs sorrowing, but not before he has assured her of his friendship that would serve her in any crisis. _lord goring._ ... and if you are ever in trouble, lady chiltern, trust me absolutely, and i will help you in every way i can. if you ever want me ... come at once to me. then on the scene arrives mrs cheveley, accompanied by lady markby (for whose amusing _bavardage_ i wish i could find space) evidently to revenge herself somehow for her rebuff, ostensibly to inquire after a "diamond snake-brooch with a ruby," which she has lost, probably at lady chiltern's. now the audience knows all about this "brooch-bracelet," for has not lord goring found it on the sofa last night, when flirting with mabel chiltern, and recognising it as an old and somewhat ominous friend, quietly put it in his pocket, at the same time enjoining mabel to say nothing about the incident. so, of course, the jewel has not been found in grosvenor square. but when the two women are left alone, mrs cheveley discovers that it was lady chiltern who dictated sir robert's letter to her. a bitter passage of arms occurs between them, when lady chiltern discusses her adversary, who boasts herself the ally of her husband. _lady chiltern._ how dare you class my husband with yourself?... leave my house. you are unfit to enter it. (_sir robert enters from behind. he hears his wife's last words, and sees to whom they are addressed. he grows deadly pale._) _mrs cheveley._ your house! a house bought with the price of dishonour. a house everything in which has been paid for by fraud. (_turns round and sees sir robert chiltern._) ask him what the origin of his fortune is! get him to tell you how he sold to a stockbroker a cabinet secret. learn from him to what you owe your position. _lady chiltern._ it is not true! robert! it is not true! but sir robert cannot deny the accusation, and mrs cheveley departs, the winner of the contest. the act concludes with a terrible denunciation on the part of sir robert of his wife, whom he blindly accuses of having wrecked his life, by not allowing him to accept the comfortable offer made by mrs cheveley of absolute security from all future knowledge of the sin he had committed in his youth. _sir robert chiltern._ i could have killed it for ever, sent it back into its tomb, destroyed its record, burned the one witness against me. you prevented me.... let women make no more ideals of men! let them not put them on altars and bow before them, or they may ruin other lives as completely as you--you whom i have so wildly loved--have ruined mine! here is the sincere note of tragedy! surely, oscar wilde is among the dramatists! the action of the third act takes place in the library of lord goring's house. it is inspired in the very best spirit of intrigue. lady chiltern, mindful of lord goring's friendship, has, in the first bewilderment of her discovery, written a note to him,--"i want you. i trust you. i am coming to you. gertrude." lord goring is about to make preparations to receive her, when his father, lord caversham, most inconveniently looks in to pay him a visit, the object of which is to discuss his son's matrimonial prospects. the visit, therefore, promises to be a lengthy one, and lord goring proposes they should adjourn to the smoking-room, advising his servant, phipps, at the same time that he is expecting a lady to see him on particular business, and who is to be shown, on her arrival, into the drawing-room. a lady does arrive, only she is not lady chiltern, but mrs cheveley, who has not announced her advent in any way. surprised to hear that lord goring is expecting a lady, and while phipps is lighting the candles in the drawing-room, she occupies her spare moments in running through the letters on the writing-table, and comes across lady chiltern's note. here, indeed, is her opportunity. she is just about to purloin it, when phipps returns, and she slips it under a silver-cased blotting-book that is lying on the table. she is, perforce, obliged to go into the drawing-room, from which presently she emerges, and creeps stealthily towards the writing-table. but suddenly voices are heard from the smoking-room, and she is constrained to return to her hiding-place. lord caversham and his son re-enter and lord goring puts his father's cloak on for him, and with much relief sees him depart. but a shock is in store for him, for no sooner has lord caversham vanished, than no less a personage than sir robert chiltern appears. in vain does lord goring try to get rid of his most unwelcome visitor. sir robert has come to talk over his trouble, and means to stay. lady chiltern must on no account be admitted. so he says to phipps: _lord goring._ when that lady calls, tell her that i am not expected home this evening. tell her that i have been suddenly called out of town. you understand? _phipps._ the lady is in that room, my lord. you told me to show her into that room, my lord. lord goring realises that things are getting a little uncomfortable, and again tries to send sir robert away. but sir robert pleads for five minutes more. he is on his way to the house of commons. "the debate on the argentine canal is to begin at eleven." as he makes this announcement a chair is heard to fall in the drawing-room. he suspects a listener, and, despite lord goring's word of honour to the contrary, determines to see for himself, and goes into the room, leaving lord goring in a fearful state of mind. he soon returns, however, "with a look of scorn on his face." _sir robert chiltern._ what explanation have you to give me for the presence of that woman here? _lord goring._ robert, i swear to you on my honour that that lady is stainless and guiltless of all offence towards you. _sir robert chiltern._ she is a vile, an infamous thing! after a few more speeches, in which the _malentendu_ is well kept up, sir robert goes out, and lord goring rushes to the drawing-room to meet--mrs cheveley. and now this woman is going to have another duel, but this time with an enemy who is proof against her attacks. the whole of this scene is imagined and written in a masterly manner. after a little airy sparring, lord goring opens the match. _lord goring._ you have come here to sell me robert chiltern's letter, haven't you? _mrs cheveley._ to offer it you on conditions. how did you guess that? _lord goring._ because you haven't mentioned the subject. have you got it with you? _mrs cheveley._ (_sitting down._) oh, no! a well-made dress has no pockets. _lord goring._ what is your price for it? then, mrs cheveley tells him that the price is--herself. she is tired of living abroad, and wants to come to london and have a salon. she vows to him that he is the only person she has ever cared for, and that on the morning of the day he marries her she will give him sir robert's letter. naturally he refuses her offer. naturally she is furious. but she still possesses the incriminating document and hurls her venomous words at his head. _mrs chiltern._ for the privilege of being your wife i was ready to surrender a great prize, the climax of my diplomatic career. you decline. very well. if sir robert doesn't uphold my argentine scheme, i expose him. _voilà tout!_ but he cares not for her threats. he hasn't done with her yet, for he has got in his possession the diamond snake-brooch with a ruby! this scene is most skilfully managed. quite innocently he offers to return it to her--he had found it accidentally last night. and then in a moment he clasps it on her arm. _mrs cheveley._ i never knew it could be worn as a bracelet ... it looks very well on me as a bracelet, doesn't it? _lord goring._ yes, much better than when i saw it last. _mrs cheveley._ when did you see it last? _lord goring._ (_calmly._) oh! ten years ago, on lady berkshire, from whom you stole it. now, he has her in his power. the bracelet cannot be unclasped unless she knows the secret of the spring, and she is at his mercy, a convicted thief. he moves towards the bell to summon his servant to fetch the police. "to-morrow the berkshires will prosecute you." what is she to do? she will do anything in the world he wants. _lord goring._ give me robert chiltern's letter. _mrs cheveley._ i have not got it with me. i will give it you to-morrow. _lord goring._ you know you are lying. give it me at once. (_mrs cheveley pulls the letter out and hands it to him. she is horribly pale._) this is it? _mrs cheveley._ (_in a hoarse voice._) yes. whereupon he burns it over the lamp. so letter number one is got out of the way. but there is letter number two: lady chiltern's to lord goring. the accomplished thief sees it just showing from under the blotting-book; asks lord goring for a glass of water, and while his back is turned steals it. so, though she has lost the day on one count she has gained it on another. with a bitter note of triumph in her voice she tells lord goring that she is going to send lady chiltern's "love-letter" to him to sir robert. he tries to wrest it from her, but she is too quick for him, and rings the electric bell. phipps appears, and she is safe. _mrs cheveley._ (_after a pause._) lord goring merely rang that you should show me out. good-night, lord goring. and on this fine situation the curtain falls. space does not permit me more than to indicate how, in the fourth and last act, sir robert chiltern has roundly denounced the argentine canal scheme in the house of commons, and with it the whole system of modern political finance. how lady chiltern's letter to lord goring does reach her husband, and is by him supposed to be addressed to him. how lady chiltern undeceives him, and confesses the truth. how lord goring becomes engaged to mabel, and sir robert chiltern accepts, after some hesitation, a vacant seat in the cabinet, and peace is restored all round. these episodes, cleverly and naturally handled, bring "the ideal husband" to a satisfactory conclusion. it is certainly the most dramatic of all oscar wilde's comedies, and could well bear revival. "the importance of being earnest" a deliciously airily irresponsible comedy. such is the "the importance of being earnest," the most personally characteristic expression of wilde's art, and the last of the dramatic productions written under his own name. the play bubbles over with mirth and fun. it is one unbroken series of laughable situations and amusing surprises. the dialogue has all the sparkle of bubbles from a gushing spring, and is brimful of quaint conceits and diverting paradoxes. even the genius of w. s. gilbert in the fantastic line pales before the irresponsible frolicsomeness of the irishman's wit. his fancy disports itself in an atmosphere of epigrams like a young colt in a meadow. never since the days of sheridan has anything been written to equal the brilliancy of this trifle for serious people. no one could fail to be amused by its delicate persiflage, its youthfulness and its utter irresponsibility. were one to take the works of gyp, gilbert, henri lavedan and sheridan and roll them into one, one would not even then obtain the essence of sparkling comedy that animates the play. it is a trifle, but how clever, how artistically perfect a trifle. when it was produced at the st james's, in february 1895, one continuous ripple of laughter shook the audience, even as a field of standing corn is swayed by a passing breeze. the reading of the play alone makes one feel frivolous, and when the characters stood before one, suiting the action to the word and the word to the action, the effect was absolutely irresistible and even the gravest and most slow-witted were moved to rollicking hilarity. one critic summed it up by saying that "its title was a pun, its story a conundrum, its characters lunatics, its dialogue a 'galimatias,' and its termination a 'sell.' questioned as to its merits, wilde was credited with saying that "the first act was ingenious, the second beautiful, the third abominably clever." it was most beautifully staged by mr george alexander, and i can see still the charming picture presented by miss millard in the delightful garden scene as she watered her rose bushes with a water-can filled with silver sand. the acting, too, left nothing to be desired and altogether it was a performance to linger in one's memory in the years to come. the ernest of the punning title is an imaginary brother, very wicked and gay, invented by john worthing, j.p., to account to his ward (cecily cardew) for his frequent visits to london. john worthing, it may be mentioned, is a foundling who was discovered when a baby in the cloak-room at a railway station inside a black bag stamped with the initials of the absent-minded governess who had inadvertently placed him in it instead of the manuscript of a three-volume novel. now, worthing has a friend, a gay young dog, named alexander moncrieffe who likewise has invented a fictitious personage, a sick friend, visits to whom he makes serve as the reason of his absences from home. he has given this imaginary friend the name of bunbury, and designates his little expeditions as "bunburying." moncrieffe lives in town, and is more or less the model worthing has chosen when describing his imaginary brother. worthing's ward is a romantic girl who has fallen in love with her guardian's brother from his descriptions of him. she is especially enamoured of his name, ernest, for like old mr shandy she has quite pronounced views and opinions about names. now, the reason of worthing's constant visits to town is to see a young lady yclept gwendolen fairfax, a cousin of moncrieffe's, to whom he proposes and is accepted, but, for some unexplained reason, for his periodical visits to town he adopts the name of ernest, so that gwendolen, who, like cecily, has distinctive ideas about names, only knows him by that name. so it will be seen that we have already two ernests in the field--the imaginary brother whose moral delinquencies are such a cause of worry to cecily's guardian, and the guardian himself masquerading as ernest worthing. a pretty combination for complications to start with, but the author strews ernest about with a prodigality that excites our admiration, and he gives us a third ernest in the person of alexander moncrieffe, who, learning that his friend is left alone at home, and that she is extremely beautiful, determines to go down and make love to her. in order to gain admittance to the house, he passes himself off as ernest worthing, the imaginary naughty brother, and is warmly welcomed by cecily. in ten minutes he has wooed and won her, and the happy pair disappear into the house just before john worthing arrives on the scene. now that he has proposed and been accepted there is no longer any necessity for inventing an excuse for his absences from home, and in order to be rid of what might prove to be an embarrassing, although a purely fictitious, person, he has invented a story of his putative brother's death in paris. he enters dressed in complete black, black frock-coat, black tie, black hatband, and black-bordered handkerchief. there follows a delightful comedy scene between him and algernon, whose imposture he cannot expose without betraying himself. meanwhile, gwendolen has followed her sweetheart to make the acquaintance of cecily, and now arrives _en scene_. the two girls become bosom friends at once, and all goes happily until the name of ernest worthing is mentioned, and although no such person exists yet each of them imagines herself to be engaged to him. the situation is, to use a theatrical slang term, "worked up," and the young ladies pass from terms of endearment to mutual recriminations. a pitched battle is on the tapis, but with the appearance of their lovers, and their enforced explanation, peace is restored between the two, and they join forces in annihilating with scathing word and withering look the wretches who have so basely deceived them. never, never could either of them love a man whose name was not ernest. each of them was engaged to ernest worthing, but, in the words of the immortal betsy prig when referring to mrs 'arris, "there ain't no sich person." the situation is embarrassing and complicated. the two delinquents offer to have themselves rechristened, but the suggestion is received with withering scorn; the situation cannot be saved by any such ridiculous subterfuge; the disconsolate wretches seek consolation in an orgy of crumpets and tea cakes. another difficulty there is also, lady bracknell--gwendolen's mother--refuses to accept as her son-in-law a nameless foundling found in a railway station. however, the production of the bag leads to the discovery of his parentage, and it turns out that his father was the husband of lady bracknell's sister. the question of his father's christian name is raised, as it is thought probable that he was christened after him, and although lady bracknell cannot remember the name of the brother-in-law a reference to the army list results in the discovery that it was ernest, so that both the difficulties of birth and nomenclature are now overcome. as to algernon, he is forgiven because he explains that his imposture was undertaken solely to see cecily, and so the comedy ends happily as all good comedies should. the piece is one mass of smart sayings, brilliant epigrams, and mirth-provoking lines, as when miss prism, cecily's governess, tells her pupil to study political economy for an hour, but to omit, as too exciting, the depreciation of the rupee. some of the most delightful sayings are put into the mouth of lady bracknell, the aristocratic dowager who is responsible for the dictum that what the age suffers from is want of principle and want of profile. miss prism too enunciates the aphorism that "memory is the diary we all carry about with us," and cecily naïvely informs us that "i keep a diary to enter the wonderful secrets of my life. if i didn't write them down i would probably forget all about them." there is also a delicious touching of feminine amenities when, during the quarrel scene, gwendolen says to cecily, "i speak quite candidly--i wish that you were thirty-five and more than usually plain for your age." no woman could have written better. even the love passages are replete with humorous lines. cecily passing her hand through moncrieffe's hair remarks, "i hope your hair curls naturally," and with amusing candour comes his reply, "yes, darling, with a little help from others." the servants themselves are infected with the prevailing atmosphere of frivolity. moncrieffe apostrophising his valet exclaims, "lane, you're a perfect pessimist," and that imperturbable individual replies, "i do my best to give satisfaction." again, when he remarks on the fact that though he had only two friends to dinner on the previous day and yet eight bottles of champagne appear to have been drunk, the impeccable servant corrects him with, "eight and a pint, sir," and in reply to his question, how is it that servants drink more in bachelors' chambers than in private houses, the discreet valet explains that it is because the wines are better, adding that you do get some very poor wine nowadays in private houses. "what is the use of the lower classes unless they set us a good example?" "divorces are made in heaven," "to have lost one parent is a misfortune, to have lost both looks like carelessness," and "i am only serious about my amusements," are samples taken haphazard of the good things in the play. it has been objected that the piece is improbable, but it was described by the author merely as "a trivial comedy for serious people." as a contributor to _the sketch_ so aptly put it at the time, "why carp at improbability in what is confessedly the merest bubble of fancy? why not acknowledge honestly a debt of gratitude to one who adds so unmistakably to the gaiety of the nation?" the press were almost unanimous in their appreciation of the comedy. _the athenæum's_ critic wrote, "the mantle of mr gilbert has fallen on the shoulders of mr oscar wilde, who wears it in jauntiest fashion." and _the times_ is responsible for the statement that "almost every sentence of the dialogue bristles with epigram of the now accepted pattern, the manufacture of this being apparently conducted by its patentee with the same facility as 'the butter-woman's rank to market.'" but more flattering still was the appreciation of the _truth_ critic whose previous attitude to wilde's work had been a hostile one. "i have not the slightest intention of seriously criticising mr o. wilde's piece at the st james's," he writes, under the heading of "the importance of being oscar," "as well might one sit down after dinner and attempt gravely to discuss the true inwardness of a _soufflé_. nor, unfortunately, is it necessary to enter into details as to its wildly farcical plot. as well might one, after a successful display of fireworks in the back garden, set to work laboriously to analyse the composition of a catherine wheel. at the same time i wish to admit, fairly and frankly, that 'the importance of being earnest' amused me very much." it is, however, since the author's death that the great body of critics have emitted the opinion that the play is really an extremely clever piece of work and a valuable contribution to the english drama. so many pieces are apt to get _démodés_ in a few years, but now, twelve years after its production, "the importance of being earnest" is as fresh as ever, and does not date, as ladies say of their headgear. to compare the blatant nonsense that mr bernard shaw foists on a credulous public as wit with the coruscating _bon mots_ of his dead compatriot, as seems to be the fashion nowadays, is to show a pitiful lack of intelligence and discernment; as well compare gooseberry wine to champagne, the fountains in trafalgar square to niagara. part iii the romantic dramas "salomé" of all wilde's plays the one that has provoked the greatest discussion and most excited the curiosity of the public is undoubtedly "salomé," which, written originally in french and then translated into english, has finally been performed in two continents. never perhaps has a play, at its inception, had less of a chance than this biblical tragedy written for a french jewess (madame sarah bernhardt) banned by the english censor and only produced after the disgrace and consequent downfall of its author. from salomé's first speech to the end of the play we realise how the little part was absolutely identified in the author's mind with the actress he had written it for. to anyone who has studied, however superficially, madame bernhardt's peculiar methods of diction and acting, the words in the first speech--"i will not stay, i cannot stay. why does the tetrarch look at me all the while with his mole's eyes under his shaking eyelids?" convey at once a picture of the actress in the part. if there is a fault to be found with the character it is that bernhardt not salomé is depicted, and yet who shall say that there is much difference between the temperaments or the physique of the two women. it is true that, in a letter to _the times_, the author strenuously denied that he had written the play for sarah, but one is inclined to take the denial with a very big grain of salt. that while in detention wilde made most strenuous efforts to get her to produce it is a well-known fact. the play, as even macaulay's schoolboy knows, is based on the story of herodias' daughter dancing before herod for the head of john the baptist. an account of the episode is to be found in the 6th chapter of the gospel of st mark, and it is interesting to contrast the strong and simple scriptural description with the highly decorative and glowing language of the play. here is st mark's account of the incident: v. 21. and when a convenient day was come, that herod on his birthday made a supper to his lords, high captains and chief _estates_ of galilee; v. 22. and when the daughter of the said herodias came in, and danced, and pleased herod and them that sat with him, the king said unto the damsel, ask of me whatsoever thou wilt, and i will give _it_ thee. v. 23. and he sware unto her, whatsoever thou shalt ask of me, i will give _it_ thee, unto the half of my kingdom. v. 24. and she went forth, and said unto her mother, what shall i ask? and she said, the head of john the baptist. v. 25. and she came in straightway with haste unto the king, and asked, saying, i will that thou give me by and by in a charger the head of john the baptist. v. 26. and the king was exceeding sorry; _yet_ for his oath's sake, and for their sakes which sat with him, he would not reject her. v. 27. and immediately the king sent an executioner, and commanded his head to be brought: and he went and beheaded him in the prison, v. 28. and brought his head in a charger, and gave it to the damsel: and the damsel gave it to her mother. v. 29. and when his disciples heard _of it_, they came and took up his corpse, and laid it in a tomb. the account given by st matthew (xiv. 6) is equally terse, but the fuller description of the scene as reconstructed by dean farrar in his "life of christ" is worth quoting. "but herodias had craftily provided the king with an unexpected and exciting pleasure, the spectacle of which would be sure to enrapture such guests as his. dancers and dancing-women were at that time in great request. the passion for witnessing these too often degrading representations had naturally made its way into the sadducean and semi-pagan court of these usurping edomites, and herod the great had built in his palace, a theatre for the thymelici. a luxurious feast of the period was not regarded as complete unless it closed with some gross pantomimic representation; and doubtless herod had adopted the evil fashion of his day. but he had not anticipated for his guests the rare luxury of seeing a princess--his own great-niece, a granddaughter of herod the great and of mariamne, a descendant, therefore, of simon the high priest and the line of maccabæan princes--a princess who afterwards became the wife of a tetrarch and the mother of a king--honouring them by degrading herself into a scenic dancer. yet when the banquet was over, when the guests were full of meat and flushed with wine, salomé herself, the daughter of herodias, then in the prime of her young and lustrous beauty, executed, as it would now be expressed, a _pas seul_ 'in the midst of' those dissolute and half-intoxicated revellers. 'she came in and danced, and pleased herod, and them that sat at meat with him.' and he, like another xerxes, in the delirium of his drunken approval, swore to this degraded girl, in the presence of his guests, that he would give her anything for which she asked, even to the half of his kingdom. "the girl flew to her mother, and said, 'what shall i ask?' it was exactly what herodias expected, and she might have asked for robes, or jewels, or palaces, or whatever such a woman loves. but to a mind like hers revenge was sweeter than wealth or pride. we may imagine with what fierce malice she hissed out the answer, 'the head of john the baptiser.' and coming in before the king _immediately with haste_--(what a touch is that! and how apt a pupil did the wicked mother find in her wicked daughter!)--salomé exclaimed, 'my wish is that you give _me here, immediately_, on a dish, the head of john the baptist.' her indecent haste, her hideous petition, show that she shared the furies of her race. did she think that in that infamous period, and among those infamous guests, her petition would be received with a burst of laughter? did she hope to kindle their merriment to a still higher pitch by the sense of the delightful wickedness involved in a young and beautiful girl asking--nay, imperiously demanding--that then and there, on one of the golden dishes which graced the board, should be given into her own hands the gory head of the prophet whose words had made a thousand bold hearts quail? "if so, she was disappointed. the tetrarch, at anyrate, was plunged into grief by her request; it more than did away with the pleasure of her disgraceful dance; it was a bitter termination of his birthday feast. fear, policy, remorse, superstition, even whatever poor spark of better feeling remained unquenched under the white ashes of a heart consumed by evil passions, made him shrink in disgust from this sudden execution. he must have felt that he had been duped out of his own will by the cunning stratagem of his unrelenting paramour. if a single touch of manliness had been left in him he would have repudiated the request as one which did not fall either under the letter or the spirit of his oaths, since the life of one cannot be made the gift to another; or he would have boldly declared that if such was her choice, his oath was more honoured by being kept. but a despicable pride and fear of man prevailed over his better impulses. more afraid of the criticisms of his guests than of the future torment of such conscience as was left him, he sent an executioner to the prison, which in all probability was not far from the banqueting hall--and so, at the bidding of a dissolute coward and to please the loathly fancies of a shameless girl, the axe fell, and the head of the noblest of the prophets was shorn away. in darkness and in secrecy the scene was enacted, and if any saw it their lips were sealed; but the executioner emerged into the light carrying by the hair that noble head, and then and there, in all the pallor of the recent death, it was placed upon a dish from the royal table. the girl received it, and, now frightful as a megæra, carried the hideous burden to her mother. let us hope that those grim features haunted the souls of both thenceforth till death. "what became of that ghastly relic we do not know. tradition tells us that herodias ordered the headless trunk to be flung out over the battlements for dogs and vultures to devour. on her, at anyrate, swift vengeance fell." in a footnote the dean mentions that salomé subsequently married her uncle philip, tetrarch of ituræa, and then her cousin aristobulus, king of chalcis, by whom she became the mother of three sons. the traditional death of the "dancing daughter of herodias" is thus given by nicephorus. "passing over a frozen lake, the ice broke and she fell up to the neck in water, and her head was parted from her body by the violence of the fragments shaken by the water and her own fall, and so she perished." thus the historical accounts, now for the play itself. to begin with, let us note the stage directions. "a great terrace in the palace of herod set above the banqueting hall. to the right there is a gigantic staircase, to the left, at the back, an old cistern surrounded by a wall of green bronze. moonlight." these directions for the setting of the stage are for all practical purposes useless--they would drive the most experienced stage-manager crazy, but then wilde, more particularly in the romantic dramas, was sublimely indifferent to the mere mechanical side of stagecraft. he issued his commands and it was for the _gens du métier_ to give practical effect to them. he had the picture in his mind; what matter if there were practical difficulties in the way of producing it! that was no fault of his. it is curious to contrast his stage directions with those of a practical playwright like shakespeare. shakespeare, for instance, would have simply written "soldiers leaning over a balcony." there is a whole chapter of difference in the introduction of the word "some." the time is night, that wonderful judæan night, when the air is charged with electricity and the mysterious heart of the east throbs with the varied emotions of the centuries. "moonlight," says the directions, and here we recall the author's almost passionate worship of moonlight. over and over again in play, prose, essay, and verse, he writes about the moon. she possessed an almost uncanny attraction for him, and one almost wonders whether the superstition connecting certain phases of the planet with the madness of human beings may not account for a good deal that remains unexplained in the erratic career of this unfortunate genius! a young syrian, the "captain of the guard," is talking with the page of herodias. from a subsequent description we learn that he was handsome with the dark languorous eyes of his nation, and that his voice was soft and musical. he is in love with the princess salomé, the daughter of herodias, wife of the tetrarch of judæa, herod antipas, and his talk is all of her and her beauty. the page, who seems to stand in great fear of his mistress and to be likewise oppressed with a foreboding of coming evil, tries to divert his attention to the moon, but in the moon the enamoured syrian sees only an image of his beloved. then the page strikes the first deep note of tragedy. to him she is like a dead woman. a noise is heard, and the soldiers comment on it and its cause--namely, the religious dissensions of the jews. at this the young syrian, heedless of all else, breaks in once more like a greek chorus in praise of the princess's beauty. (one can almost hear an imaginary polonius exclaiming: "still harping on my daughter.") again the page utters a warning against the captain's infatuation. he is certain that something terrible may happen. as if to confirm his fears the two soldiers begin discussing the tetrarch's sombre looks. plain, uncultured fellows these roman soldiers, and yet, like most of the legionaries, they have travelled far afield as may be gathered from their talk of herod's various wives. a cappadocian joins in their conversation. he is completely _terre à terre_ and cannot understand anything but the obvious. the talk drifts on to religion, and then suddenly the voice of john the baptist (the jokanaan of the play) is heard from the cistern in which he is confined. there is a certain _naïveté_ in the introduction of this cistern which may well provoke a smile, especially when later we meet with the stage direction "he goes down into the cistern." historically its introduction may be correct, but one wishes that the author had chosen any other place of confinement for the prophet, at anyrate called it by any other name. in the utilitarian days of water companies and water rates the image that the word cistern evokes is painfully reminiscent of a metal tank in the lumber-room of a suburban residence. even longfellow, in one of his most beautiful poems, failed to rob the word of its associations. the voice strikes a perfectly new note in the play, and announces in scriptural language the advent of the messiah. then the soldiers, taking the place of the _raissonneur_ in french plays, proceed to discuss and describe the prophet. from them we learn that he is gentle and holy, grateful for the smallest attentions of his guards, that when he came from the desert he was clothed in camel's hair. we incidentally learn that he is constantly uttering warnings and prophecies, and that by the tetrarch's orders no one is allowed to see him, much less communicate with him. then the cappadocian comments on the strange nature of the prison, and is informed that herodias' first husband, the brother of herod, was imprisoned in it for twelve years, and was finally strangled. the question by whom, so naturally put, introduces, with a master's certainty of touch, another grim note, as naaman, the executioner, a gigantic negro, is pointed out as the perpetrator of the deed. mention is also made of the mandate he received to carry it out in the shape of the tetrarch's death ring. thus the soldiers gossip among themselves and salomé's entrance, which takes place almost immediately, is in stage parlance "worked up" by the rapturous description of her movements and her person, delivered by the syrian, and the awestruck pleading of the page that he should not look at her. the princess is trembling with emotion, and in her first speech gives us the keynote to the action of the play by referring to the glances of desire that herod casts on her. to a timid question of the syrian's she vouchsafes no answer, but proceeds to comment on the sweetness of the night air and the heterogenous collection of guests whom herod is entertaining. the proffer of a seat by the lovesick captain remains likewise unnoticed, and like a chorus the page beseeches him once more not to look at her, and presages coming evil. and again, the moon is invoked as this daughter of kings soliloquises on the coldness and chastity of the orb of heaven. her meditations are interrupted by the prophet's voice ringing out mysteriously on the night air, and then a long dialogue in short, pregnant sentences takes place between salomé and two soldiers as to the hidden speaker. we learn that herod is afraid of him and that the man of god is constantly inveighing against herodias. from time to time the princess is interrupted by a messenger from the tetrarch requesting her to return, but she has no thought for anyone but the prisoner in the cistern. she wishes to see him, but is informed that this is against the tetrarch's orders. then she deliberately sets herself to make the syrian captain disobey his orders. she pleads with him, she plays on his manhood by taunting him with being afraid of his charge, she promises him a flower, "a little green flower." he remains unmoved. the princess uses all her blandishments to obtain her end; and we can realise what a clever actress would make of the scene as she murmurs, "i will look at you through the muslin veils, i will look at you, narraboth, it may be i will smile at you. look at me, narraboth, look at me." and with more honeyed words and sentences, left unfinished, she induces the young officer to break his trust. the speech consists only of a few lines, and yet gives opportunity for as fine a piece of acting as any player could desire. the soldier yields, and the page suddenly draws attention to the moon, in which he discovers the hand of a dead woman drawing a shroud over herself, though the syrian can only discover in her a likeness to the object of his infatuation. jokanaan is brought forth, and inquires for herod, for whom he prophesies an early death, and then for herodias, the list of whose iniquities he enumerates. his fierce denunciations terrify salomé, and in a wonderful piece of word-painting she describes the cavernous depths of his eyes and the terrors lying behind them. the syrian begs her not to stay, but she is fascinated by the ivory whiteness of the prophet's body and desire enters her soul. her fiery glances trouble the prophet, he inquires who she is. he refuses to be gazed at by her "golden eyes under her gilded eyelids." she reveals herself, and he bids her begone, referring to her mother's iniquities. his voice moves her and she begs him to speak again. the young syrian's piteous remonstrance, "princess! princess!" is unheeded, and she addresses the prophet once more. here follows one of the finest and most dangerous scenes of the play, and yet one which, properly treated, is neither irreverent nor, as has been stupidly asserted, immoral. maddened by desire, this high-born princess makes violent love in language of supreme beauty to the ascetic dweller in the desert. his body, his hair, his mouth, are in turn the object of her praise only to be vilified one by one as he drives her back with scathing words. she insists that she shall kiss his mouth, and the jealous syrian begs her who is like "a garden of myrrh" not to "speak these things." she insists, she will kiss his mouth. the syrian kills himself, falling on his own sword. this tragic event, to which a horror-struck soldier draws her attention, does not for one second divert her attention from the pursuit of her passion. again and again, in spite of jokanaan's warnings and exhortations (for even in this supreme hour of horror and temptation he preaches the gospel of his master), she pleads for a kiss of his mouth. this reiteration of the request, even after the saint has returned to his prison, is a triumph of dramatic craftsmanship. the page laments over his dead friend to whom he had given "a little bag full of perfumes and a ring of agate that he wore always on his hand." the soldiers debate about hiding the body and then, contrary to his custom, herod appears on the terrace accompanied by herodias and all the court. his first inquiry is for salomé, and herodias, whose suspicions are evidently aroused, tells him in identically the same words used by the page to the dead syrian that he "must not look at her," that he is "always looking at her." again the regnant moon becomes a menace and a symbol. this time it is herod who finds a strange look in her, and whose morbid wine-heated imagination compares her to a naked woman looking for lovers and reeling like one drunk. he determines to stay on the terrace, and slips in the blood of the suicide. terror-struck, he inquires whence it comes, and then espies the corpse. on learning whose it is, he mourns the loss of his dead favourite and discusses the question of suicide with tigellinus, who is described in the _dramatis personæ_ as "a young roman." herod is shaken by fears, he feels a cold wind when there is no wind, and hears "in the air something that is like the beating of wings." he devotes his attention to salomé, who slights all his advances. once the voice of jokanaan is heard prophesying that the hour is at hand, and herodias angrily orders that he should be silenced. herod feebly upholds the prophet and strenuously maintains that he is not afraid of him as herodias declares he is. she then inquires why, that being the case, he does not deliver him into the hands of the jews, a suggestion that is at once taken up by one of the jews present; and then follows a discussion between pharisees and sadducees and nazarenes respecting the new messiah. this is followed by a dialogue between herodias and the tetrarch, interrupted ever and again by the hollow-sounding denunciations and prophecies of jokanaan. herod's mind is still filled with the thoughts of his stepdaughter and he beseeches salomé to dance for him, but supported by her mother she keeps on refusing. the chorus, in the person of soldiers, once again draws attention to the sombre aspect of the tetrarch. more prophecies from jokanaan follow, with comments from herod and his wife. once more the watching soldiers remark on the gloom and menace of the despot's countenance and he himself confesses that he is sad, beseeching his wife's child to dance for him, in return for which favour he will give her all she may ask of him, even unto the half of his kingdom. salomé snatches greedily at the bait and, in spite of her mother's reiterated protests, obtains from herod an oath that he will grant her whatsoever she wishes if she but dance for him. even in the midst of the joy with which her acceptance fills him, the shadow of approaching death is over him, he feels an icy wind, hears the rustle of passing wings, and feels a hot breath and the sensation of choking. the red petals of his rose garland seem to him drops of blood, and yet he tries to delude himself that he is perfectly happy. in accordance with salomé's instructions, slaves bring her perfumes and the seven veils and remove her sandals. even as herod gloats over the prospect of seeing her moving, naked feet, he recalls the fact that she will be dancing in blood and notes that the moon has turned red even as the prophet foretold. herodias mocks at him and taunts him with cowardice, endeavouring, at the same time, to persuade him to retire, but her appeals are interrupted by the voice of jokanaan. the sound of his voice irritates her and she insists on going within, but herod is obstinate, he will not go till salomé has danced. she appeals once more to her daughter not to dance, but with an "i am ready, tetrarch," salomé dances "the dance of the seven veils." there are no stage directions given as to how the dance is to be performed, but whoever has seen the slow, rhythmic, and lascivious movements of an eastern dance can well imagine it and all the passionate subtlety and exquisite grace with which this languorous daughter of judæan kings would endow it. the ballet master who could not seize this opportunity of devising a _pas de fascination_ worthy of the occasion does not know the rudiments of his art. herod is filled with delight and admiration. he is anxious to fulfil his pledge and bids salomé draw near and name her reward. she does so. her guerdon shall be the head of jokanaan on a silver charger. at this, herodias is filled with satisfaction, but the tetrarch protests. again herodias expresses approval and herod begs salomé not to heed her. proudly the dancer answers that she does not heed her mother, that it is for her own pleasure she demands the grisly reward, and reminds her stepfather of his oath. he does not repudiate it but begs of her to choose something else, even the half of his kingdom rather than what she asks. salomé insists, and herodias chimes in with a recital of the insults she had suffered at the hands of jokanaan and is peremptorily bidden to be silent by her husband, who argues with salomé as to the terrible and improper nature of her request, offering her his great round emerald in place of the head. but salomé is obdurate. "i demand the head of jokanaan," she insists. herod wishes to speak, but she interrupts him with "the head of jokanaan." again herod pleads with her and offers her fifty of his peacocks whose backs are stained with gold and their feet stained with purple, but she sullenly reiterates--"give me the head of jokanaan." herodias once more expresses approval, and her husband turns savagely on her with "be silent! you cry out always; you cry out like a beast of prey." then, his conscience stinging him, he pleads for jokanaan's life, and gives vent to pious sentiments: he talks of the omnipresence of god, and then is uncertain of it. his mind is torn with doubts, and fears. he has slipped in blood and heard a beating of wings which are evil omens. yet another appeal to salomé is met with the uncompromising "give me the head of jokanaan." he makes one last appeal, he enumerates his treasures, jewels hidden away that herodias even has never seen; he describes the precious stones in his treasury. all these he offers her. he will add cups of gold that if any enemy pour poison into them will turn to silver, sandals encrusted with glass, mantles from the land of the seres, bracelets from the city of euphrates; nay even the mantle of the high priest shall she have, the very veil of the temple. above the angry protests of the jews rises salomé's "give me the head of jokanaan," and sinking back into his seat the weak man gives way and hands the ring of death to a soldier, who straightway bears it to the executioner. as soon as his scared official has disappeared into the cistern salomé leans over it and listens. she is quivering with excitement and is indignant that there is no sound of a struggle. she calls to naaman to strike. there is no answer--she can hear nothing. then there is the sound ... something has fallen on the ground. she fancies it is the executioner's sword and that he is afraid to carry out his task. she bids the page order the soldiers to bring her the head. he recoils from her and she turns to the men themselves bidding them carry out the sentence. they likewise recoil, and just as she turns to herod himself with a demand for the head, a huge black arm is extended from the cistern presenting the head of jokanaan on a silver shield. she seizes it eagerly. meanwhile the cowering tetrarch covers his face with his cloak and a smile of triumph illumines the face of herodias. all the tigress in salomé is awakened; she apostrophises the head. he would not let her kiss his mouth. well, she will kiss it now, she will fasten her teeth in it. she twits the eyes and the tongue with their present impotence, she will throw the head to the dogs and the birds of the air. but anon her mood changes, she recalls all that in him had appealed to her, and laments over the fact that, though she loves him still, her desire for him can now never be appeased. all herod's superstitious fears are awakened, he upbraids herodias for her daughter's crime, and mounts the staircase to enter the palace. the stage darkens and salomé, a moonbeam falling on her, is heard apostrophising the head, the lips of which she has just kissed. herod turns, and, seeing her, orders her to be killed, and the soldiers, rushing forward, crush her with their shields. it will be seen that the dramatist has awarded the fate meted out in scripture to herodias to the daughter and not the mother, a poetic licence for which no one will blame him. in reading the play carefully and critically one cannot but be struck with the influence of maeterlinck in the atmosphere and construction, and of flaubert in the gorgeous imagery of the dialogue, the _décor des phrases_, so to speak. an artist in words wilde also proves himself in stagecraft in this play. not the mere mechanical setting, of which i shall speak later, but the ability to lead up to a situation, the power to convey a whole volume in a few words to fill the audience with a sense of impending tragedy, and to utilise outside influences to enhance the value of the scenes. thus, the references to the moon by the various characters are so many stage settings for the emotion of the moment, verbal pictures illustrating the state of mind of the speaker, or the trend of the action. it has been objected that the constant reiteration of a given phrase is a mere trick and max nordau has set it down as a mark of insanity, but in the hands of an artist the use of that "trick" incalculably enhances the value of the dialogue, although when employed by a bungler the repetition would be as senseless and irritating as the conversational remarks of a parrot. the young syrian's admiration for salomé, the page's fears and warnings, salomé's insistence that she will kiss jokanaan's mouth, later on her insistence on having his head, the very comments of the soldiers on herod's sombre look are all brought in with a thoroughly definite purpose, and it would be difficult to find an equally simple and effective way of achieving that purpose. a favourite device of the author was to introduce, apparently casually, a sentence or word at the beginning of the play to be repeated or used with telling effect at the end. for instance, in "a woman of no importance" lord illingworth's casual remark--"oh, no one--a woman of no importance," which brings down the curtain on the first act, is used with a slight alteration at the end of the play in mrs arbuthnot's reply to gerald's inquiry as to who her visitor has been, "ah, no one--a man of no importance." in the same way salomé's reiterated cry, "i will kiss the mouth of jokanaan," in her scene with the prophet gives added strength to her bitterly triumphant cry as, holding the severed head in her hands, she repeats at three different intervals, "i have kissed thy mouth, jokanaan." apart from all questions of stage technique, wilde had the incomparable gift of finding _le mot juste_, of conveying a portrait in half-a-dozen words. could anything give one a more distinct portrait of herod than salomé's description of his "mole's eyes under his shaking eyelids," or would it be possible to explain herod's passion for his stepdaughter in fewer words than her soliloquy: "it is strange that the husband of my mother looks at me like that. i know not what it means. in truth, yes, i know it." there is not a word wasted or misplaced, there is not a superfluous syllable. i have spoken of the influence of flaubert or his language, but there was in wilde a thoroughly eastern love of colour which found its expression in sensuous richness of sound, jewelled words, wonderfully employed to effect a contrast with the horror in which he seemed to take a strange delight. the rich, decorative phrases only enhance the constant presence of the weird and _macabre_, while in its turn the horror gives an almost painful lustre to the words. the play has been assailed as immoral, but this certainly is not so. the setting of an eastern drama is not that of a western, and the morals and customs of the east are no more to be judged by a western standard than the court of herod to be compared with that of edward the seventh. the play deals frankly with a sensuous episode, and if the author has introduced the proper atmosphere he is only doing in words what every artist does in painting. compare "salomé" with shakespeare's one eastern play, "cleopatra," and though the treatment may be a little more modern, a trifle more decadent, the same non-morality rather than immorality is to be found in the principal characters. i fancy that a great deal of the prejudice still existing in england against the play is due to the illustrations of the late aubrey beardsley. beardsley was a personal friend of mine, and it, therefore, pains me to have to frankly confess that, clever and decorative as his drawings undoubtedly are, they are unhealthy in this instance, unhealthy and evil in suggestion. i can imagine no more pruriently horrible nightmare than these pictures of foul-faced, satyrlike men, feminine youths and leering women. the worst of beardsley's women is that, in spite of their lubricity, they grow on one, and now and then one suddenly traces in their features a likeness to really good women one has known. it is as though something satanic had been worked into the ripe-lipped face of a girl. such as these might have been the emissaries of satan who tempted anchorites of old to commit unpardonable sins. moreover, many of the illustrations have nothing whatever to do with the text. i may be wrong, but i cannot for the life of me see what connection there is between "salomé," the play, and "the peacock skirt" or "the black cape." nor can i see the object of modernising the "stomach dance," save to impart an extra dose of lubricity into the subject. the _leit motif_ of all beardsley's art was to _epater les bourgeois_, to horrify the ordinary stolid philistine, and he would hesitate at nothing, however _outré_, to attain this end. in these drawings he surpassed himself in that respect, and one can only wonder that a publisher was found daring enough to publish them. the subject is a painful one to me, but i should not have been doing my duty as a critic of the play had i not remarked upon it. an edition from which the drawings are omitted can, however, be bought to-day. i have already commented on the vagueness of the directions as to the setting of the scene, and it may not be out of place to quote here a letter i have received from a well-known stage-manager on the subject. "you ask me how i would set the scene in question in accordance with the printed directions, and i reply frankly that i should be puzzled to do so even were the scene to consist of the banqueting hall with the balustraded terrace built up above it. the whole action of the piece takes place on the terrace, from which the actors are supposed to overlook the banqueting hall, so that the latter apartment need not be in view of the audience, but the gigantic staircase on the _r._ i confess fogs me. where does it lead to, and, save for herod's exit at the end of the play, of what use is it? it only lumbers up the stage, and looks out of place (to my mind, at anyrate) on a terrace. "by the cistern i presume the author means a well, though how on earth the actor who plays jokanaan is going to manage to scramble in and out of it with dignity so as not to provoke the hilarity of the audience is beyond my ken. i note that in the production of the opera at dresden the printed directions were utterly ignored." as has already been stated, "salomé" was first written in french and subsequently translated into english by a friend of oscar wilde. reading it in the language in which it was originally written, one fact stands out pre-eminent--the work is that of a foreigner. the french, though correct and polished, is not virile, living french. it is too correct, too laboured; the writer does not take any liberties with his medium. the words have all the delicacy of marble statuary but lack the breath of life. i think it was max beerbohm who once said of walter pater (heaven forbid that i should agree with him) that he wrote english as though it were a dead language, and that is precisely what is the matter with wilde's french. one longs for a _tournure de phrase_, a _maniement de mots_ that would give it a semblance of native authorship. it is like a russian talking french, and altogether too precise, too pedantically grammatical. i believe the play was revised by marcel schwab, but although he may have corrected an error here and there he would hardly have liked to tamper with the text itself. the play was written in 1892, and was accepted by madame sarah bernhardt, who was to have produced it during her season at the palace theatre. it was already in full rehearsal when it was prohibited by the censor. a great deal of abuse and ridicule has been heaped on that official for this, but in all fairness to him it must be admitted that he had no choice in the matter. rightly or wrongly plays dealing with biblical subjects are not allowed to be performed on the english stage, and the censor's business is to see that the rules and regulations governing stage productions are duly observed. the author was greatly incensed at the refusal of the lord chamberlain's officer to license the piece, and talked (whether seriously or not is a moot point) of leaving england for ever and taking out naturalisation papers as a french citizen. this threat he never carried out. meanwhile madame sarah bernhardt had taken the play back to paris with her, promising to produce it at her own theatre of the porte st martin at the very first opportunity, a promise that was never fulfilled. moreover, when a couple of years later wilde, then a prisoner awaiting his trial, finding himself penniless, sent a friend to her to explain how he was circumstanced, and offering to sell her the play outright for a comparatively small sum of money in order that he might be able to pay for his defence, this incomparable _poseuse_ was profuse in her expressions of sympathy and admiration for _ce grand artiste_ and promised to assist him to the best of her ability. she had the cruelty to delude with false hopes a man suffering a mental martyrdom, and after buoying him up from day to day with promises of financial assistance, the jewess not considering the investment a remunerative one, shut the door to his emissary, and failed to keep her word. now that the foreign royalties on play and opera amount to a considerable sum annually her hebrew heart must be consumed with rage at having missed such "a good thing." the piece was first produced at the théâtre libre in paris in 1896 by monsieur luigne poë with lina muntz as salomé. the news of the production reached wilde in his prison cell at reading, and in a letter to a friend the following reference to it occurs:- "please say how gratified i was at the performance of my play, and have my thanks conveyed to luigne poë. it is something that at a time of disgrace and shame i should still be regarded as an artist. i wish i could feel more pleasure, but i seem dead to all emotions except those of anguish and despair. however, please let luigne poë know i am sensible of the honour he has done me. he is a poet himself. write to me in answer to this, and try and see what lemaitre, bauer, and sarcey said of 'salomé.'" there is something intensely pathetic in the picture of convict 33 writing to know what the foremost critics of the most artistic city in europe have to say concerning the child of his brain. the play was eventually privately produced in english by the new stage club in may 1905 at the bijou theatre, archer street. the following is the programme on that occasion:- the new stage club "salomé" by oscar wilde at the bijou theatre, archer street, w. may 10th and may 13th 1905 characters of the drama in the order of their speaking: a young syrian captain mr herbert alexander page of herodias mrs gwendolen bishop 1st soldier mr charles gee 2nd soldier mr ralph de rohan cappadocian mr charles dalmon jokanaan mr vincent nello naaman the executioner mr w. evelyn osborn salomé miss millicent murby slave miss carrie keith herod mr robert farquharson herodias miss louise salom tigellinus mr c. l. delph slaves, jews, nazarenes, and soldiers by miss stansfelds, messrs bernhard smith, fredk. stanley smith, john bate, stephen bagehot and frederick lawrence. scene--the great terrace outside the palace of herod. stage management under the direction of miss florence farr. the following paragraphs are taken from a criticism on the performance which appeared in _the daily chronicle_ of 11th may 1905: "if only the dazzling and unfortunate genius who wrote 'salomé' could have seen it acted as it was acted yesterday at the little bijou theatre! one fears, if he had, he would have found that little phrase of his--'the importance of being earnest'--a more delicately true satire than ever upon our sometimes appalling seriousness. "quite a brilliant and crowded audience had responded to what seemed an undoubtedly daring and interesting venture. many seemed to have come out of mere curiosity to see a play the censor had forbidden; some through knowing what a beautiful, passionate, and in its real altitude wholly inoffensive play 'salomé' is. "as those who had read the play were aware, this was in no way the fault of the author of 'salomé.' its offence in the censor's eyes--and, considering the average audience, he was doubtless wise--was that it represents salomé making love to john the baptist, failing to win him to her desires, and asking for his death from herod, as revenge. this, of course, is not biblical, but is a fairly widespread tradition. "in the play, as it is written, this love scene is just a very beautiful piece of sheer passionate speech, full of luxurious, oriental imagery, much of which is taken straight from the 'song of solomon.' it is done very cleverly, very gracefully. it is not religious, but it is, in itself, neither blasphemous nor obscene, whatever it may be in the ears of those who hear it. it might possibly, perhaps, be acted grossly; acted naturally and beautifully it would show itself at least art. "in the hands, however, of the new stage club it was treated after neither of these methods. it was treated solemnly, dreamily, phlegmatically, as a sort of cross between maeterlinck and a 'mystery play.' "the whole of the play was done in this manner, all save two parts--one, that of herodias (miss salom), which was excellently and vigorously played: the other, that of herod, which was completely spoiled by an actor who gave what appeared to be a sort of semi-grotesque portrait of one of the late roman emperors. even the play itself represents the usurping idumean as a terrific figure of ignorant strength and lustfulness and power 'walking mightily in his greatness.' some of the most luxurious speeches in the whole play--above all the wonderful description of his jewels--are put into herod's mouth. yet he is represented at the bijou theatre as a doddering weakling! and even so is desperately serious. "altogether, beneath this pall of solemnity on the one hand and lack of real exaltation on the other, the play's beauties of speech and thought had practically no chance whatever. set as it is too, in one long act of an hour and a half, the lack of natural life and vigour made it more tiresome still. and the shade of oscar wilde will doubtless be blamed for it all!" it was unavoidable that a play necessitating the highest histrionic ability on the part of the actors, together with the greatest delicacy of touch and artistic sense of proportion, should suffer in its interpretation by a set of amateurs, however enthusiastic. a second performance, given in june 1906 by the literary stage society, was far more successful from an artistic point of view. this was in a great measure due to the admirable stage setting designed by one who is an artist to his finger tips, mr c. s. ricketts, and who, having been a personal friend of the author's, could enter thoroughly into the spirit of the play. the scene was laid in herod's tent, the long blue folds of which, with a background curtain spangled with silver stars, set off to perfection the exquisite eastern costumes designed by the same authority. mr robert farquharson was the herod and miss darragh the salomé. but even this performance was far from being up to the standard the play demands, and dr max meyerfeld, who has done so much to make wilde's work known in germany, wrote of it: "the most notable feature of the production of 'salomé' was the costumes, designed by mr c. s. ricketts--a marvellous harmony of blue and green and silver. here praise must end. the stage was left ridiculously bare, and never for a moment produced the illusion of the terrace outside herod's banqueting hall. not even the cistern out of which the prophet rises was discoverable--hamlet without the prince of denmark. and the actors! without being too exigeant, i cannot but suggest that before attempting such a play they ought to have been sent by a special train to berlin. even then miss darragh would have been an impossible salomé. she lacked nearly everything required by this complex character. the dance of the seven veils was executed with all the propriety of a british governess. mr robert farquharson, whose herod delighted us last year, has now elaborated it to the verge of caricature. he emphasises far too much the neuropathic element, and revels in the repulsive symptoms of incipient softening of the brain. "i cannot think that either of these works has yet been given a fair chance in england. they are, however, things which will endure, being independent of place and time, of dominant prejudice and caprices of taste." on the continent "salomé" has become almost a stock piece and has been performed in france, sweden, holland, italy, and russia, and has been translated into every european tongue. it was not, however, till the production in february, 1905, of the opera of richard strauss at the royal opera house, dresden, that "salomé" occupied its true and proper place in the art world. admirably rendered into german by madame hedwig lachmann, the libretto is a faithful translation of the original text. the success of the opera was not for a minute in doubt, and with operatic stars of the first order to interpret the characters and an orchestra of 110 performers to do full justice to the instrumental music, nothing was left undone to make the production a memorable one. a distinguished foreign critic writing from dresden says: "death in love, and love in death, that is the whole piece. death of narraboth, the young captain who cannot bear the burning words that salomé addresses to iokanaan; death of iokanaan. death of salomé, impending death of herod antipas," and analysing the character of salomé he continues: "it is not the jewess 'so charming and full of touching humility' that salomé represents, she is the syrian who inspired the song of songs, for whom incest is almost a law and semiramius, lath, and myrrha divinities. she is the syrian a prey to the seven devils, who combines in her amorous cult beauty, death, and resurrection." when the opera was performed at berlin it is interesting to remember that the kaiser, whose views on morality are strict enough to satisfy the most exacting puritan, far from seeing anything to object to in the story, not only was present on the opening night, but took an active interest in the rehearsals, going so far even as to suggest certain mechanical effects. in new york a perfect storm of execration from the "ultra guid" greeted the production of strauss's work, which was almost immediately withdrawn. it is only justice to say that the rendering of the dance of the seven veils was in a great measure responsible for this. it was also freely rumoured that the puritanical daughter of one of the millionaire directors of the opera house had used her influence for the suppression of the new production. it is interesting to hear what the objectors to the story have to say, and with this view i quote two extracts, one from a letter written by mr e. a. baughan to _the musical standard_ and the other from a well-known critic writing in a leading provincial paper. mr baughan writes: "oscar wilde took nothing but the characters and the incident of john the baptist's head being brought in a charger. all else is changed and bears no relation to the bible story. that would not matter had worthy use been made of the story. "in 'salomé' everything is twisted to create an atmosphere of eroticism and sensuality. that is the aim of the play and nothing else. there is none of the 'wide bearing on life' which you vaguely suggest. herod is a sensuous beast who takes delight in the beautiful postures of his stepdaughter. he speaks line after line of highly coloured imagery and his mental condition is that of a man on the verge of delirium tremens, brought on by drink and satyriasis. oscar wilde does not make him 'sorry' but only slightly superstitious, thus losing whatever of drama there is in the bible narrative. "so far, and in the drawing of herodias, the dramatist may be allowed the licence he has taken, however. even a puritan must admit that art must show the evil as well as the good of life to present a perfect whole. "but it is in the character of salomé herself that oscar wilde has succeeded in his aim of shocking any man or woman of decent mind. he makes salomé in love with john the baptist. it is a horrible, decadent, lascivious love. she prates of his beautiful smooth limbs and the cold, passionless lips which he will not yield to her insensate desire. it is a picture of unnatural passion, all the more terrible that salomé is a young girl. john the baptist's death is brought about as much by salomé as her mother. the prophet will not yield himself alive to salomé's desires, but she can, and does, feed her passion at his dead, cold lips. and that is what has disgusted new york. "you speak of fighting for liberty in art. if such exhibitions of degraded passion are included in what you call 'liberty,' then you will be fighting for the representation on the stage of satyriasis and nymphomania, set forth with every imaginable circumstance of literary and musical skill. i can conceive of no greater degradation of richard strauss's genius than the illustration of this play by music." and here is what the critic of the provincial journals has to say: "salomé marks the depths of all that was spurious, all that was artificial, all that was perverse. startling to english ears, the play was not at all original. it drew its inspiration from the decadent school of france, but in that world it would rank as one of the commonplace. "the shocking, startling idea, that so outraged the respectable yankees, is the twisting of a story of the new testament to the needs of a literature of the most degenerate kind. but in paris, and particularly amongst wilde's friends, all such ideas had lost the thrill of novelty. pierre louys, to whom he dedicates the book, had couched his own 'aphrodite' on similar perversions of history and mythology, and to treat the story of the new testament in similar fashion was hardly likely to give pause to men who laughed at the basis of the christian religion. "even academicians like anatole france dealt with the gospels as the mere framework of ironical stories, and writers of the stamp of jean loverain out-heroded wilde's herod both in audacity and point. catulle mendes recently produced at the opera house in paris an opera founded on the supposed love of mary magdalen for christ. catulle mendes has very real talent, the opera was a great success." whatever the judgment of posterity may be, and there can be little doubt that it can be favourable, the play must ever appeal to the actor, the artist, and the student of literature, on account of its dramatic possibilities, its wonderful colouring, the perfection of its construction, and the mastery of its style. it stands alone in the literature of all countries. "the duchess of padua" the first of all wilde's plays was "the duchess of padua." it was written at the time when he was living at the hotel voltaire in paris and taking balzac as his model. the title of the play was doubtless inspired by webster's gloomy tragedy of another italian duchess; and the play itself is in five acts. although many students of his works consider that it is worthy to rank with the masterpieces of the elizabethan drama, it must be confessed that the work, though full of promise, is immature and too obviously indebted in certain scenes to some of shakespeare's most obvious stage tricks. he had written the play with a view to its being played by miss mary anderson, but to his great disappointment she declined his offer of it. his biographer's description of his reception of her refusal is worth quoting: "i was with him at the hotel voltaire on the day when he heard from mary anderson, to whom he had sent a copy of the drama which was written for her. he telegraphed in the morning for her decision, and whilst we were talking together after lunch her answer came. it was unfavourable; yet, though he had founded great hopes on the production of this play, he gave no sign of his disappointment. i can remember his tearing a little piece off the blue telegraph-form and rolling it up into a pellet and putting it into his mouth, as, by a curious habit, he did with every paper or book that came into his hands. and all he said, as he passed the telegram over to me, was, 'this, robert, is rather tedious.'" the scene of the play is laid in padua, the period being the sixteenth century, and the characters are as follows:- dramatis personæ simone gesso duke of padua. beatrice his wife. andrea pollaiuolo cardinal of padua. maffio petrucci } jeppo vitelozzo }of the ducal household. taddeo bardi } guido ferranti ascanio cristofano his friend. count moranzone bernardo cavalcanti chief justiciar of padua. hugo the public executioner. lucia a tirewoman. serving-men, burghers, soldiers, falconers, monks, etc. the scene opens in the market, where ascanio and guido are awaiting the arrival of the writer of a letter who has promised to enlighten the latter as to his birth, and who will wear a violet cloak with a silver falcon embroidered on the shoulder. the stranger arrives and proves to be count moranzone, who, ascanio having been dismissed, informs the lad that he is the son of lorenzo, the late duke of padua, betrayed to an ignominious death by the reigning duke, simone gesso. he works on the youth's feelings and induces him to swear to avenge his father's death by slaying his betrayer, but not until moranzone sends him his parent's dagger. guido left alone, in a fine speech renews his oath, and as he is vowing on his drawn dagger to "forswear the love of women and that hollow bauble men call female loveliness," beatrice descends the steps of the church, their eyes meet for a second and as she leaves the stage she turns to look at him again. "say, who is yonder lady?" inquires the young man, and a burgher answers, "the duchess of padua." in the second act the duchess is seen pleading with her husband that he should feed and assist his starving people. on his exit she is joined by guido, who, for the first time, declares his love, while she avows hers in turn. a pretty love scene full of tenderness and poetry is interrupted by the appearance of count moranzone, whom beatrice alone catches sight of, and presently a messenger enters and hands guido a parcel containing the fatal dagger. he will have no more to do with love--for will not his soul be stained with murder?--and steeling his heart against beatrice he bids her farewell, telling her that there is a barrier between them. the duke makes a brief entrance. the duchess will not go hunting with him. he suspects, and inquires for guido, and with a veiled threat leaves her. she will end her life that very night, she soliloquises, and yet, why should she die, why not the duke? she is interrupted by moranzone, whom she taxes with taking guido from her. he answers that the young man does not love her nor will she ever see him more, and leaves her. she determines that that very night she will lie in death's arms. the third act takes place at night within the palace. guido enters the apartment from without by means of a rope ladder, and is met by moranzone, to whom he declares that he will not stoop to murder, but will place the dagger, with a paper stating who he is, upon the duke's bed and then take horse to venice and enlist against the infidels. nothing moranzone urges can move him and the latter at last leaves him. as guido lifts the curtain to enter the duke's chamber he is met by beatrice, who, after a while, confesses that she has stabbed her husband. guido, horrified, refuses to have aught to do with her, and despite all her blandishments and entreaties remains adamant. she then begs him to draw his sword on her "and quick make reckoning with death, who yet licks his lips after this feast." he wrests the dripping knife from her hand, and although she explains that 'twas for love of him she did the deed he bids her begone to her chamberwomen. finally she turns on him with the threat "who of us calls down the lightning on his head let him beware the hurt that lurks within the forked levin's flame," she leaves him. left alone, his heart goes forth to her and he calls her back, but soon her voice is heard without, saying, "this way fled my husband's murderer." soldiers enter, and guido is arrested, the bloodstained knife being taken from him. the fourth act is laid in the hall of justice. the duchess has accused guido of the murder. he will not defend himself though moranzone, who has recognised the dagger as the duchess's, urges him to do so. guido tells his evil genius that he himself did the deed. he then begs leave of the justiciar to let him name the guilty one who slew the duke, but beatrice, who is fearful he will accuse her, urges that he shall not be allowed speech. a lengthy wrangle takes place between her, the judges, and moranzone, and the court retires to consider the point. during the interval, the accused holds conference with the cardinal, who will only hear him in the confessional. beatrice tells him, "an thou dost meet my husband in purgatory with a blood-red star over his heart, tell him i send you to bear him company." when at last the judges return they decide that guido may have speech. beatrice, who has arranged for a horse to be in waiting that it may convey her to venice, endeavours to leave the court, but is prevented. at last guido speaks and confesses to the murder. he is condemned to death, and is led forth as beatrice, calling out his name, "throws wide her arms and rushes across the stage towards him." the last act takes place in the prison. guido is asleep, and beatrice, wearing a cloak and mask, enters to him. by wearing these and using her ring of state she hopes he will be enabled to escape. presently she drinks the poison which, as he is of noble birth, has been placed near him and when he awakes a reconciliation takes place between them. it is too late, the poison has begun to work. "oh, beatrice, thy mouth wears roses that do defy death," exclaims guido, and later on--"who sins for love, sins not," to which beatrice replies, "i have sinned, and yet mayhap shall i be forgiven. i have loved much." they kiss each other for the first time in this act, and in a final spasm she expires, and he, snatching the dagger from her belt, stabs himself as the executioner enters. the play was read for copyright purposes in march, 1907, by an amateur dramatic society connected with st james's church, hampstead road, mr george alexander, lending his theatre for the purpose. it has been produced, but without much success, in america by miss gale and the late lawrence barrett, and in 1904 at one of the leading theatres in hamburg. the german production was, however, marred by a series of unfortunate incidents, so that it can hardly be held to have been a fair test of the merits of the play. the guido had a severe cold, and during beatrice's long speech in the last act, when he is supposed to be asleep, kept on spoiling the situation by repeated sneezes, while the duchess herself was uncertain of her words. on the third night the cardinal went mad on the stage and had to be taken off to an asylum. "the duchess of padua" is much more a play for the study than the stage, although replete with dramatic possibilities, for its gloomy character would always militate against its success in this country. the plot is finely elaborated, and yet perfectly clear. the characterisation is keenly aware of the value of contrast in art and packed with a psychology which, buried as it is, nevertheless is just and accurate. no one can read the truly poetical dialogue with its stately cadence and rich volume of sound without being moved by the dignity of tragedy, and what blemishes there may be are more due to inexperience than to any departure from the ideals in art that the author had set up for himself. "vera, or the nihilists" and now in the survey of the romantic dramas we come to a play totally different from any other work of the author's--"vera, or the nihilists." this is a melodrama pure and simple, the action taking place in russia in 1795. it is described as "a drama in a prologue and four acts," and was written in 1881. badly produced and acted in america it was printed for private circulation. the dramatis personæ are: persons in the prologue peter sabouroff (an innkeeper). vera sabouroff (his daughter). michael (a peasant). colonel kotemkin. persons in the play ivan the czar. prince paul maraloffski (prime minister of russia). prince petrovitch. count rouvaloff. marquis de poivrard. baron raff. general kotemkin. a page. _nihilists_ peter tchernavitch, president of the nihilists. michael. alexis ivanacievitch, known as a student of medicine. professor marfa. vera sabouroff. soldiers, conspirators, etc. scene, moscow. time, 1800. the plot is briefly as follows:-dmitri sabouroff, the son of an innkeeper, is, with other prisoners, on his way to an exile in siberia to which he has been sentenced for participation in nihilist conspiracies. the band of prisoners in its melancholy progress halts at the paternal inn. dmitri is recognised by his sister vera, and manages to pass her a piece of paper on which is written the address of the nihilist centre, together with the form of oath used on joining. then the old innkeeper recognises his son and tries to get to him as the prisoners are being marched off. the colonel in charge of the detachment (kotemkin), closes the door on him and the old man falls senseless to the ground. a peasant admirer of vera's (michael) kneels down and tends the stricken father while vera recites the oath: "to strangle whatever nature is in me; neither to love nor to be loved; neither to pity nor to be pitied; neither to marry nor to be given in marriage, till the end is come." this tableau ends the prologue. in the first act the nihilists are assembled at their secret meeting place and are anxiously waiting the return of vera, who has gone to a ball at the grand duke's to "see the czar and all his cursed brood face to face." amongst the conspirators is a young student of medicine, alexis, who has incurred the suspicions of vera's admirer, michael, the most uncompromising of the revolutionists. vera returns with the news that martial law is to be proclaimed. she is in love with alexis and reproves him for running the risk of being present. meanwhile, michael and the president confer together. michael proposes to don the uniform of the imperial guard, make his way into the courtyard of the palace, and shoot the czar as he attends a council to be held in a room, the exact location of which he has learnt from alexis. he has followed alexis and seen him enter the palace, but has not seen the young man come out again though he had waited all night upon the watch. vera defends alexis whom the conspirators wish to kill. suddenly soldiers are heard outside, the conspirators resume their masks as kotemkin and his men enter. in reply to his inquiries vera informs him that they are a company of strolling players. he orders her to unmask. alexis steps forward, removes his mask, and proclaims himself to be the czarevitch! the conspirators fear he will betray them, but he backs up vera's tale as to their being strolling players, gives the officer to understand that he has an affair of gallantry on hand with vera, and with a caution to the general dismisses him and his men. the curtain comes down, as, turning to the nihilists, he exclaims, "brothers, you trust me now!" the second act is laid in the council chamber, where the various councillors are assembled, including the cynical prime minister, prince paul maraloffski. presently the czarevitch enters, followed later by the czar, whose fears prince paul has worked on to induce him to proclaim martial law. he is about to sign the document when the czarevitch intervenes with a passionate appeal for the people and their rights, and finally proclaims himself a nihilist. his father orders his arrest, and his orders are about to be carried out when a shot is heard from without and the czar, who has thrown open the window, falls mortally wounded, and dies, denouncing his son as his murderer. the third act takes place in the nihilists' meeting place. alexis has been proclaimed czar, and has dismissed his father's evil genius, prince paul. the passwords are given and it is discovered that there is a stranger present. he unmasks, and proves to be no other than prince paul, who desires to become a nihilist and revenge himself for his dismissal. alexis has not obeyed the summons to the meeting, and in spite of vera's protests is sentenced to death. the implacable michael reminds her of her brother's fate and of her oath. she steels her heart and demands to draw with the others for the honour of carrying out the sentence on alexis. it falls to her, and it is arranged that she shall make her way to the czar's bedchamber that night, paul having provided the key and the password, and stab him in his sleep. once she has carried out her mission she is to throw out the bloodstained dagger to her fellow-conspirators, who will be waiting outside, as a signal that the czar has been assassinated. the fourth act is set in the antechamber of the czar's private room, where the various ministers are assembled discussing the czar and his plans of reform (he has already dismissed his guards and ordered the release of all political prisoners). alexis enters and listens to their conversation. stepping forward he dismisses them all, depriving them of their fortunes and estates. left alone he falls asleep and vera, entering, raises her hand to stab him, when he awakes and seizes her arm. he tells her he has only accepted the crown that she should share it with him. vera realises that she loves him and that she has broken her oath. a love scene follows. midnight strikes, the conspirators are heard clamouring in the streets. vera stabs herself, throws the dagger out of the window, and in answer to alexis's agonised, "what have you done?" replies with her dying breath, "i have saved russia." the play, as i have already said, is quite different from any other of wilde's, and in reading it one cannot help regretting that he did not turn some of his attention and devote a portion of his great talents to the reform of english melodrama. he might have founded a strong, virile, and healthy dramatic school, and by so doing raised the standard of the popular everyday play in this country. nevertheless, that "vera" was not a success when produced is not to be wondered at, apart from the fact of its having been vilely acted. pure melodrama, especially, despite a very general idea to the contrary, requires an acquaintance with technique and stage mechanism that is only obtainable after many years of practice. at this period the author had not enjoyed this practice in technique. nevertheless, the play is essentially dramatic and had mr wilde at this early time in his dramatic career called in the assistance of some experienced actor or stage-manager, with a very little alteration a perfectly workmanlike drama could have been made out of it. the prologue and the first act could have been run into one act divided into two separate scenes. more incident and action could have been introduced into act two and some of the dialogue curtailed. acts three and four want very little revision, and it would have been easy to introduce one or two female characters and perhaps a second love interest. some light-comedy love scenes would have helped to redeem the gloom of the play and afforded a valuable contrast to the intensity of the hero and heroine in their amorous converse. the dialogue is crisp and vigorous and the language at times of rare beauty. it is a pity that such a work should be wasted, and it is to be hoped that some manager will have the astuteness and ability to produce it in a good acting form. the experiment would certainly be worth trying. the play as a whole is certainly not one of its author's finest productions. as has been said, it was written before he had mastered stage technique and learned those secrets of dramaturgy which in later years raised him to such a pinnacle of fame as a dramatic author. yet it can be said of it with perfect confidence that it is far and away superior to nine-tenths of modern, and successful, melodramatic plays. indeed, whenever we discuss or criticise even the less important works of oscar wilde we are amazed at their craftsmanship and delighted with their achievement. the most unconsidered trifles from his pen stand out among similar productions as the moon among stars, and his genius is so great that work for which other writers would expect and receive the highest praise in comparison with _his_ greatest triumphs almost fails to excite more than a fugitive and passing admiration. "the florentine tragedy" an interesting story attaches to "the florentine tragedy," a short play by wilde which was produced on 18th june 1906, by the literary theatre club. the history of the play was related by mr robert ross to a representative of _the tribune_ newspaper. "the play was written," he said, "for mr george alexander, but for certain reasons was not produced by him. in april 1895, mr wilde requested me to go to his house and take possession of all his unpublished manuscripts. he had been declared a bankrupt, and i reached the house just before the bailiffs entered. of course, the author's letters and manuscripts of two other unpublished plays and the enlarged version of 'the portrait of mr w. h.' upon which i knew he was engaged--had mysteriously disappeared. someone had been there before me. "the thief was never discovered, nor have we ever seen 'the florentine tragedy,' the 'mr w. h.' story, or one of the other plays, 'the duchess of padua'--since that time. curiously enough, the manuscript of the third play, a tragedy somewhat on the lines of 'salomé,' was discovered by a friend of mr wilde's in a secondhand bookshop in london, in 1897. it was sent to the author in paris, and was not heard of again. after his death in 1900 it could not be found. with regard to 'the duchess of padua,' the loss was not absolute, for this play, a five-act tragedy, had previously been performed in america, and i possessed the 'prompt' copy. "to return to 'the florentine tragedy.' i had heard portions of it read, and was acquainted with the incidents and language, but for a long time i gave it up as lost. then, after mr wilde's death, i had occasion to sort a mass of letters and papers which were handed to me by his solicitors. among them i found loose sheets containing the draft of a play which i recognised as 'the florentine tragedy.' by piecing these together i was able to reconstruct a considerable portion of the play. the first five pages had gone, and there was another page missing, but some 400 lines of blank verse remained. now the introductory scene of the single act of which the play consists has been rewritten by mr sturge moore, and the 'tragedy' will be presented to an english audience for the first time at the king's hall, covent garden, next sunday. "on the same occasion the literary theatre club will give a performance of mr wilde's 'salomé,' which, as you know, cannot be given publicly in this country, owing to the biblical derivation of the subject. but 'salomé' has been popular for years in germany, and it has also been played in sweden, russia, italy, and holland." it seems that "the florentine tragedy" has also been played with great success in germany. it was translated by dr max meyerfeld, and was produced first at leipsic, and afterwards at hamburg and berlin. according to mr ross, "the florentine tragedy" promises to become almost as popular with german playgoers as "salomé" is now. "the florentine tragedy," as already indicated, is a brief one-act drama. there are only three characters: an old florentine merchant, his beautiful wife, and her lover. the simple plot may be briefly indicated. the merchant, arriving suddenly at his home after a short absence, finds his wife and his rival in her affections together at supper. he makes a pretence at first of being profoundly courteous, and the ensuing conversation (as need hardly be said) is pointed, epigrammatic, and witty. then the old man gradually leads up to what, it becomes obvious, had been his fixed purpose from the beginning. he draws the lover into a duel. this takes place in the presence of the wife, who, indeed, holds aloft a torch in order that the two swordsmen may fight the more easily. the contest waxes fiercer, and the swords are exchanged for daggers. the wife casts the torch to the ground as the two men close with each other, and the younger one falls mortally wounded. the ending is dramatic. the infuriated husband turns to his shrinking wife and exclaims, "now for the other!" the woman, in mingled remorse and fear, says, "why did you not tell me you were so strong?" and the husband rejoins, "why did you not tell me you were so beautiful?" as the curtain descends, the couple, thus strangely reconciled, fall into each other's arms. the character of outstanding importance, of course, is that of the old merchant. according to those who have studied the play, he is a strikingly effective figure, most cleverly and delightfully drawn. in the opinion of mr moore the part is one that would have fitted sir henry irving excellently well. the action of the drama occupies less than half-an-hour. in this connection it may be well to recall the testimony of an irish publisher quoted by mr sherard in his "life of oscar wilde." this gentleman attended the sale of the author's effects in tite street, and in a room upstairs found the floor thickly strewn with letters addressed to the quondam owner of the house and a great quantity of his manuscripts. he concluded that as the various pieces of furniture had been carried downstairs to be sold their contents had been emptied out on to the floor of this room. presently a broker's man came up to him and inquired what he was doing in the room, and on his replying that finding the door open he had walked in, the man said, "then somebody has broken open the lock, because i locked the door myself." this gentleman surmises that it was from this room that various manuscripts that have never been recovered were stolen! when the piece was produced by the literary theatre club it suffered from inadequate acting. mr george ingleton was quite overweighted by the part of simone, the florentine merchant. it is a part that requires an irving to carry it through, or, at anyrate, an actor of great experience, and for anyone else to attempt it is a piece of daring which can only result in failure. it is curious that the denouement, which was so severely handled by the critics when the play was produced in berlin, was the part of the piece that seemed most to impress an english audience. the epigram and the praises of strength and beauty provoked no protest or dissatisfaction, as those who had seen the german production expected they would, nor was the audience in the least shocked when the wife holds the torch for her husband and lover to fight, nor when, at the close of the encounter, she purposely throws it down. this, of course, is the unlooked-for climax of the piece, and the dramatic character of the situation completely saved it. "the woman covered with jewels" finally we have arrived at what must always be the most tantalising of all wilde's plays because the ms. has been lost and very little is known about it. it had for title "the woman covered with jewels." the only copy of it known to exist, a small quarto book of ruled paper in the author's own handwriting, was presumably stolen with the copies of "the incomparable and ingenious history of mr w. h. being the true secret of shakespeare's sonnets, now for the first time here fully set forth," and "the florentine tragedy," at the time of the tite street sale. but little is known about the play--a very few privileged persons having been favoured with a perusal of it, and the only information the public have been able to gather about it is from an article by a well-known book-lover that appeared in a weekly paper. i myself have not been able to discover any further information. the play was in prose and, like "salomé," was a tragedy in one act. it was written about 1896. according to the writer of the article referred to, it was "presented by its author to a charming and cultured mayfair lady, well known in london society." he goes on to say that she allowed a few well-known _littérateurs_ to peruse it, but that the manuscript is now lost and that he has not succeeded in tracing a second copy anywhere. there seems to be some confusion here, for if this were the only copy it could not have been stolen from the tite street sale, as, according to the biography, was the case. one thing, at anyrate, appears certain, and that is that there is no copy in existence, or rather--for if it was stolen it must be in someone's possession--available at the present moment. it would be interesting to know how the lady to whom the book was presented came to lose it. perhaps she herself destroyed it at the period when so many of his friends were so anxious to conceal all traces of their friendship with its author. again, the ms. may only have been lent her, and may have been returned by her to wilde before the crash. at anyrate, it seems incredible that he should have parted with the manuscript without keeping even a rough copy. the point needs elucidation. according to the writer of the article--"there is little doubt that the lost tragedy by wilde was intended originally--like 'salomé'--for sarah bernhardt. it contains a part somewhat like her _izéil_. the period of the play is that of the second century after christ, a century of heresy and manifold gospels that had made the church of the day a thing divided by sects and scarred with schisms. fairly vigorous christian churches existed at athens and corinth. from one of these there seceded a most holy man. he withdrew into the desert, and at the time the play begins was dwelling in a cave 'whose mouth opened upon the tawny sand of the desert like that of a huge lion.' his reputation for holiness had gone forth to many cities. one day there came to his cave a beautiful courtesan, covered with jewels. she had broken her journey in order to see and hear the wonderful priest who had striven against the devil in the desert. he sees the strange, beautiful intruder, and, speaking of the faith that was within him, tries to win one more convert to its kingdom, glory, and power. she listens as thais listened to paphnutius. the hermit's eloquence sways her reason, while her exquisite beauty of face and form troubles his constancy. she speaks in turn and presses him to leave his hermit home and come with her to the city. there he may preach to better effect the gospel of the kingdom of god. 'the city is more wicked than the desert,' she says, in effect. "while they are talking two men drew near and gazed upon the unusual scene. 'surely it must be a king's daughter,' said one. 'she has beautiful hair like a king's daughter, and, behold, she is covered with jewels.' "at last she mounts her litter and departs, and the men follow her. the priest has been troubled, tortured by her beauty. he recalls the melting glory of her eyes, the softly curving cheeks, the red humid mouth. recalls, too, the wooing voice that was like rippling wind-swept water. her hair fell like a golden garment; she was, indeed, covered with jewels. "evening draws near and there comes to the mouth of the cave a man who says that robbers have attacked and murdered a great lady who was travelling near that day. they show the horror-struck priest a great coil of golden hair besmeared with blood. here the tragedy ends. "one sees that 'the woman covered with jewels' is an outcome, and one more expression, of that literary movement that gave us 'salambo,' 'thais,' 'aphrodite,' 'imperial purple,' and many more remarkable works of a school, or group of writers, who, wearied of the _jejune_, the effete, and much else, have sought solace for their literary conscience in a penman's reconquest of antiquity. probably the old-world story of paphnutius and thais inspired the tragedy and maeterlinck's plays suggested its technique. who can know? assuredly its tragic picture of devotion, passion, cupidity, and murder would thrill and enthrall those who could know it better than in this imperfect portrayal. 'the woman covered with jewels' is worthy of the pen that wrote 'salomé,' and 'the sphinx.' "yet it is lost!" part iv the writer of fairy stories the fairy stories a little girl who had kept her fifth birthday joyously in the garden of her father's home went on the morrow to the great and grimy city which was nearest to it. we were to visit the bazaars and buy books and toys. as we went through the great square in which the town hall stands the small hand in mine told me that here was something which we must stay to consider. we stood at the base of the statue which the citizens had raised in memory of a statesman's endeavour and success. she looked steadily and long at the figure of which the noble head redeemed the vulgar insignificance of costume and posture. "what did this man do, uncle?" she asked, "that he has been turned into stone?" i was dreadfully startled, for the horrid suspicion darted through my mind that my little niece had remembered my talk with her father about modern sculpture, and at five years old had already begun to pose. "of course, it had to be stone not salt in england," she went on to say, and i was reassured; she at least was remembering lot's wife. it was in the later spring of 1888, and when the evening post brought me fresh from the press "the happy prince and other tales," the first story told me that oscar wilde, of whom men, even then, had many things sinister and strange to say, had yet within him the heart of a little child. "high above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the happy prince." "when i was alive and had a human heart i did not know what tears were, for i lived in the palace of sans souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. in the daytime i played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening i led the dance in the great hall. round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but i never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. my courtiers called me the happy prince, and happy indeed i was, if pleasure be happiness, so i lived and so i died. and now that i am dead they have set me up here so high that i can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet i cannot choose but weep." here, strange to say, is the note of pathos which we hear again and again in the volume of fairy stories which many men look upon as oscar wilde's best and most characteristic prose work. time after time they make me murmur vergil's untranslatable line _sunt lachrymæ rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt_. the felicity of expression is exquisite, and an opulent imagination lavishes its treasures in every story. our author has come into full possession of his sovereignty of words and every sentence has its carefully considered, yet spontaneous charm. nevertheless, oscar wilde makes the linnet his mouthpiece in the fourth story "the devoted friend." "'the fact is, that i told him a story with a moral.' 'ah, that is always a very dangerous thing to do,' said the duck--and i quite agreed with her." dangerous though it is, oscar wilde essayed the endeavour. i do not think that children would easily detect that _amari aliquid_ which makes the fairy stories fascinating to minds that are mature, and i am sure that many little ones have revelled in the swallow's stories of what he had seen in strange lands when he told "the happy prince of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the nile and catch gold fish in their beaks; of the sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants who walk slowly by the side of their camels, and carry amber beads in their hands; of the king of the mountains of the moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies." i suppose it would shock the authorities of the education department at whitehall if it were suggested that the children in the elementary day schools should have for their reading lesson, sometimes, the volume of "the happy prince and other tales, by oscar wilde, illustrated by walter crane and jacomb hood"--but i think the starved and stunted imaginations of the children in the great, cruel cities would revive and grow if this could be done. but perhaps it would have to be an expurgated edition. the sad consciousness of, and stern satire on, our social system might remain, the children would take no hurt, and the weary school teachers would be glad to hear and to read a children's fairy tale, which sets the student thinking and makes the more worldly man consider his ways. but if i had the editing of the book i would leave out here and there a sentence. "'bring me the two most precious things in the city,' said god to one of his angels; and the angel brought him the leaden heart and the dead bird. "'you have rightly chosen,' said god, 'for in my garden of paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the happy prince shall praise me.'" the children would not like this, for in their ears sound often the severe words of sinai, "the lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain," and i, who delight in the beautiful prose poems, feel that here the dead artist was not at his best. some have said that there are no fairy stories like oscar wilde's, but hans andersen had written before him, and charles kingsley's "water babies" was published long before "the happy prince." the dane managed to touch on things divine without a discord, and charles kingsley's satire was not less keen than oscar's, but he could point his moral without intruding very sacred things into his playful pages, and i wish that the two last sentences of "the happy prince" could be erased. it is the gorgeous colour and the vivid sonorous words that charm us most. it is easy to analyse these sentences and to note how pearls and pomegranates, and the hyacinth blossom, and the pale ivory, and the crimson of the ruby, again and again glow on the pages like the illuminations of the mediæval missal; but each story has its own peculiar charm. "the nightingale and the rose" is a tale full of passion and tenderness, and sad in the sorrow of wasted sympathy and unrequited love. "surely love is a wonderful thing. it is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the market-place. it may not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance of gold." i can fancy oscar wilde writing thus in the happy days of his early married life in chelsea, in the little study where his best work was done, whilst memories of the chapel of magdalen murmured in his brain, and he heard again the surpliced scholar reading from the lectern the praise of wisdom which he transmuted into the praise of love which was not wise. "it cannot be gotten for gold, neither shall silver be weighed for the price thereof. it cannot be valued with the gold of ophir, with the precious onyx, or the sapphire. the gold and the crystal cannot equal it: and the exchange of it shall not be for jewels or fine gold. no mention shall be made of coral or of pearls: for the price of wisdom is above rubies. the topaz of ethiopia shall not equal it, neither shall it be valued with pure gold." throughout "the song of the nightingale" there is a reminiscence of that song of solomon which wilde told a fellow-prisoner he had always loved. "many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it: if a man would give all the substance of his house for love, it would be utterly contemned." in "the selfish giant" another note is sounded. as we read it we pass into the mediæval age, and we think of the story of christopher. the giant keeps the garden to himself and the children that played in it are banished, and thenceforward its glories are gone. in the garden of the selfish giant it was still winter. the birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom. the snow covered up the grass with his great white cloak, and the frost painted all the trees silver, but anon there came a child who wept as he wandered in the desolated garden, and the selfish giant's heart melted; once again the children's voices are heard and the garden flourishes as it did before, and the giant grows old and watches from his chair the children at their play. "i have many beautiful flowers," he said, "but the children are the most beautiful flowers of it all," till at last the grey old giant finds again in his garden the child who had first touched his hard heart--"but when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, 'who hath dared to wound thee?' for on the palms of the child's hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet. 'who hath dared to wound thee?' cried the giant, 'tell me, that i may take my big sword and slay him.' 'nay,' answered the child, 'but these are the wounds of love.'" "the devoted friend" is altogether in another vein. as the first story is fragrant of the east and the second mediæval in its memories, so the third is teutonic, and "hans and the miller's friendship" reminds us of the brothers grimm. now that every child has the chance of reading the german fairy stories, oscar wilde's tale will be compared with theirs, but i think the children will like this one best for the simple reason that, being written in exquisite english, nothing that has passed through the perils of translation can have its charm. children are wonderful, because perfectly unconscious, critics of style. it is doubtful if readers will enjoy "the remarkable rocket" as they will the other stories. the modern _milieu_ intrudes here and there. the satire is keen and there are some clever epigrams. the russian princess "had driven all the way from finland in a sledge drawn by six reindeer which was shaped like a great golden swan, and between the swan's wings lay the little princess herself"--and we think that we are going to enjoy again the atmosphere of watteau, and are a little disappointed when we find our author saying, "he was something of a politician, and had always taken a prominent part in the local elections, or he knew the proper parliamentary expressions to use." and the story, alas! will suggest over and over again painful thoughts which i would keep at a distance when i read these other lovely tales. was not this sentence of evil omen? "'however, i don't care a bit,' said the rocket. 'genius like mine is sure to be appreciated some day,' and he sank down a little deeper into the mud." and the last sentence of all is terribly sinister. "'i knew i should create a sensation,' gasped the rocket, and he went out." "the house of pomegranates" was published in 1891, and is dedicated to constance mary wilde. here, in a volume which the author frankly calls a volume of "beautiful tales," is a very stern indictment of the social system which, in his essay "the soul of man," oscar wilde had so powerfully denounced. we know how profoundly that essay has influenced the minds of men in every country in europe. translated into every tongue it has taught the oppressed to resent the callous cruelty of capital, but i doubt if its author was altogether as earnest as he seems. here, in the story of the young king, we have a lighter touch. it is as though the writer hesitated between two paths. in the year 1895 the wrong path had been taken if we may trust the record of a conversation which took place in that year. "to be a supreme artist," said he, "one must first be a supreme individualist." "you talk of art," said i, "as though there were nothing else in the world worth living for." "for me," said he sadly, "there is nothing else." but when oscar wilde dedicated "the house of pomegranates" to his wife the love of beauty and the love of humankind still seemed to go together. the young king is possessed with a passion for beauty. the son of the old king's daughter, by a secret marriage, his childhood and early youth have been obscure, and he comes into his kingdom suddenly. we see him in the palace where are gathered rich stores of all rare and beautiful things and his love for them is an instinct. the author in some exquisite pages tells us of the glories of the king's house. here, as in the other book of which i have written, the mind of the reader is helped to realise how beautiful luxury may be. i must quote the description of the young king's sleeping-chamber--"the walls were hung with rich tapestries representing the triumph of beauty. a large press, inlaid with agate and lapis lazuli, fitted one corner, and facing the window stood a curiously wrought cabinet with lacquer panels of powdered and mosaiced gold, on which were placed some delicate goblets of venetian glass and a cup of dark veined onyx. pale poppies were broidered on the silk coverlet of the bed, as though they had fallen from the tired hands of sleep, and tall reeds of fluted ivory bare up the velvet canopy, from which great tufts of ostrich plumes sprang like white foam, to the pallid silver of the fretted ceiling. a laughing narcissus in green bronze held a polished mirror above its head. on the table stood a flat bowl of amethyst." but on the eve of the coronation, the king dreams a dream. he is borne to the weavers' quarter and marks their weary toil, and the weaver of his own coronation robe has terrible things to tell him. "in war," answered the weaver, "the strong make slaves of the weak, and in peace the rich make slaves of the poor. we must work to live, and they give us such mean wages that we die. we toil for them all day long, and they heap up gold in their coffers, and our children fade away before their time, and the faces of those we love become hard and evil. we tread out the grapes, and another drinks the wine. we sow the corn, and our own board is empty. we have chains though no eye beholds them; and are slaves, though men call us free." "sic vos non nobis!" the artist in words is still haunted by his master vergil's verses, and he had not listened to ruskin all in vain. the pagan point of view is not that which prevailed in those happy months when "the house of pomegranates" was written. perhaps ruskin's socialism made no very deep impression, but christian art had its message once for oscar wilde. the young king sees in his dreams the toil of the weaver, and the diver, and of those who dig for the red rubies, and when he wakes he puts his pomp aside. in vain do his courtiers chide him, in vain do those whom he pities tell him that his way of redress is wrong and that "out of the luxury of the rich cometh the life of the poor." the king asks, "are not the rich and the poor brothers?" "ay," answered the man in the crowd, "and the name of the rich brother is cain." so the young king comes to the cathedral for his coronation clad in his leathern tunic and the rough sheepskin cloak of other days, and when the wise and worldly bishop has told him in decorous words even the same as his own courtiers said. "sayest thou that in this house?" said the young king, and he strode past the bishop, and climbed up the steps of the altar, and stood before the image of the christ. but i must not be tempted to continue the quotation of this lovely story, and will only give its closing words-"and the young king came down from the high altar, and passed home through the midst of the people. but no man dared look upon his face, for it was like the face of an angel." here once more is the music of the lectern which an oxford man of years ago cannot forget, and i wonder if this story of the young king was not written some time before those others which complete the book. "the birthday of the infanta" does not give me the same delight. it is, of course, clever, as all was that oscar wilde ever touched, but it is cruel whilst it accuses cruelty. and now and then we have a sentence or a phrase which seems to have escaped revision. the story of the little dwarf who made sport for the princess and whose heart was broken when he found that she was pleased, not by his dances, but by his deformity, is not like its predecessor in the volume, and the picture of "the little dwarf lying on the ground and beating the floor with his clenched hands" did not need the awkward addition "in the most fantastic and exaggerated manner." but every poet, of course, _aliquando dormitat_, and i would rather appreciate than criticise. two more stories complete this beautiful book and i think i have not said yet how beautiful the type and binding and engravings are of this edition of 1891 in which i am reading. if ever it is reprinted it should have still the same sumptuous setting forth. wilde himself described the _format_ of the book in the following passage:--"mr shannon is the drawer of the dreams, and mr ricketts is the subtle and fantastic decorator. indeed, it is to mr ricketts that the entire decorative design of the book is due, from the selection of the type and the placing of the ornamentation, to the completely beautiful cover that encloses the whole. "the artistic beauty of the cover resides in the delicate tracing, arabesques, and massing of many coral-red lines on a ground of white ivory, the colour effect culminating in certain high gilt notes, and being made still pleasurable by the overlapping band of moss-green cloth that holds the book together." "the fisherman and his soul," recalls many stories and is very weird in its conception. we think of undine and of peter schmeidel and his shadow; and again there is a reminiscence of "the arabian nights." yet once more it is the old burden of the song "love is better than wisdom, and more precious than riches, and fairer than the feet of the daughters of men. the fires cannot destroy it, nor can the waters quench it." but in the story there is seen distinctly the strong attraction which the ritual of the catholic church had for oscar wilde. those who have read that fine poem, "rome unvisited," which even the saintly recluse of the oratory at edgbaston could praise, will understand how in the story of the "fisherman and his soul" it is written. "the priest went up to the chapel, that he might show to the people the wounds of the lord, and speak to them about the wrath of god. and when he had robed himself with his robes, and entered in and bowed himself upon the altar, he saw that the altar was covered with strange flowers that never had been seen before, and after that he had opened the tabernacle, and incensed the monstrance that was in it, and shown the fair wafer to the people, and hid it again behind the veils, he began to speak to the people." and now i come to "the star-child--inscribed to miss margot tennant." "he was white and delicate like swan ivory, and his curls were like the rings of the daffodil. his lips, also, were like the petals of a red flower, and his eyes were like violets by a river of pure water, and his body like the narcissus of a field where the mower comes not." but his heart was hard and his soul was selfish, and his evil ways wrought mischief all around; so bitter sorrow fell upon him and his comeliness departed, and in pain and grief he was purged from his sin. this last is indeed a beautiful story, and not once is there sounded the mocking note of cynical disdain of men. if one had taken up this tale and known not whose pen had traced it, he would not hesitate to place it in his children's hands. is it not good to think that tenderness and humility and patience are seen herein to be more beautiful than all the precious things which are loved so ardently by the artistic mind? i have shown, i hope, that in both of these exquisite volumes, it may be seen that oscar wilde had visions sometimes of the celestial city where the angels of the little children do always behold the face of the father. and if, as other chapters of this volume may seem to show, the vision splendid died away and faded all too soon, purgatorial pain came to the author, as to the star-child in his story, and he who could build for his soul a lordly pleasure house, and was driven forth from it, may enter it again when he has purged his sin. part v the poet poems if a keynote were wanted to oscar wilde's verse it might be found in a couple of stanzas by the poet whose work perhaps had the greatest share in moulding his ideas and fashioning his style. charles baudelaire, with all his love of the terrible and the morbid, was an incomparable stylist, and in these lines has almost formulated a creed of art. "la nature est un temple où de vivants piliers laissent parfois sortir de confuses paroles; l'homme y passe à travers des forêts de symboles qui l'observent avec des regards familiers. comme de longs échos qui de loin se confondent dans une ténébreuse et profonde unité, vaste comme la nuit et comme la clarté, les parfums, les couleurs et les sons se répondent." we can picture to ourselves the young oxford student studying these lines over and over again till they had become part and parcel of himself. wilde himself has left it on record that he "cannot imagine anyone with the smallest pretensions to culture preferring a dexterously turned triolet to a fine imaginative ballad." in the majority of his poems, the beauties of nature, flowers, the song of birds and the music of running water are introduced either incidentally or as the _leit motif_. in fact, he was responsible for the dictum that what english poetry has to fear is not the fascination of dainty metre or delicate form, but the predominance of the intellectual spirit over the spirit of beauty. that the expression of the beautiful need not necessarily be simple was one of his earliest contentions. "are simplicity and directness of utterance," he asks, "absolute essentials for poetry?" and proceeds to answer his own question. "i think not. they may be admirable for the drama, admirable for all those imitative forms of literature that claim to mirror life in its externals and its accidents, admirable for quiet narrative, admirable in their place; but their place is not everywhere. poetry has many modes of music; she does not blow through one pipe alone. directness of utterance is good, but so is the subtle recasting of thought into a new and delightful form. simplicity is good, but complexity, mystery, strangeness, symbolism, obscurity even, these have their value. indeed, properly speaking, there is no such thing as style; there are merely styles, that is all." there we have a clear, concise and catholic statement of his literary creed, and none other was to be expected from one to whom baudelaire, poe, keats, and rossetti were so many masters whose influence was to be carefully cultivated and whose methods were worthy of imitation and study. his views on the subject of simplicity in verse should be read by all who desire to understand his method and do justice to his work. "we are always apt to think," he wrote, "that the voices which sang at the dawn of poetry were simpler, fresher, and more natural than ours, and that the world which the early poets looked at, and through which they walked, had a kind of poetical quality of its own, and could pass, almost without changing, into song. the snow lies thick now upon olympus, and its scarped sides are bleak and barren, but once, we fancy, the white feet of the muses brushed the dew from the anemones in the morning, and at evening came apollo to sing to the shepherds in the vale. but in this we are merely lending to other ages what we desire, or think we desire, for our own. our historical sense is at fault. every century that produces poetry is, so far, an artificial century, and the work that seems to us the most natural and simple product of its time is probably the result of the most deliberate and self-conscious effort. for nature is always behind the age. it takes a great artist to be thoroughly modern." "ravenna," the poem with which oscar wilde won the newdigate prize, we find to be far above the average of such effusions, though possessing most of the faults inherent in compositions of this kind. grace and even force of expression are not wanting, with here and there a pure strain of sentiment and thought, and a keen appreciation of the beauties of nature. ever and anon we come across some sentence, some _tournure de phrase_ which might belong to his later work, as for instance- "the crocus bed (that seems a moon of fire round-girdled with a purple marriage-ring)." but for the most part the poem is rather reminiscent of "childe harold's pilgrimage," and is chiefly interesting by reason of the promise it holds forth. the poems published in 1881 are preceded by some dedicatory verses addressed to his wife which are characterised by great daintiness and simplicity, instinct with tender affection and chivalrous homage. "helas," which forms a sort of preface to the collection, is chiefly interesting on account of the prophetic pathos of the lines: "surely there was a time i might have trod the sunlit heights, and from life's dissonance struck one clear chord to reach the ears of god." "ave imperatrix" will come as a surprise to those unacquainted with wilde's works. most people would have thought the author of "dorian gray" the last man in the world to write a stirring patriotic poem which would not be out of place in a collection of mr kipling's works. a copy of _the world_ containing this poem found its way to an officer in lord robert's force marching on candahar, and evoked the enthusiasm and admiration of the whole mess. as a proof of the author's originality and care in the choice of similes he purposely discards the modern heraldic device of the british lion for the more correct and ancient leopards, as: "the yellow leopards, strained and lean, the treacherous russian knows so well with gaping blackened jaws are seen leap through the hail of screaming shell." there is a fine swing about the metre of this verse, and the description of the leopards as "strained and lean" is a piece of word painting, a felicity of expression that it would be difficult to improve on. the whole poem is tense with patriotic fervour, nor is it wanting in exquisitely pathetic touches, as for instance- "pale women who have lost their lord will kiss the relics of the slain- some tarnished epaulette--some sword- poor toys to soothe such anguished pain." or "in vain the laughing girl will yearn to greet her love with love-lit eyes: down in some treacherous ravine, clutching the flag, the dead boy lies." that he should have written such a poem is proof conclusive of the author's extraordinary versatility, and though a comparatively early production is worthy to rank with the finest war poems in the language. current events at that time attracted his pen for we find a set of verses on the death of the ill-fated prince imperial, a sonnet on the bulgarian christians, and others of a more or less patriotic character. few of these productions, however, invite a very serious criticism. they were of the moment and for the moment, and have lost the appeal of freshness and actuality. in "the garden of eros" we get a good insight into wilde's passionate fondness for flowers, to whom they were human things with souls. probably no other verses of the poet so well define and express this master passion of his life. "... mark how the yellow iris wearily leans back its throat, as though it would be kissed by its false chamberer, the dragon-fly." or "and i will tell thee why the jacynth wears such dread embroidery of dolorous moan." or again "close to a shadowy nook where half afraid of their own loneliness some violets lie that will not look the gold sun in the face." i remember a lady telling me once that she was in a london shop one day when wilde came in and asked as a favour that a lily be taken out of the window because it looked so tired. this looking on flowers as real live sentient things was no mere pose with him. he was thoroughly imbued with the conviction that they were possessed of feeling, and throughout his poetical work we shall find endless applications of this idea. of particular interest in this poem are the verses descriptive of the various poets, his contemporaries. swinburne he alludes to most happily, as far as the neatness of phrase is concerned nothing could be better in this regard than "and he hath kissed the lips of proserpine and sung the galilean's requiem." william morris, "our sweet and simple chaucer's child," appeals to him strangely. many a summer's day he informs us he has "lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves." his appreciation of morris's verse is keen and enthusiastic. "the little laugh of water falling down is not so musical, the clammy gold close hoarded in the tiny waxen town has less of sweetness in it." what a delicate metaphor that is, what an exquisite poet's fancy. not keats himself could have surpassed the "clammy gold close hoarded in the tiny waxen town"--it is worthy to rank with some of the daintiest flights in the "queen mab speech," that modern mercutios murder so abominably. like every verse writer of his time oscar wilde had felt the wondrous influence of rossetti, and no finer tribute to the painter could be written than the lines- "all the world for him a gorgeous coloured vestiture must wear, and sorrow take a purple diadem, or else be no more sorrow, and despair gild its own thorns, and pain, like adon, be even in anguish beautiful; such is the empery which painters held." there is a stately splendour about the flow of "a gorgeous coloured vestiture," and one pauses to admire the choice of the last word, and can picture the poet's delight when, like an artist in mosaic who has hit upon the stone to fill up the remaining interstice, he lighted on the word. it is essentially _le mot juste_, no other could have filled its place. so also is there a peculiar happiness in the use of "empery." there is a volume of sound and meaning in the word that could with difficulty be surpassed. in fact, in his choice of words wilde always and for ever deserves the glowing words of praise that baudelaire addressed to theodore de bonville- "vous avez prélassé votre orgueil d'architecte dans des constructions dont l'audace correcte fait voir quelle sera votre maturité." and when we come to a line like- "against the pallid shield of the wan sky the almond blossoms gleam" we realise how thoroughly the praise would be deserved, and linger lovingly on the lilting music of the words and the curious japanese setting of the picture evolved. the poem ends on a note like the drawing in of a deep breath of country air after a prolonged sojourn in towns. "why soon the woodman will be here; how we have lived this night of june." in "requiescat" quite a different note is reached. the poem was written after the death of a beloved sister; the sentiment rings true and the very simplicity of the language conveys an atmosphere of real grief that would have been entirely marred by the intrusion of any decorative or highly-coloured phrase. the choice of saxon words alone could produce the desired effect, and the author has realised this and made use almost exclusively of that material. nor was he ill-advised to let himself be influenced so far as the metre is concerned by hood's incomparable "bridge of sighs," and it was not in the metre alone that he availed himself of that priceless gem of english verse- "all her bright golden hair tarnished with rust, she that was young and fair fallen to dust." is obviously inspired by "take her up tenderly, lift her with care; fashioned so slenderly, young, and so fair!" but, on the other hand, hood himself might well have envied the exquisite sentiment contained in- "speak gently, she can hear the daisies grow." the lines were written at avignon, surely the place of all others, with its memories and its mediæval atmosphere, to inspire a poem, the dignity and beauty of which are largely due to the simplicity of its wording. during this period of travel we are struck by two things. firstly, how deeply impressed the young poet was by the mysteries of the catholic faith and how his indignation flamed up at the new italian _régime_; secondly, how apparent the influence of rossetti is in the sonnets he then wrote. his sympathies were all with the occupant of st peter's chair. "but when i knew that far away at rome in evil bonds a second peter lay, i wept to see the land so very fair." and again "look southward where rome's desecrated town lies mourning for her god-anointed king! look heavenward! shall god allow this thing not but some flame-girt raphael shall come down, and smite the spoiler with the sword of pain." in "san miniato" the influence of rome upon the young man's mind finds expression in words which might have been written by a son of the latin church. "o crowned by god with thorns and pain! mother of christ! o mystic wife! my heart is weary of this life and over sad to sing again," he writes, and ends with the invocation- "o crowned by god with love and flame! o crowned by christ the holy one! o listen ere the scorching sun show to the world my sin and shame." nor can it be wondered at that the devotion to the madonna which forms so essential a feature of the catholic faith should impress his young and ardent spirit as it does nearly every artist to whom the poetic beauty of this side of it naturally appeals. the pope's captivity moved him again and again to express his indignation in verse, and from his poem, "easter day" we can gather how deeply he was impressed both by the stately ceremonial at st peter's and by the sight of the despoiled pontiff. at this time also he seems to have been more or less yearning after a more spiritual mode of life than he has been leading, at least so one gathers from poems like "e tenebris" in which he tells us that- "the wine of life is spilt upon the sand, my heart is as some famine-murdered land whence all good things have perished utterly and well i know my soul in hell must be, if i this night before god's throne should stand." that he had visions of a possible time when a complete change should be worked in his spiritual condition seems clear from the concluding lines of "rome unvisited." "before yon field of trembling gold is garnered into dusty sheaves or ere the autumn's scarlet leaves flutter as birds adown the wold, i may have run the glorious race, and caught the torch while yet aflame, and called upon the holy name of him who now doth hide his face." apart from the light these poems throw upon his mental and spiritual attitude at that period, they are extremely interesting as revealing the literary influences governing him at the time. i have already referred to the resemblance between his sonnets and the more finished ones of dante gabriel rossetti, and this point cannot better be illustrated than by placing the work of the two men in juxtaposition. if we take, for instance, rossetti's "lady of the rocks." "mother, is this the darkness of the end, the shadow of death? and is that outer sea infinite imminent eternity? and does the death-pang by man's seed sustained in time's each instant cause thy face to bend its silent prayer upon the son, while he blesses the dead with his hand silently to his long day which hours no more offend? mother of grace, the pass is difficult, keen as these rocks, and the bewildered souls throng it like echoes, blindly shuddering through. thy name, o lord, each spirit's voice extols, whose peace abides in the dark avenue amid the bitterness of things occult." and compare it with "e tenebris." we are at once struck with the same mode of expression, the same train of thought and the same deep note of pain in the two poems. and again take wilde's "madonna mia"- "i stood by the unvintageable sea till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray, the long red fires of the dying day burned in the west; the wind piped drearily; and to the land the clamorous gulls did flee: 'alas!' i cried, 'my life is full of pain, and who can garner fruit or golden grain, from these waste fields which travail ceaselessly!' my nets gaped wide with many a break and flaw nathless i threw them as my final cast into the sea, and waited for the end. when lo! a sudden glory! and i saw from the black waters of my tortured past the argent splendour of white limbs ascend!" and compare it with rossetti's "venetian pastoral" and "mary's girlhood," and we can almost imagine that the painter was holding up pictures to inspire the young poet. "red underlip drawn in for fear of love and white throat, whiter than the silvered dove," might almost have been written by rossetti himself. more characteristically original are the lines- "i saw from the black waters of my tortured past the argent splendour of white limbs ascend," from the "vita nuova," though one cannot fail to perceive a faint baudelairian note. "where behind lattice window scarlet wrought and gilt some brown-limbed girl did weave thee tapestry," at once reminds us of the rossetti influence. the poem itself shows considerable skill in construction and deftness in the moulding of the sentences, moreover, there is a freshness in the treatment of the theme that a less original writer would have found great difficulty in imparting. here again we see the catholic note as when he writes- "never mightest thou see the face of her, before whose mouldering shrine to-day at rome the silent nations kneel; who got from love no joyous gladdening, but only love's intolerable pain, only a sword to pierce her heart in twain, only the bitterness of child-bearing." there is one especially fine bit of imagery- "the lotus-leaves which heal the wounds of death lie in thy hand--" which bears the very truest imprint of poetry. with the poet's return to england, a reaction took place, and the sight of english woodlands and english lanes caused a strong revulsion of feeling. "this english thames is holier far than rome those harebells like a sudden flush of sea breaking across the woodland, with the foam of meadow-sweet and white anemone, to fleck their blue waves,--god is likelier there than hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear." the green fields and the smell of the good brown earth come as a refreshing contrast to the incense laden atmosphere of foreign cathedrals. and yet his fancy delights in commingling the two. in the "violet-gleaming" butterflies he finds roman monsignore (he anglicises the word by the way and gives it a plural "s,"), a lazy pike is "some mitred old bishop _in partibis_," and "the wind, the restless prisoner of the trees, does well for palestrina." he revels in the contrast that the refreshing simplicity of rural england presents to the pomp and splendour of rome. the "lingering orange afterglow" is "more fair than all rome's lordliest pageants." the "blue-green beanfields" "tremulous with the last shower" bring sweeter perfume at eventide than "the odorous flame-jewelled censers the young deacons swing." bird life suggests the conceit that- "poor fra giovanni bawling at the mass, were out of tune now for a small brown bird sings overhead." his love of nature, his passion for flowers and the music of nature find continued and ecstatic expression. "sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves." everything appeals to him, "the heavy lowing cattle stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate," the mower whetting his scythe, the milkmaid carolling blithely as she trips along. "sweet are the hips upon the kentish leas, and sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay, and sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling bees that round and round the linden blossoms play; and sweet the heifer breathing on the stall and the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick wall." no matter that he mixes up the seasons somewhat and that having sung of bursting figs he refers, in the next line, to the cuckoo mocking the spring--"when the last violet loiters by the well"--the poem is still a pastoral breathing its fresh flower-filled atmosphere of the english countryside. wilde is, however, saturated with classical lore and (though on some minds the fantasy may jar) he introduces daphnus and linus, syrinx and cytheræa. but he is faithful to his english land, he talks of roses which "all day long in vales æolian a lad might seek for" and which "overgrows our hedges like a wanton courtesan, unthrifty of its beauty," a real shakespearean touch. "many an unsung elegy," he tells us, "sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding thames." he peoples the whole countryside with faun and nymph- "some mænad girl with vine leaves on her breast will filch their beech-nuts from the sleeping pans, so softly that the little nested thrush will never wake, and then will shrilly laugh and leap will rush down the green valley where the fallen dew lies thick beneath the elm and count her store, till the brown satyrs in a jolly crew trample the loosetrife down along the shore, and where their horned master sits in state bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a wicker crate." and yet the religious influence still makes itself felt. "why must i behold [he exclaims] the wan white face of that deserted christ whose bleeding hands my hands did once enfold?" but it is only momentary, and once more he sports with the sylvan gods and goddesses till "the heron passes homeward from the mere, the blue mist creeps among the shivering trees, gold world by world the silent stars appear and like a blossom blows--before the breeze a white moon drifts across the shimmering sky." and he hears "the curfew booming from the bell at christ church gate." wilde never wrote anything better in verse than this with the single exception of "the ballad of reading gaol." the poem deserves to rank among the finest pastorals in the language. it is essentially musical, written with artistic restraint and with a discrimination of the use of words and their combination that marks the great artist. it is a true nature poem and it will appeal to all those who prefer musical verse to the artificial manufacture of rhymes, and simple sentences to the torturing of words into unheard-of combinations. as a contrast to it comes the "magdalen walks" which, in construction and rhythm, is somewhat lacking in ease and freedom. it is a curious thing that wilde's affections seemed to alternate between the unordered simplicity of english woods and meadows and the trim artificial parterres and bouquets of versailles or sans souci. there is a constraint about the metre of this poem which does rather suggest a man walking along a trim avenue from which he can perceive flowers, meadows and riotous hedges--in the distance. there is also a suggestion of tennyson's "maud" about- "and the plane to the pine tree is whispering some tale of love till it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of green and the gloom of the wych elm's hollow is lit with the iris sheen of the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove." "impression du matin" might be said to be a successful attempt to render a whistler pastel into verse, but there is a human note about the last verse that elevates the poem far above such a mere _tour de force_, and there is a fine sense of effect in the picture of the "pale woman all alone" standing in the glimmering light of the gas lamp as the rays of the sun just touch her hair. "a serenade" and "endymion" possess all the qualities that a musical setting demands, but do not call for especial comment. it is, however, in "la bella donna della mia mante" that the expression of the poet's genius finds vent. "as a pomegranate, cut in twain, white-seeded, is her crimson mouth" is as perfect a metaphor as one could well wish to find. "charmides" is a more ambitious effort than anything he had yet attempted. the word-painting is obviously inspired by keats, for whose work he had an intense admiration. such lines as "came a great owl with yellow sulphurous eyes," and "vermilion-finned with eyes of bossy gold" might have been taken straight out of "lamia," so truly has he caught the spirit of his master. but if enamoured of keats's gorgeous colouring wilde revelled in the construction of jewelled phrase and crimson line, there is another source of inspiration noticeable in the poem. had shakespeare never written "venus and adonis," wilde might have written "charmides" but it would not have been the same poem. the difference between the true poet who has studied the great verse of bygone ages and the mere imitator is that one will produce a work of art enhanced by the suggestions derived from the contemplation of the highest conception of genius, whereas the other will outrun the constable and merely accentuate and burlesque the distinguishing characteristics of the work of others. in the case in point, whilst we note with pleasure and interest the points of resemblance between the poem and the models that its author has followed, we are conscious that what we are reading is a work of art in itself and that its intrinsic merits are enhanced by the points of resemblance and do not depend on them for their existence. there is another poem--"ballade de marguerite"--which recalls memories of keats, closely resembling as it does "la belle dame sans merci." rarely has the old ballad form been more successfully treated. we catch the very spirit of mediævalism in the lines- "perchance she is kneeling in st. denys (on her soul may our lady have grammercy!) ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle i might swing the censer and ring the bell." it is so easy to overdo the thing, to produce a bad counterfeit made up of wardour street english, that to retain the simplicity of language and the slight _soupçon_ of chaucerian english requires all the skill of a master craftsman, and the intimate knowledge of the value and date of words that can only result from a close acquaintance with the works of the ballad writers. in "the dole of the king's daughter" wilde again essays the ballad form, but this time the treatment shows more traces of the rossetti influence. the ballad spirit is maintained with unerring skill and the form perfectly adhered to throughout. to quote good old izaak walton--"old-fashioned poetry but choicely good." as conveying the idea of impending tragedy nothing could be more effective than the simplicity of the lines "there are two that ride from the south and east and two from the north and west, for the black raven a goodly feast for the king's daughter rest." in this ballad as in the "chanson" he uses the old device, so common in ancient ballads, of making the alternate lines parenthetical, as, for instance- "there is one man who loves her true, (red, o red, is the stain of gore!) he hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew, (one grave will do for four)." a rather clever parody of this mode of construction is worth quoting here-"sage green" (_by a fading-out æsthete_) "my love is as fair as a lily flower. (_the peacock blue has a sacred sheen!_) oh, bright are the blooms in her maiden bower. (_sing hey! sing ho! for the sweet sage green!_) her face is as wan as the water white. (_the peacock blue has a sacred sheen!_) alack! she heedeth it never at all. (_sing hey! sing ho! for the sweet sage green!_) the china plate it is pure on the wall. (_the peacock blue has a sacred sheen!_) with languorous loving and purple pain. (_sing hey! sing ho! for the sweet sage green!_) and woe is me that i never may win; (_the peacock blue has a sacred sheen!_) for the bard's hard up, and she's got no tin. (_sing hey! sing ho! for the sweet sage green!_)" among the sonnets written at this period the one on keats's grave in which he does homage to him whom he reverenced as a master is especially felicitous in its ending- "thy name was writ in water--it shall stand and tears like mine will keep thy memory green as isabella did her basil-tree." than the graceful introducing of keats's poem no more delicate epitaph could be well imagined. shelley's last resting-place likewise inspired his pen and there is an "impression de voyage" written at katakolo at the period of his visit to greece in company with professor mahaffy, the concluding line of which, "i stood upon the soil of greece at last," conveys more by its reticence than could be expressed in volumes. of his five theatrical sonnets headed "impressions de theatre," one is addressed to the late sir henry irving and the three others to miss ellen terry. it is curious that of the three shakespearean characters he mentioned as worthier of the actor's great talents than fabiendei franchi--viz. lear, romeo, and richard iii.,--the only one that irving ever played was romeo, and in that part he was a decided failure, which, considering his peculiar mannerisms and method, as well as his age at the time, was not to be wondered at. the fifth was probably intended for madame sarah bernhardt, whose wonderful rendering of phèdre could not fail to deeply impress so cultured a critic as the author of these poems. in "panthea" oscar wilde gives rein to his amorous fancy, and, inspired by the poets of greece and rome, peoples the world with gods and goddesses who mourn the old glad pagan days- "back to their lotus-haunts they turn again kissing each other's mouths, and mix more deep the poppy-seeded draught which brings soft purple-lidded sleep." how rich is the language here employed, how exquisite the lilt of "soft purple-lidded sleep." not even tennyson in "the lotus eaters" has done anything better than this. and how delicately expressed is the idea embodied in the lines- "there in the green heart of some garden close queen venus with the shepherd at her side, her warm soft body like the briar rose which should be white yet blushes at its pride--" or, how tender the fancy that inspired "so when men bury us beneath the yew thy crimson-stained mouth a rose will be, and thy soft eyes lush bluebells dimmed with dew." none but a poet could have written those lines; the stately wording of the second line is purposely chosen to enhance the perfect simplicity of the third. the poems comprised within "the fourth movement" include the "impression," "le reveillon," the first verse of which runs- "the sky is laced with fitful red, the circling mists and shadows flee, the dawn is rising from the sea, like a white lady from her bed--" which inspired the parodist with-"more impressions" (_by oscuro wildgoose_) des sponettes "my little fancy's clogged with gush, my little lyre is false in tone, and when i lyrically moan, i hear the impatient critic's 'tush!' but i've 'impressions.' these are grand! mere dabs of words, mere blobs of tint, displayed on canvas or in print, men laud, and think they understand. a smudge of brown, a smear of yellow, no tale, no subject,--there you are! impressions!--and the strangest far is--that the bard's a clever fellow." i quote the two parodies to show how little oscar wilde's verse was appreciated by his contemporaries. there is an unfairness and misrepresentation about them which is significant of how the poet's poses and extravagancies had prejudiced the public mind. in the two love poems "apologia" and "quia multi amori" a deeper key is struck, and a note of pain predominates. there is a restraint about the versification and the colour of the words that strikes the right chord and tunes the lyre to a subdued note. the underlying passion and regret find their supreme expression in the lines- "ah! hadst thou liked me less and loved me more, through all those summer days of joy and rain, i had not now been sorrow's heritor or stood a lackey in the house of pain." the "hadst thou liked me less and loved me more" deserves to pass into the language with richard lovelace's "i could not love thee, dear, so much, loved i not honour more." in "humanitad" we get a view of the country in winter time, and "the gaunt bittern stalks among the reeds and flaps his wings, and stretches back his neck, and hoots to see the moon; across the meads limps the poor frightened hare, a little speck; and a stray seamew with its fretful cry flits like a sudden drift of snow against the dull grey sky." the picture is complete, we see the bare countryside, the sky grey with impending snow, and the animal life introduced uttering nature's cry of desolation. but hope is not dead in the poet's breast; he sees where, when springtime comes, "nodding cowslips" will bloom again and the hedge on which the wild rose--"that sweet repentance of the thorny briar"--will blossom out. he runs through the whole flower calendar, using the old english names "boy's-love," "sops in wine," and "daffodillies." "soon will the glade be bright with bellamour the flower which wantons love and those sweet nuns vale-lilies in their snowy vestiture, will tell their beaded pearls, and carnations with mitred dusky leaves will scent the wind and straggling traveller's joy each hedge with yellow stars will bind." once more we note how the flowers are personalities for him, a view which could not long escape the humorists of _punch_, and which was amply taken advantage of by the writer of some burlesque verses, two of which are sufficiently amusing to quote- "my long lithe lily, my languid lily, my lank limp lily-love, how shall i win- woo thee to wink at me? silver lily, how shall i sing to thee, softly, or shrilly? what shall i weave for thee--which shall i spin- rondel, or rondeau, or virelay? shall i buzz like a bee, with my face thrust in thy choice, chaste chalice, or choose me a tin trumpet, or touchingly, tenderly play on the weird bird-whistle, _sweeter than sin_, that i bought for a halfpenny, yesterday? my languid lily, my lank limp lily, my long, lithe lily-love, men may grin- say that i'm soft and supremely silly- what care i, while you whisper stilly; what care i, while you smile? not a pin! while you smile, while you whisper--'tis sweet to decay! i have watered with chlorodine, tears of chagrin, the churchyard mould i have planted thee in, upside down, in an intense way, in a rough red flower-pot, _sweeter than sin_, that i bought for a halfpenny, yesterday!" nature appeals to oscar wilde in all her moods, and though he might at times assume the pose of preferring art to nature, he gives expression to his real feelings when he exclaims: "ah! somehow life is bigger after all than any painted angel could we see the god that is within us!" the lines speak for themselves and are strongly indicative of his attitude towards nature and art at that period. the true spirit of catholicism had gripped him; the influence of rome was at work, though enfeebled, and remained latent within him till in his hour of passing he found peace in the bosom of the great mother, who throughout the ages has always held out her arms to the sinner and the outcast. there has always been a certain amount of mystery attached to another poem of wilde's called "the harlot's house," written at the same period as "the duchess of padua" and "the sphinx"--that is, when he was living in the hotel voltaire. it was originally published in a magazine not later than june 1885. it is a curious thing that all researches up to the present as to the name of the publication have proved fruitless, and that the approximate date of the appearance of the verses has been arrived at by reference to a parody entitled "the public house," which appeared in _the sporting times_, of all papers in the world, on 13th june 1885. first, an edition of the poem was brought out privately by the methuen press in 1904 with five illustrations by althea gyles, in which the bizarre note is markedly, though artistically, dominant. another edition was privately printed in london in 1905 in paper wrappers. the idea of this short lyrical poem is that the poet stands outside a house and watches the shadows of the puppet dancers "race across the blind." "the dancers swing in a waltz of strauss"--the "treues liebes herz"--"like strange mechanical grotesques" or "black leaves wheeling in the wind." the marionettes whirl in the ghostly dance, and--- "sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed a phantom lover to her breast, sometimes they seemed to try and sing." the man turns to his companion and remarks that "the dead are dancing with the dead," but drawn by the music she enters the house. as love enters the house of lust the gay seductive music changes to a discord, and the horrible shadows disappear. then the dawn breaks, creeping down the silent street "like a frightened girl." that is all, but as a high specimen of imagina-verse it stands alone. that the author was inspired by memories of baudelaire and poe is beyond dispute. nevertheless, the poem, in conception as well as execution, is essentially original. the puppet dancers' _motif_ was afterwards introduced by him with telling effect as we shall see later in "the ballad of reading gaol." hardly ever have the bizarre and the _macabre_ been used with such artistic effect as in this short poem, nor have the imaginative gifts of its author ever found a finer scope. if he had written nothing else than these lines they would confer immortality on him. like all truly great work they are imperishable and will form part of english literature when far more widely read effusions are set aside and forgotten. i have remarked on the original character of the poem in spite of its obvious sources of inspiration, and there can be no better way of verifying this than by giving an example of baudelaire's own incursion into puppet land-"danse macabre" "_fière, autant qu'un vivant, de sa noble stature, avec son gros bouquet son mouchoir et ses gants, elle a la nonchalance et la désinvolture d'un coquette maigre aux airs extravagants._ _vit-on jamais au bal une taille plus mince? sa robe exagérée, en sa royale ampleur, s'ecroule abondamment sur un pied sec que pince un soulier pomponné, joli comme une fleur._ _la ruche qui se joue au bord des clavicules, comme un ruisseau lascif qui se frotte au rocher, défend pudiquement des lazzi ridicules les funèbres appas qu'elle tient à cacher._ _ses yeux profonds sont faits de vide et de ténèbres, et son crâne, de fleurs artistement coiffé, oscille mollement sur ses frêles vertèbres, --o charme d'un néant follement attifé!_ _aucuns t'appelleront une caricature, qui ne comprennent pas, amants ivres de chair, l'élégance sans nom de l'humaine armature, tu réponds, grand squelette, à mon gout le plus cher!_ _viens-tu troubler, avec ta puissante grimace, la fête de la vie? ou quelque vieux désir, eperonnant encor ta vivant carcasse, te pousse-t-il, crédule, au sabbat du plaisir?_ _au chant des violons, aux flammes des bougies, espères-tu chasser ton cauchemar moqueur, et viens-tu demander au torrent des orgies de rafraîchir l'enfer allumé dans ton coeur?_ _inépuisable quits de sottise et de fautes! de l'antique douleur éternel alambic! a travers le treillis recourbé de tes côtes je vois, errant encor, l'insatiable aspic._ _pour dire vrai, je crains que ta coquetterie ne trouve pas un prix digne de ses efforts; qui, de ces soeurs mortels, entend la raillerie? les charmes de l'horreur n'enivrent que les forts!_ _le gouffre de tes yeux, plein d'horrible pensées, exhale le vertige, et les danseurs prudents ne contempleront pas sans d'amères nausées le sourire éternel de tes trente-deux dents._ _pourtant, qui n'a serré dans ses bras un squelette, et qui ne s'est nourri des choses du tombeau? qu'importe le parfum, l'habit ou la toilette? qui fait le dégoûté montre qu'il se croit beau._ _bayadère sans nez, irrésistible gouge, dis donc à ces danseurs qui font les offusqués: 'fiers mignons, malgré l'art des poudres et du rouge, vous sentez tous la mort!' o squelettes musques._ _antinous flétris, dandys à face glabre, cadavres vernisses, lovelaces chenus, le branle universel de la danse macabre vous entraine en des lieux qui ne sont pas connus!_ _des quais froids de la seine aux bords brûlants du gange, le troupeau mortel saute et se pâme, sans voir, dans un trou du plafond la trompette de l'ange sinistrement béante ainsi qu'un tromblon noir._ _en tout climat, sous ton soleil, la mort t'admire en tes contorsions, risible humanité, et souvent, comme toi, se parfumant de myrrhe, mêle son ironie à ton insanité!_" the french poem lacks the simplicity and the directness of its english fellow. it appears overloaded and artificial in comparison, and above all it lacks the music which results from the juxtaposition of the anglo-saxon a, e, i, and u sounds, and the latin ahs and ohs. but, on the other hand, as an example of the precious and artificial in literature, a further poem of wilde's written at this period, "the sphinx," reveals another phase of his extraordinarily versatile genius. the metre of the poem is the same as that of "in memoriam," though, owing to the stanzas being arranged in two long lines instead of the fairly short ones in tennyson's poem, this might at first escape attention. the poet at the time of writing we learn had "hardly seen some twenty summers cast their green for autumn's gaudy liveries." (which would seem to indicate that this part, at any rate, was written at an earlier period than the rest of the poem), and in the very first lines he tells us that- "in a dim corner of my rooms far longer than my fancy thinks a beautiful and silent sphinx has watched me through the silent gloom." day and night- "this curious cat lies crouching on the chinese mat with eyes of satin rimmed with gold." here we have in a very few words an exact picture of this "exquisite grotesque half-woman and half-animal," whom, after the manner of edgar allan poe with his raven, he proceeds to apostrophise- "oh tell me" [he begins] "were you standing by when isis to osiris knelt? and did you watch the egyptian melt her union for antony?" and plies her with many questions of similar nature. presently he adjures her- "lift up your large black satin eyes which are like cushions where one sinks! fawn at my feet, sphinx! and sing me all your memories." this idea of comparing the velvet depths of the eyes to "cushions where one sinks" is quaint and original, though distinctly decadent, nor is the note of the _macabre_ wanting, as- "when through the purple corridors the screaming scarlet ibis flew in terror, and a horrid dew dripped from the moaning mandragores." there is a wonderful use of contrast in the introduction of sweating mandragores in connection with the purple of the corridors and the scarlet plumage of the ibis. how daring, likewise, the grotesque note introduced as he recites the catalogue of her possible lovers and asks- "did giant lizards come and couch before you on the reedy banks? did gryphons with great metal flanks leap on you in your trampled couch? did monstrous hippopotami come sidling towards you in the mist? did gilt-scaled dragons writhe and twist with passion as you passed them by?" the speaker will find out the secret of her amours. there is nothing too bizarre, too monstrous to include in the list. "had you shameful secret quests" [he asks] "and did you hurry to your home some nereid coiled in amber foam with curious rock crystal breasted?" not baudelaire himself could have invented anything more precious than the description of this sea-nymph, but the gruesome must be introduced. "did you," he inquires, "steal to the border of the bar and swim across the silent lake? and slink into the vault and make the pyramid your lupanar, till from each black sarcophagus rose up the painted swathèd dead?" wilde catalogues through the whole egyptian mythology; he is inclined to give first place to "ammon." "you kissed his mouth with mouths of flame: you made the hornèd god your own: you stood behind him on his throne: you called him by his secret name. you whispered monstrous oracles into the caverns of his ears: with blood of goats and blood of steers you taught him monstrous miracles." decadent the idea may be, but how cleverly, how subtly the effects are produced and how well sustained is the atmosphere of chimerical, nightmare horrors. wilde makes use of the impression derived from the contemplation of colossal figures--the egyptian galleries of the louvre were, one may be certain, a daily haunt of his at the time--and he describes--"nine cubits span" and his limbs are "widespread as a tent at noon," but he was of flesh and blood for all that. "his thick soft throat was white as milk and threaded with thin veils of blue," and he was royally clad, for- "curious pearls like frozen dew were embroidered on his flaming silk." his love of rare and beautiful things finds an outlet in the description of the jewels and retinue of the god. "before his gilded galliot ran naked vine-wreathed corybantes, and lines of swaying elephants knelt down to draw his chariot." barbaric splendour and eastern gorgeousness we have here and in one line the sense of immense wealth is conveyed- "the meanest cup that touched his lips was fashioned from a chrysolite." but now- "the god is scattered here and there: deep hidden in the windy sand i saw his giant granite hand still clenchèd in impotent despair." and he bids her- "go seek the fragments on the moor and wash them in the evening dew, and from their pieces make anew thy mutilated paramour." with mocking irony he tells her to "wake mad passions in the senseless stone." he counsels her to return to egypt, her lovers are not dead- "they will rise up and hear your voice and clash their cymbals and rejoice and run to kiss your mouth!..." he advises to- "follow some raving lion's spoor across the copper-coloured plain," and take him as a lover or to mate with a tiger- "and toy with him in amorous jests, and when he turns and snarls and gnaws o smite him with your jasper claws! and bruise him with your agate breasts!" but "her sullen ways" pall on him, her presence fills him with horror, "poisonous and heavy breath makes the light flicker in the lamp." the poet wonders what "songless tongueless ghost of sin crept through the curtains of the night." he drives the cat away with every opprobrious epithet for she wakes in him "each bestial sense" and makes him what he "would not be." she makes his "creed a barren shame," and wakes "foul dreams of sensual life," and with a return to sanity he chases her away. "go thou before," he cries, "and leave me to my crucifix whose pallid burden sick with pain watches the world with wearied eyes and weeps for every soul that dies, and weeps for every soul in pain." on this note of pessimism and refusal the poem ends. in the realm of the fantastic it has no equal and though the objection may be raised that the whole thing is unhealthy, the truth is that it is merely an experimental excursion in the abnormal. it has all the fantastic unreality of chinese dragons, and, therefore, can in no way be harmful. the nightmare effect has no lasting influence. we read it as we would any other imaginative grotesque. but whilst we are alternately fascinated and repulsed by the subject, we are lost in admiration of the decorative treatment of the theme. the whole performance is artificial, but so is all oriental art. it is true that baudelaire's poems, with their morbid, highly polished neurotic qualities, had fascinated the young artist and exercised a powerful influence over him, but "the sphinx" was an achievement apart and totally different from any other of his poems. it is more in the nature of an extravaganza, an opium dream described in finely chiselled, richly tinted phrases. every young poet goes through various phases and this was only a phase in the author's literary career. nothing could be better than the workmanship, and that the poem should so rivet the attention and attract where it most repels is the greatest tribute to the genius of its creator. it is essentially a weird conception expressed in haunting cadences, an esoteric gem for all those who have brains to think and the necessary artistic sense to appreciate really good work. that persons of inferior mental calibre and narrow views should be shocked by it is only to be expected, and the author himself excused the delay in publishing it by explaining that "it would destroy domesticity in england!" the original edition, it may be mentioned, was published in september 1894 by messrs elkin mathews and john lane, and was limited to two hundred copies issued at 42s. with twenty-five on larger paper at 105s. it was magnificently illustrated by mr c. r. ricketts, the delicacy and distinction of whose work is too well known to need comment. in striking contrast to the artificiality and decadent character of "the sphinx" stands the author's imperishable "ballad of reading gaol." what the circumstances were that led to the writing of this great masterpiece have been already sufficiently dealt with in the earlier portion of this work. it has been aptly said that all great art has an underlying note of pain and sorrow, beautiful work may be produced without it, but not the work that is worthy to rank among the great creative masterpieces of the world. "quand un homme et une poésie," writes barbey d'aubrevilly, "ont dévalé si bas dans la conscience de l'incurable malheur qui est fond de toutes les voluptés de l'existence poésie et homme ne peuvent plus que remonter." there can be no doubt that this poem could never have been written but for the terrible ordeal the poet had been through. it is incomparably wilde's finest poetic work--great, not only by reason of its beauty, but great on account of the feeling for suffering humanity, his power to enter into the sorrows of others and to forget his own trials in the sympathetic contemplation of the agony of his fellow-sufferers which it reveals. the words of another distinguished french critic might almost have been written about him: "désormais divorcée d'avec l'enseignement historique, philosophique et scientifique, la poésie se trouve ramenée à so fonction naturelle et directe, qui est de réaliser pour nous la vie, complémentaire du rêve, du souvenir, de l'espérance, du désir; de donner un corps à ce qu'il y a d'insaisissable dans nos pensées et de secret dans le mouvement de nos âmes; de nous consoler ou de nous châtier par l'expression de l'ideal ou par le spectacle de nos vices. elle devient non pas _individuelle_, suivant la prédiction un peu hasardeuse de l'auteur de _jocelyn_, mais _personnelle_, si nous sous-entendons que l'ame du poëte est nécessairement une âme collective, une corde sensible et toujours tendue que font vibrer les passions et les douleurs de ses semblables." with coleridge's "ancient mariner," "reading gaol," holds first place amongst the ballads of the world, and by many critics it is held, by reason of its deep feeling and anguished intensity, to be a finer piece of work than the older poet's _chef d'oeuvre_. although the author's identity was concealed under the cypher "c33," there was never a moment's doubt as to who the writer was. it came as a shock to the british public that the man who, but a couple of years before, had stood in the public pillory, the man whose work the great majority, who had never even read it, believed to be artificial, meretricious, and superficial, should be the author of a deeply moving poem that could be read by the most prudish and strait-laced. _the times_, that great organ of english respectability, devoted a leading article to it of a highly eulogistic character. the edition was sold out at once, and the book was on all men's tongues. wherever one went one heard it discussed, priest and philistine were as loud in their praises of it as the most decadent of minor poets. no poem had for a generation met with such a friendly reception or caused such a sensation. a critical notice of the poem from the pen of lady currie appeared in _the fortnightly review_ for july 1904. in it the author writes of the "terrible 'ballad of reading gaol' with its splendours and inequalities, its mixture of poetic farce, crude realism, and undeniable pathos." as to the crudeness of the realism, that is a mere matter of opinion: it is easy to supply an adjective--it is more difficult to justify the use of it, and give satisfactory reasons for its application. realistic the poem doubtless is--crude, never, but the writer shows a far keener appreciation when she says--"all is grim, concentrated tragedy from cover to cover. a friend of mine," lady currie says, "who looked upon himself as a judge in such matters, told me that he would have placed certain passages in this poem, by reason of their terrible, tragic intensity, upon a level with some of the descriptions in dante's 'inferno,' were it not that 'the ballad of reading gaol' was so much more infinitely human." among the many laudatory notices that appeared at the time, there is an extract from a review of the work taken from a great london paper and quoted by a french writer which is worth reprinting as showing the attitude of the press towards the poem. "the whole is awful as the pages of sophocles. that he has rendered with his fine art so much of the essence of his life and the life of others in that inferno to the sensitive is a memorable thing for the social scientist, but a much more memorable thing for literature. this is a simple, a poignant, a great ballad, one of the greatest in the english language." never, perhaps, since gray's "elegy" had a poem been so revised, pruned and polished over and over again as this cry from a prison cell. the publisher was driven to the verge of distraction by the constant alterations and emendations, the placing of a comma had become a matter of moment to the fastidious author, but the work was published in its entirety save for two or three stanzas concerning one of the prison officials that it was deemed wise to suppress. the poem bears the dedication- in memoriam c. t. w. sometime trooper of the royal horse guards obiit, h.m. prison, reading, berkshire july 7th, 1896. the case of the trooper to whose memory the work is dedicated excited a good deal of interest at the time. he had a fit of jealousy, murdered his sweetheart, and though public opinion was inclined to take a merciful view of the crime, and a petition was presented to the home secretary for the withdrawal of the capital sentence, it was without effect, and the extreme penalty of the law was carried out in the gaol at reading. the first line- "he did not wear his scarlet coat"-rivets the attention at once, and as surely as do the opening lines of "the ancient mariner." the reason for this is given at once- "for wine and blood are red and blood and wine were on his hands when they found him with the dead." that the whole incident that led to the man's being there should be communicated in the very first stanza, to make that stanza complete, is an artistic necessity, and in the next two lines we are told who the victim is- "the poor dead woman whom he loved, and murdered in her bed." the tragedy is complete. we have the picture of the soldier deprived of his uniform and the whole story is revealed to us. a more concise or supremely reticent description of the pathetic drama there could not be. but the picture must be filled in even to the most trivial detail, and we see the poor wretch taking his daily exercise among the prisoners awaiting their trial, attired in "a suit of shabby grey," trying to demean himself like a man and, trivial, but, from the artist's point of view, important detail, with a cricket cap on his head. there is a world of pathos and lines of unspoken tragedy in that cricket cap worn by a man whose days are numbered, who never will play a game again and whose mind must be occupied with thoughts far removed from sport and amusement save perhaps when they may revert to happy days spent with bat and ball, and which will never recur again. but though his step be jaunty, the oppression of his impending doom is on him, "i never saw a man who looked so wistfully at the day." we can see that prison yard, the circle of convicts pacing the melancholy round at ordered intervals and with measured tread, and the strong man, full of life and vigour looking up at god's blue sky and drinking in the air with greedy lungs. we can see the author of the poem, the erstwhile social favourite, in his convict garb walking "with other souls in pain within another ring." and his horror as he receives the information muttered by some fellow-prisoner through closed lips that "that fellow's got to swing." in words, the simplicity and intensity of which are sublime, he tells us of how the news affected him- "dear christ! the very prison walls suddenly seemed to reel." that apostrophe to the redeemer is a revelation in itself coming from a man who is enduring his own mortal agony, but his particular sorrows fade into insignificance and are forgotten in the presence of a fellow-creature's crucifixion- "and, though i was a soul in pain, my pain i could not feel." already he is purified by his months of trial and tribulation, and he can enter sympathetically into the sorrows of others and share their burden. he now understands the reason of the jaunty step and the defiant manner, he himself has tried to flee from his thoughts. "i only knew what hunted thought quickened his step." he realises the meaning of that "wistful look" towards the vaulted canopy of heaven. the man had killed the thing he loved. "yet each man kills the thing he loves by each let this be heard, some do it with a bitter look, some with a flattering word; the coward does it with a kiss the brave man with a sword." it has been objected that making sword rhyme with word is a makeshift, but surely it is patent to anyone with any artistic sense whatever that this forced rhyme avoids the danger of making the verse too facile, and, far from being a piece of slovenly writing, is the well-thought-out scheme of a perfect master of his craft. it is one of those stupid objections that superficial critics are so apt to raise when utterly devoid themselves of any sense of proportion or fitness. the idea that all men, young or old, kill the thing they love is not only original but it is a very fine flight of metaphor--there is a whole sermon in the conception, and wilde elaborates the theme- "the kindest use a knife because the dead so soon grow old." it is as we read these lines that our thoughts are immediately directed to "the dream of eugene aram," that incomparable masterpiece of another poet, who likewise was looked upon as a mere jester whose work should not be treated seriously, but who has left us three of the finest and most deeply moving poems in the english language. there is a striking resemblance in the wording between the two poems, but without disparaging hood's work there can be no possible doubt as to which is the greater and more noble achievement. another stanza elaborates the theme still further and the fact is recorded that though every man kills the thing he loves, yet death is not always meted out to him. "he does not die a death of shame on a day of dark disgrace, nor have a noose about his neck, nor a cloth upon his face nor drop feet foremost through the floor into an empty space." within these grim prison walls all the horrible details of execution obtrude themselves upon the wretched captive. he has tasted the horrors of solitary confinement, of being spied on night and day by grim, taciturn warders who, at frequent intervals, slide back the panel in the door to observe through the grated opening that the prisoner is all right. so he can feel all the torture that a man under sentence of death must go through at having to "sit with silent men who watch him night and day, who watch him when he tries to weep and when he tries to pray." the ceaseless watch that is kept on the poor wretch lest he should be tempted, given the opportunity, to "rob the prison of its prey" by doing violence on himself, the whole grim ceremonial of the carrying out of the law's decree are conjured up by him. he pictures the doomed man awakened from sleep by the entrance of the sheriff, and the governor of the gaol accompanied by the "shivering chaplain robed in white." he dwells on the hurried toilet, the putting on of the convict dress for the last time whilst the doctor takes professional stock of every nervous symptom. it is to be hoped that the lines descriptive of the doctor are purely imaginative--one must hope, for the credit of the medical profession, that it has no foundation in personal experience. then there is the awful thirst that tortures the victim and another introduction of an apparently trivial detail, "the gardener's gloves" worn by the hangman. but the detail is not trivial, its introduction adds to the ghastliness of the scene. the reading of the burial service over a man yet living is another realistic touch that serves its purpose. with him we can enter into the agony of the condemned wretch as he prays "with lips of clay for his agony to pass." wilde proceeds with the strict narrative. he tells us how for six weeks that guardsman walked the prison yard still wearing the same suit and his head covered with the same incongruous headgear. still does he cast yearning glances at the sky, "and at every wandering cloud that trailed its ravelled fleeces by." but the man is no coward, he does not wring his hands and bemoan his fate, he merely kept his eyes on the sun "and drank the morning air." the other convicts, forgetful of themselves and their crimes, watch with silent amazement "the man who had to swing." he still carries himself bravely and they can hardly realise that he will so soon be swept into eternity; and then a perfectly mediæval note is struck- "for oak and elm have pleasant leaves that in the springtime shoot: but grim to see is the gallows-tree with its adder-bitten root and green or dry a man must die before it bears its fruit." there we have the true spirit of the old ballads. the comparison between the oak and elm in the spring putting forth their leaves, and the gaunt, bare timber of the gibbet with its burden of dead human fruit is a highly imaginative and artistic piece of fantasy, though possibly a poem of villon's was in wilde's mind at the time of writing. he gives us in the next stanza a picture of the murderer with noose adjusted to his neck, taking his last look upon the world, and the drop suggests another finely imaged comparison to him- "'tis sweet to dance to violins when love and life are fair," and goes on so for another two lines before he brings in the antithesis- "but it is not sweet with nimble feet to dance upon the air." the almost morbid fascination the sight of this man with his foot in the grave exercises over him is undiminished, till one day he misses him and knows that he is standing "in black dock's dreadful pen." he himself had been through that dread ordeal and his spirit goes out to him whom he had seen daily for a brief space without ever holding commune with him. "like two doomed ships that pass in storm we had crossed each other's way," he writes, and proceeds to explain that it was impossible for them to exchange word or sign, as they never saw each other in the "holy" night but in the "shameful" day. in a passage of rare beauty, one of the finest in the poem, he explains- "a prison wall was round us both two outcast men we were the world had thrust us from his heart, and god from out his care: and the iron gin that waits for sin had caught us in its snare." the lines in their supreme reticence indicate precisely the agony and despair that filled the heart of c33, and once again a comparison with "eugene aram" is forced upon us. the third period starts with a picture of the doomed man and a scathing bit of satire directed against the prison officials. the wretch is shown to us watched day and night by keen, sleepless eyes, debarred even for a brief second of the privilege of being alone with his thoughts and his misery. then a small detail is introduced to heighten the effect of the grim picture- "and thrice a day he smoked his pipe and drank his quart of beer." there is quite a shakespearean note in this introduction of these commonplace details, which proves how thoroughly oscar wilde had studied the methods of the great dramatist. but he leaves the condemned cell to paint the effect the whole ghastly tragedy being enacted within those grey walls had upon the other prisoners. to a highly strung and supersensitive nature like the writer's the strain must have been terrible. the captives went through the allotted tasks of picking oakum till the fingers bled, scrubbing the floors, polishing the rails, sewing sacks, and all the other daily routine of prison life. "but in the heart of every man terror was lying still--" until one day, returning from their labours, they "passed an open grave," and they knew that the execution would take place on the morrow. they saw the hangman with his black bag shuffling through the gloom, and like cowed hounds they crept silently back to their cells. then night comes and fear stalks through the prison, but the man himself is wrapt in peaceful slumbers. the watching warders cannot make out "how one could sleep so sweet a sleep with a hangman close at hand." not so with the other prisoners--"the fool, the fraud, the knave"--sleep is banished from their cells, they are feeling another's guilt, and the hardened hearts melt at the thought of another's agony. the warders, making their noiseless round, are surprised as they look through the wickets to see "gray figures on the floor." they are puzzled and wonder- "why men knelt to pray who never prayed before." all through the long night they keep their sacred vigil. "the grey cock crew, the red cock crew but never came the day," and their imaginations people the corners and shadows with shapes of terror. the marionette dance of death of these ghostly visitants is as fine a bit of word-painting as can be found any where. the idea is an amplification of the _motif_ of "the harlot's house," but how immeasurably superior, how much more artistically effective the most cursory comparison of the two poems will make apparent. at last the first faint streaks of day steal through the prison bars and the daily task of cleaning the cells is performed as usual, but the angel of death passes through the prison, and with parched throats the prisoners, who were kept in their cells while the grim tragedy was being enacted, wait for the stroke of eight, the hour fixed for the carrying out of the sentence. as the first chimes of the prison clock are heard a moan arises from those imprisoned wretches. at noon they are marched out into the yard, and each man's eye is turned wistfully to the sky, just as the condemned man's had been. they notice that the warders are wearing their best uniforms, but the task they have just been engaged upon is revealed "by the quicklime on their boots." the murderer has expiated his crime, "and the crimson stain that was of cain became christ's snow-white seal." in his dishonoured grave he lies in a winding-sheet of quicklime; no rose or flower shall bloom above it, no tear shall water it, no prayer or benison be uttered over it. "in reading gaol by reading town," with a repetition of the stanza embodying the theme that "all men kill the thing they love," the poem ends. truly a wonderful poem this. we close the covers of the book slowly, almost reverently, our minds all saddened and attuned to a low note by this gloomy picture of agony, torture and horror. we feel as if we had been assisting at a funeral, and with hushed voices slowly make our way back to the world of life and bustle. wilde's place in poetry has yet to be settled, we have not yet had time to focus his work into perspective. that he will rank amongst the very greatest creative geniuses of the world, the men whose songs sway nations, is doubtful, though time alone can tell us. the least that can be said is that there is a distinction about wilde's poetry that will always stamp it as the work of a great artist, and as such it commands a high place amongst the best literary work that this country has produced. part vi the fiction writer fiction that the gift of composing beautiful verse and the ability to write gracefully and wittily in prose does not of necessity enable an author to produce good fiction, is a truism that requires no elaboration. that the novelist should possess style is a _sine quâ non_--that is, if his novels are to take their place as works of art and not merely achieve an ephemeral success amongst the patrons of circulating libraries--but to achieve distinction in the field of romance many other qualities are requisite. to begin with, the story must be of sufficient interest to hold the attention of the reader, the dialogue must be brisk and to the point, and the delineation of character--a gift in itself--lifelike and convincing. whether oscar wilde would, had his life been prolonged, have ever achieved success in this branch of literature is one of those vexed questions which may well be left to those speculative persons who love to discuss "the mystery of edwin drood" and other unfinished works of fiction. that he was endowed with an extraordinarily vivid imagination and that his versatility was marvellous are factors that no one should neglect to take into account when considering the matter. his own contributions to fiction are so few that they afford very little data to go upon. they consist of "the picture of dorian gray," published in 1890; "lord arthur savile's crime"; "the incomparable and ingenious history of mr w. h., being the true secret of shakespeare's sonnets, now for the first time here fully set forth," the manuscript of which, after passing through the hands of messrs elkin mathews and john lane, publishers, who had announced the work as being in preparation, has been unaccountably lost, although it is known that it was returned to the author's house on the very day of his arrest. an article in _blackwood's magazine_ alone enables us to gather some idea of the last work. then we have three short stories--"the sphinx without a secret," "the canterville ghost," "the model millionaire," which complete the list of wilde's fiction in the limited sense of the word. a careful study of these remains must lead to the inevitable conclusion that, so far as we can judge by these more or less fragmentary specimens, wilde's _forte_ was not fiction. he can in no sense be regarded as a novelist, certainly not as an exponent of modern fiction. the pieces are brilliantly clever, gemmed with paradoxes and quaint turns of thought, but they are not fiction in the accepted sense of the word. works of imagination, yes, but "fiction," no. that he was a graceful allegorist nobody can deny, but that his work in this other field of letters was great is never for a moment to be even suggested. he used fiction as a means of introducing his curiously topsy-turvy views of life, but his characters are mere puppets, strange creatures with unreal names, without any particular personality or especially characteristic features, who enunciate the author's views and opinions. in a preface to "dorian gray," when it was published in book form, oscar wilde himself confirms this view--"the highest and the lowest form of criticism," he tells us, "is a mode of autobiography." that he himself believed in the artistic value of his story is evident from the series of brilliant aphorisms which constitute the preface. when in july, 1890, there appeared in an american magazine the fantastic story of "dorian gray" an astonished public rubbed its eyes and wondered whether all its previous theories as to this class of work had been absolutely false and should henceforth be discarded like a garment that has gone out of fashion. the story provoked a storm of criticism which, for the most part, only served to increase the sale of the magazine in which it appeared. in answer to his critics the author contented himself with the dictum that "diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital." whether "the picture of dorian gray" possessed these three essential qualities is a question which may best be answered by giving a short _resume_ of the story itself. basil hallward, a young artist who, some years previously, had caused a great sensation by his disappearance, has painted a full-length portrait of a young man of "extraordinary personal beauty." in conversation with lord henry wotton, who is visiting the studio, he inadvertently reveals that it is the portrait of dorian gray, and alleges as his reason for not exhibiting the picture that he has put too much of himself into it; and, pressed for an explanation, he tells the story of his meeting the original of the painting at a society function, and how deeply he had been impressed by his extraordinary personality. he experiences a "curious artistic idolatry" for the young man, and as they are discussing him the servant announces "mr dorian gray." we then get a word-picture of this interesting young man, we are told that there was something in his face which made you trust him, that it was full of the candour of youth and passionate purity. during the sitting that follows, lord henry enunciates his views of life, and his words leave a deep impression on his youthful auditor. dorian's acquaintance with lord henry soon ripens into friendship, and he confides to his friend that he has fallen deeply in love with sybil vane, a young actress he has accidentally discovered in an east end playhouse. late upon the same night on which the confidence was made lord henry finds, on his return home, a telegram from dorian gray announcing his engagement to the object of his affections. we are next introduced to sybil's shabby home in the euston road; to her mother, a faded, tired-looking woman with bismuth-whitened hands, and to her brother, a young lad with a thick-set figure, rough brown hair and large hands and feet "somewhat clumsy in movement." the faded beauty of the elder woman and her theatrical gestures and manners are deftly touched upon. the son, whom we learn is about to seek his fortune in australia, goes with his sister for a walk in the park, and their talk is all of her love for dorian, of which he does not approve. sybil catches sight of her lover, but before she can point him out to her brother he is lost to sight. they return home; the lad's heart is filled with jealousy, and a fierce murderous hatred of the stranger who, as it seemed to him, had come between him and his sister. downstairs he startles his mother with a sudden question--"were you married to my father?" the woman had been dreading the question for years, but she answers it in the negative, and tells him that his parent was a gentleman and highly connected, but not free to marry her. in the meanwhile, lord henry and basil are discussing the proposed marriage in the private room of a fashionable restaurant, and presently they are joined by dorian himself, who takes part in the discussion, till it is time for them to go to the theatre. his two friends are delighted with the beauty of his _fiancée_, but her acting is below mediocrity, and the boy, who has seen her act really well on previous occasions, is terrible disconcerted. later, in the green-room, sybil explains the reason of this falling off. she is quite candid about it: she tells him she will never act well again, because he has transfigured her life, and that acting, which had before been a matter of reality to her, had become a hollow sham, and that she can no longer mimic a passion that burns her like fire. flinging himself down on a seat, dorian exclaims, "you have killed my love," and after an impassioned tirade answers his own question of "what are you now?" with "a third-rate actress with a pretty face." in vain she pleads for his love; he leaves her telling her that he can never see her again, for she has disappointed him. when, after wandering aimlessly about all night, he returns home, he is suddenly conscious of a change in the portrait basil had painted of him. the expression is different, and there are lines of cruelty round the mouth, though he can trace no such lines in his own face. "suddenly, there flashed across his mind what he had said in basil hallward's studio the day the picture had been finished.... he had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young and the portrait grow old, that his own beauty might be untarnished and the face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins." he is struck with remorse for his cruelty to sybil, and by the time lord henry comes to see him has determined to atone for it by marrying her, but it is too late. he learns from his friend's lips that sybil has committed suicide in the theatre shortly after he had left her. he spends the evening at the opera with lord henry wotton, and his sister, lady gwendolen. when, next day, he mentions this to basil the latter is horrified, but dorian is perfectly callous and is inclined to be flattered by the fact that the girl should have committed suicide for love of him. basil wishes to look at the picture, which he intends to exhibit in paris, and before which dorian has placed a screen, but the latter will not let him see it, and the former presently goes away greatly puzzled by the refusal. when he is gone dorian sends for a framemaker, and gets him and his assistant to remove the draped picture to a disused room in his house, having previously sent his man out with a note to lord henry in order to get him out of the way. having dismissed the framemaker and his assistant, he carefully locks the door of the room and retains the key. when he comes down, he finds that lord henry has sent him a paper containing an account of the inquest on sybil, and an unhealthy french book which fascinates whilst it repels him, and the influence of which he cannot shake off for years after. time passes, but the hero of the story shows no signs of growing older, nor does he lose his good looks. meanwhile, the most evil rumours as to his mode of life are in circulation. we learn that he is in the habit of frequenting, disguised and under an assumed name, a little ill-famed tavern near the docks, and we are given a long analysis of his mental and spiritual condition, whilst his various idiosyncrasies are carefully recorded, and we are insensibly reminded of the surroundings invented for himself by the hero of huysman's "a rebours." all the while, the picture remains hidden away, a very skeleton in the cupboard. dorian gray is nearly blackballed for a west end club, society looks askance at him, and there are all sorts of ugly rumours current as to his doings and movements. one night he meets hallward, who wants to talk to him about his mode of life. the painter enumerates all the scandalous stories he has heard about him; he ends up by expressing a doubt whether he really knows his friend. to do so, he says, he should have to see his soul. "you shall see it yourself to-night," dorian exclaims, "it is your handiwork," and, holding a lamp, he takes him up to the locked room, and removes the drapery from the picture. an exclamation of horror breaks from the painter as he perceives the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him. it fills him with loathing and disgust, and he has difficulty in believing it to be his own work. dorian is seized with an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for his friend, and, seizing a knife lying on a chest, stabs him in the neck and kills him. after the murder he locks the door, and goes quietly downstairs. he slips out into the street closing the front door very gently, and rings the bell. when his valet opens it he explains that he had left his latchkey indoors, and casually inquires the time, which the man informs him is ten minutes past two. the next day dorian sends for a former friend of his, alan campbell, whose hobby is chemistry, and after telling him of the murder, begs him by some chemical process to destroy the body. alan refuses to help him. dorian then writes something upon a piece of paper and gives it to the other to read. alan is terror-struck and consents to do what is required of him, though reluctantly. when later, provided with the necessary chemicals, they enter the locked room, dorian perceives that the hands of the picture are stained with blood. he dines out that night, and when he returns home he provides himself with some opium paste he keeps locked up in a secret drawer, and having dressed himself in rough garments makes his way to the docks. he enters an opium den, but the presence of a man who owes his downfall to him irritates him, and he decides to go to another. a woman greets him with the title "prince charming" (the name sybil had given him), and on hearing it a sailor gets up from his seat and follows him. in a dim archway he feels himself seized by the throat and sees a revolver pointed at his head. briefly, his assailant tells him that he is sybil's brother, and that he means to avenge his sister's death. a sudden inspiration comes to dorian and he inquires of the man how long it is since his sister died. "eighteen years," is the answer, and gray triumphantly exclaims "look at my face." he is dragged under a lamp, and at sight of the youthful face sybil's brother is convinced that he has made a mistake. hardly has dorian gone, when the woman who had called him prince charming comes up, and from her the sailor learns that in eighteen years dorian has not altered. dorian goes down to his country house, where he entertains a large party of guests, though all the while he lives in deadly terror lest sybil's brother should trace him. during a _battue_ a man is accidentally shot by one of dorian's guests. it is at first thought that the victim of the accident is one of the beaters but it turns out to be a stranger, a seafaring man presumably. dorian goes to look at the body, and to his intense relief finds that the dead man is his assailant of some nights back. back in london one night dorian gray determines that he will reform, and, curious to see whether his good resolutions have had any effect on the portrait, he goes up to look at it. no, it still bears the same repulsive look, and in a rage he stabs at it with the knife with which he had murdered basil. a loud agonised cry rings through the house, and when the servants at last make their way into the room they find hanging upon the wall a splendid portrait of their master as they had last seen him, while lying on the floor with a knife through his heart was a dead man "withered, wrinkled, and loathsome of visage," whom they could only identify by the rings on his fingers. such, shorn of all its brilliant dialogue and exquisite descriptive passages, is the story of "the portrait of dorian gray," in its bald outlines. as an imaginative work it must rank high, and in spite of the fantastic character of the plot and its inherent improbability, it exercises a weird fascination over us as we read. that its author (more even in the treatment than in the plot) was inspired by balzac's incomparable "peau de chagrin" is beyond question. in the one story we have a man purchasing a piece of shagreen skin inscribed with sanskrit characters which, as each of its possessor's desires are gratified, by its shrinkage marks a diminution in the span of his life. in the other, whilst the original man remains outwardly unchanged, his portrait ages with the years and reveals in its features all the passions and sins that gradually transform his nature. in both cases the story ends in tragedy. the colouring of the tale is one of its most remarkable features. in passages of rare beauty oscar wilde gives us descriptions of jewels and perfumes, rare tapestries and quaint musical instruments. the catalogue of the jewels as set out by him deserves to be quoted for the marvellous knowledge of precious stones it reveals as well as for the exquisite description of them. "he would often spend a whole day settling and resettling in the cases the various stones that he had collected, such as the olive-green chrysoberyl that turns red by lamplight, the cymophane with its wirelike line of silver, the pistachio-coloured peridot, rose-pink and wine-yellow topazes, carbuncles of fiery scarlet with tremulous four-rayed stars, flame-red cinnamon stones, orange and violet spinels, and amethysts with the alternate layers of ruby and sapphire. he loved the red-gold of the sunstone, and the moonstone's pearly whiteness, and the broken rainbow of the milky opal. he procured from amsterdam three emeralds of extraordinary size and richness of colour, and had a turquoise _de la vicille roche_ that was the envy of all connoisseurs." it may here be pointed out, though the fact is not generally known, that wilde's knowledge of tapestry which, at first sight, seems so profound, was obtained from lefebure's "history of embroidery and lace," a book which he had reviewed in an article having for title "a fascinating book." it is interesting to compare an extract from that article with a passage from the review under discussion: "where was the great crocus-coloured robe, on which the gods fought against the giants, that had been worked for athena? where the huge velarium that nero had stretched across the colosseum at rome, on which were represented the starry sky, and apollo driving a chariot drawn by white gilt-reined steeds? he longed to see the curious table-napkins wrought for elagabalus, on which were displayed all the dainties and viands that could be wanted for a feast; the mortuary cloth of king chilperic, with its three hundred golden bees; the fantastic robes that excited the indignation of the bishop of pontus, and were figured with 'lions, panthers, bears, dogs, forests, rocks, hunters,--all, in fact, that a painter can copy from nature'; and the coat that charles of orleans once wore, on the sleeves of which were embroidered the verses of a song beginning '_madame je suis tout joyeux_,' the musical accompaniment of the words being wrought in gold thread, and each note, of square shape in those days, formed with four pearls. he read of the room that was prepared at the palace at rheims for the use of queen joan of burgundy, and was decorated with 'thirteen hundred and twenty-one parrots, made in broidery, and blazoned with the king's arms and five hundred and sixty-one butterflies, whose wings were similarly ornamented with the arms of the queen, the whole worked in gold.' catherine de medicis had a mourning-bed made for her of black velvet powdered with crescents and suns. its curtains were of damask, with leafy wreaths and garlands, figured upon a gold and silver ground, and fringed along the edges with broideries of pearls, and it stood in a room hung with rows of the queen's devices in cut black velvet upon cloth of silver. louis xiv. had gold-embroidered caryatides fifteen feet high in his apartment. the state bed of sobieski, king of poland, was made of smyrna gold brocade embroidered in turquoises with verses from the koran. its supports were of silver gilt, beautifully chased, and profusely set with enamelled and jewelled medallions. it had been taken from the turkish camp before vienna, and the standard of mohammed had stood under it." "where is the great crocus-coloured robe that was wrought for athena, and on which the gods fought against the giants? where is the huge velarium that nero stretched across the colosseum at rome, on which was represented the starry sky, and apollo driving a chariot drawn by steeds? how one would like to see the curious table-napkins wrought for heliogabalus, on which were displayed all the dainties and viands that could be wanted for a feast; or the mortuary cloth of king chilperic, with its three hundred golden bees; or the fantastic robes that excited the indignation of the bishop of pontus, and were embroidered with 'lions, panthers, bears, dogs, forests, rocks, hunters--all, in fact, that painters can copy from nature.' charles of orleans had a coat, on the sleeves of which were embroidered the verses of a song, beginning 'madame, je suis tout joyeux,' the musical accompaniment of the words being wrought in gold thread, and each note (of square shape in those days) formed with four pearls. the room prepared in the palace at rheims for the use of queen joan of burgundy was decorated with 'thirteen hundred and twenty-one _papegauts_ (parrots) made in broidery and blazoned with the king's arms, and five hundred and sixty-one butterflies, whose wings were similarly ornamented with the queen's arms--the whole worked in fine gold.' catherine de medicis had a mourning-bed made for her 'of black velvet embroidered with pearls and powdered with crescents and suns.' its curtains were of damask, 'with leafy wreaths and garlands figured upon a gold and silver ground, and fringed along the edges with broideries of pearls,' and it stood in a room hung with rows of the queen's devices in cut black velvet on cloth of silver. louis xiv. had gold-embroidered caryatides fifteen feet high in his apartments. the state bed of sobieski, king of poland, was made of smyrna gold brocade embroidered in turquoises and pearls, with verses from the koran; its supports were of silver-gilt, beautifully chased and profusely set with enamelled and jewelled medallions. he had taken it from the turkish camp before vienna, and the standard of mahomet had stood under it." wilde, who at times was extremely indolent, had an amiable weakness for using the material at hand, and throughout his writings we find whole lines of verse and prose sentences reappearing in work produced at another period. it is the same with the epigrams in "dorian gray," most of which were subsequently transferred, bodily, to his plays. during his travels in italy, as i have already pointed out, he had been enormously impressed by the stately ceremonials of the catholic church, and in this book he uses his opportunity of introducing the ornate and sumptuous vestments worn at her services. dorian gray, he tells us, "had a special passion also for ecclesiastical vestments, as indeed he had for everything connected with the service of the church. in the long cedar chests that lined the west gallery of his house he had stored away many rare and beautiful specimens of what is really the raiment of the bride of christ, who must wear purples and jewels and fine linen that she may hide the pallid macerated body that is worn by the suffering that she seeks for, and wounded by self-inflicted pain. he had a gorgeous cope of crimson silk and gold-thread damask, figured with a repeating pattern of golden pomegranates set in six-petalled formal blossoms, beyond which on either side was the pineapple device wrought in seed-pearls. the orphreys were divided into panels representing scenes from the life of the virgin, and the coronation of the virgin was figured in coloured silks upon the hood. this was italian work of the fifteenth century. another cope was of green velvet, embroidered with heart-shaped groups of acanthus-leaves, from which spread long-stemmed white blossoms, the details of which were picked out with silver thread and coloured crystals. the morse bore a seraph's head in gold-thread raised work. the orphreys were woven in a diaper of red and gold silk, and were starred with medallions of many saints and martyrs, among whom was st sebastian. he had chasubles, also, of amber-coloured silk, and blue silk and gold brocades, and yellow silk damask and cloth of gold, figured with representation of the passion and crucifixion of christ, and embroidered with lions and peacocks and other emblems; dalmatics of white satin and pink silk damask, decorated with tulips and dolphins and _fleurs de lys_; altar frontals of crimson velvet and blue linen; and many corporals, chalice-veils, and sudaria." it may also be noted here that a couple of chapters, those dealing with sybil's home and the death of her brother, were not written till the story appeared in book form, and a certain extra number of words were required to make the volume of the requisite bulk; so must writers submit to the inexorable demands of publishers who measure work not by its merit but by a footrule. the dialogue throughout the tale sparkles with brilliant epigrams, and this is all the more notable when we remember that the story was written in a hurry, when the author was hard pressed for money, is more or less a piece of hack work, and that whole pages were written in at the behest of the publisher, who, like a customer at the baker's demanding the make-weight which the law allows him, was clamouring for more "copy." nothing could be more felicitous than "young people imagine that money is everything ... and when they grow older they know it"; and, "to be good is to be in harmony with oneself." and characteristic of that epicurean pose that the author delighted in is the paradoxical dictum that "a cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. it is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied." likewise essentially characteristic of the man and his extraordinary, topsy-turvy views of life is, "there is a fatality about good resolutions--that they are always made too late," or "good resolutions are useless attempts to interfere with scientific laws. they are simply cheques that men draw on a bank where they have no account." some of the epigrams are as biting as a _saturday review_ article, in the old days, as for instance, this description of a certain frail dame--"she is still _decolletée_, and when she is in a very smart gown she looks like an _edition de luxe_ of a bad french novel." could anything be more pithy or more brilliantly sarcastic? it is of this same lady that the remark is made, "when her third husband died, her hair turned quite golden from grief." but one could go on for ever, and i have quoted enough to illustrate the wittiness of the dialogue, and, as the author himself lays down, "enough is as good as a meal." and there, by the way, we have an illustration of how cleverly wilde could transform the commonest saws by the alteration or the transposition of a word, even sometimes by the inversion of a sentence into what, at the first flush, appeared to be highly original and brilliant sayings. by the substitution of the word "meal" for "feast" we fail to recognise the old homely saying, and are ready, until we consider it more closely, to receive it as a new and witty idea neatly embodied. it is a _truc de métier_, but one that requires a clever workman to use properly, as anyone can make sure of by glancing through the bungling work of the majority of his imitators. in "dorian gray," wilde gives free play to his ever-present longing to utter the _dernier cri_, to avoid all that was _vieux jeu_, and to fill with horror and amazement the souls of the stodgy _bourgeoisie_. that he succeeded in doing so merely proves that the _bourgeoisie_ are stodgy, not that the author has erred from the canons of art and good taste. his short stories are all written in a lighter vein--we peruse them as we eat a plover's egg, and with the same relish and appreciation. they are things of gossamer, but gossamer will oft survive more solid material, and has the supreme quality of delicacy. "lord arthur savile's crime" deals with that nobleman's anxiety to commit the murder a cheiromantist has predicted he will perpetrate, and to get the matter over before he marries the girl to whom he is engaged. his two successive failures and his final drowning of the hand-reading fortune-teller is conceived in the best spirit of comedy, and provokes a gentle continuous ripple of amusement as we read it. the same may be said of "the sphinx without a secret," and "the canterville ghost," whereas the "model millionaire" is simply a pretty story wittily told. the whole plot is summed up in its concluding lines "millionaire models are rare enough ... but model millionaires are rarer still." but, incomparably, wilde's best work in fiction is the "portrait of mr w. h." as the _blackwood_ article is headed. after reading it our regret becomes all the more poignant that the complete ms. of the book should have so unaccountably disappeared. correctly speaking, the story is hardly a work of fiction, or, at anyrate, the fiction is so slight as to be hardly deserving of criticism, and is a mere medium for the exposition of a theory. the teller of the story is in a friend's rooms, and the talk drifts on to literary forgeries. the friend (erskine) shows him a portrait-panel of a young man in late sixteenth-century costume, and proceeds to tell him his story. a young friend of his had discovered what he considered a clue to the identity of the mr w. h. of shakespeare's sonnets, the only hitch being the difficulty of proving that the young actor to whom he asserted his poems were written, ever existed. he shortly afterwards produced a panel-portrait of the young man which he had, as he alleged, discovered clamped to the inside of an old chest picked up by him at a warwickshire farmhouse. this final proof quite convinced erskine of the genuineness of the discovery, and it was not till an accidental visit to a friend's studio that the fact of the panel being a forgery was revealed to him. he taxes the discoverer of the clue with it and the latter commits suicide. the writer of the story is so impressed with the various proofs that erskine has laid before him that, in spite of that latter's utter scepticism as to the existence of any such person as the dead man evolved from the sonnets themselves, he completes the researches on his own account. but the moment he has sent off a detailed account of the result of his investigations to erskine, he himself is filled with an utter disbelief in the accuracy of the conclusions derived from them. erskine, on the other hand, is once more converted by his letter to his dead friend's theory. two years later the writer receives a letter from erskine written from cannes stating that, like the discoverer of the clue, he has committed suicide for the sake of a theory which he leaves to his friend as a sacred legacy stained with the blood of two lives. the writer rushes off to the riviera only to find his friend dead, and to receive from his mother the ill-starred panel. the story ends with a true wilde touch, for in a conversation with the doctor who had attended him, he learns that erskine had died of consumption and had never committed suicide at all. so much for the setting, which is quite unimportant. the real matter of moment is, that the _blackwood_ article is a really very valuable contribution to the controversy as to the identity of the mysterious mr w. h. it will be remembered that the sonnets were first issued in book form in 1609, by a sort of piratical bookseller of those days, called thames thorpe who, on his own responsibility, prefixed the edition with a dedication--"to the only-begotten of these insuing sonnets, mr w. h., all happinesse and that eternite promised by our ever living poet wisheth the well wishing adventurer in setting forth. t. t." round the identity of this w. h. there has long raged an ardent controversy. most of the commentators have rushed to the conclusion that he must be the person to whom the sonnets are addressed. some have attempted to identify him as henry wriothesley, earl of southampton (the initials being reversed), who is known to have been an early patron of the poet, others without much apparent reason have assumed that the w. h. in question was none other than william herbert, earl of pembroke. the most probable theory is undoubtedly that of mr henry lee, that the dedication is entirely thorpe's own, that it has nothing whatever to do with shakespeare or the inspirer of the poet, and that it was meant for william hall, a sort of literary intermediary. in confirmation of this he adduces the undoubted fact that thorpe had, at anyrate, once previously dedicated a work to its "begotten." one point is established almost beyond dispute--viz. that the first 126 sonnets are addressed to a young man and the remainder refer to a "dark woman" who, after having bewitched the author, casts her spell over his young friend and estranges the two. a counter-theory is that shakespeare's selection of the sonnet, "that puling, petrifying, stupidly platonic composition," as byron calls it, as a medium for his muse, is that he was experimenting in the style of writing which had become the fashion in england between the years 1591 and 1597. wilde's history is a totally new one, and deserves close examination. given that it could be proved that the young actor to whom he maintains the sonnets were addressed ever had a real existence, and the matter would be as good as proved, but that is the weak point in his armour. mayhap some enthusiast may, by digging amongst old deeds and papers, light upon some reference to him, but until then his hypothesis can be only regarded as an ingenious, though highly interesting speculation. parenthetically it may be mentioned, although the fact is only known to very few, that an artist friend of oscar wilde, whose work is the admiration of all connoisseurs, had, under his direction, painted exactly such a panel-portrait as described, employing all the arts of the forger of antiquities in its production, and that a young poet whose recently published volume of verse had caused considerable sensation in literary circles had sat for the likeness. the points wilde advances in confirmation of his theory are as follows:- 1. that the young man to whom shakespeare addresses sonnets must have been someone who was really a vital factor in the development of his dramatic art, and that this could not be said of either lord pembroke or lord southampton. 2. that the sonnets, as we learn from meres, were written before 1598 and that his friendship with w. h. had already lasted three years when sonnet civ. was written, which would fix the date of its commencement as 1594, or at latest 1595, that lord pembroke was born in 1580 and did not come to london till he was eighteen (_i.e._ 1598) so that shakespeare could not have met him till after the sonnet had been written; and that pembroke's father did not die till 1601, whereas w. h.'s father was dead in 1598, as is proved by the line- "you had a father, let your son say so." 3. that lord southampton had early in life become the lover of elizabeth vernon, so required no urging to enter the state of matrimony, that he was not dowered with good looks, and that he did not remember his mother as w. h. did. (thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee calls back the lovely april of her prime), and moreover that his christian name being henry he could not be the will to whom the punning sonnets (cxxxv. and cxliii.) are addressed. 4. that w. h. is none other than the boy actor for whom shakespeare created the parts of viola, imogen, juliet, rosalind, portia, desdemona and cleopatra. 5. that the boy's name was hughes. these points he proves from the sonnets themselves. as regards no. 1 he writes: "to look upon him as simply the object of certain love poems is to miss the whole meaning of the poems; for the art of which shakespeare talks in the sonnets is not the art of the sonnets themselves, which indeed were to him but slight and secret things, it is the art of the dramatist to which he is always alluding. he proceeds to quote the lines: "thou art all my art and dost advance as high as learning my rude ignorance." 2 and 3 effectually dispose of the pretensions of pembroke and surrey. 4. the theory of the very actor he praises by the fine sonnet:- "'how can my muse want subject to invent, while thou dost breathe, thou pour'st into my verse thine own sweet argument, too excellent for every vulgar paper to rehearse? o, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me worthy perusal stand against thy sight: for who's so dumb that cannot write to thee, when thou thyself dost give invention light? be thou the tenth muse, ten times more in worth than those old nine, which rhymers invocate; and he that calls on thee, let him bring forth eternal numbers to outlive long date.'" the name of the boy he discovers in the eighth line of the 20th sonnet, where w. h. is punningly described as- "_a man in hew, all hews in his contrawling_," and draws attention to the fact that "in the original edition of the sonnets 'hews' is printed with a capital h and in italics," and draws corroboration from "these sonnets in which curious puns are made on the words 'use' and 'usury.'" another point he touches on is that will hughes abandoned shakespeare's company to enter the service of chapman, or more probably of marlowe. he proves this from the lines- "but when your countenance filled up his line then lack i matter; that enfeebled mine"-as also "whilst i alone did call upon thy aid my verse alone had all thy gentle grace, but now my gracious numbers are decayed, and my sick nurse does give another place"; and further by "every alien pen has got my use and under thee their poesy disperse," and draws attention to the "obvious" play upon words (use = hughes). such in brief are the salient points of his argument, the limitations of space precluding me from amplifying the subject, but i strongly advise all those interested in the subject to read the whole article for themselves. it is undoubtedly one of the cleverest things wilde ever did, and as a contribution to controversial english literature no student of letters can afford to overlook it. some day perhaps the manuscript of the book will be discovered--in the library of a transatlantic millionaire maybe--and the author's more matured and expansive investigations be given to the world. may that day come soon! part vii the philosophy of beauty the philosophy of beauty the greatest claim that wilde made for himself was that he was a high priest of æsthetics, that he had a new message concerning the relations of beauty and the worship of beauty to life and art, to life and to morals to give to the world. this claim was one in which to the last he pathetically believed. he was absolutely certain in his own mind that this was his vocation. he elaborated a sort of philosophy of beauty which not only pleased and satisfied himself, but found very many adherents, and became the dogma of a school. even in this last work, "de profundis," written in the middle of his degradation and misery, he still believes that it is by art that he will be able to regenerate his spirit. he said that he would do such work in the future, would build beautiful things out of his sufferings, that he might cry in triumph--"yes! this is just where the artistic life leads a man." we all know where the artistic life did lead oscar wilde upon his release from prison. it led him to an obscure quarter of paris where he dragged out the short remainder of an unhappy life, having written nothing save "the ballad of reading gaol," and becoming more and more lost to finer aspirations. yet, nevertheless, this æsthetic philosophy of wilde's forms one of the most important parts of his writings, and of his attitude towards life. it must, therefore, be carefully considered in any study of the man and his work. first of all, let us inquire, what are æsthetics? do not let anyone who has not given his attention to the subject imagine that the "æstheticism," which became known as the hallmark of a band of people led by oscar wilde who committed many whimsical extravagances, and who were caricatured in mr gilbert's "patience," has any relation whatever to the science of æsthetics. even to oscar wilde æstheticism, as it has been popularly called, was only the beginning of an æsthetic philosophy which he summed up finally much later in "intentions," the "poems in prose," and "the soul of man under socialism." by æsthetics is meant a theory of the beautiful as exhibited in works of art. that is to say, æsthetics considered on its objective side has to investigate, first, a function of art in general as expressing the beautiful, and then the nature of the beauty thus expressed. secondly, the special functions of the several arts are investigated by æsthetics and the special aspects of the beautiful with which they are severally concerned. it, therefore, follows that æsthetics has to discuss such topics as the relation of art to nature and life, the distinction of art from nature, the relation of natural to artistic beauty, the conditions and nature of beauty in a work of art, and especially the distinction of beauty from truth, from utility, and from moral goodness. æsthetics is, therefore, not art criticism. art criticism deals with this or that particular work or type of art, while the æsthetic theory seeks to formulate the mere abstract and fundamental conceptions, distinctions, and principles which underlie artistic criticism, and alone make it possible. art criticism is the link between æsthetic science and the ordinary intelligent appreciation of a work of art by an ordinary intelligence. much more may be said in defining the functions of æsthetics, but this is sufficient before we begin to examine wilde's own æsthetic theories. his ideas were promulgated in the three works mentioned above, and also given to the world in lectures which he delivered at various times. it is true, as mr arthur symons very clearly pointed out some years ago, that oscar wilde wrote much that was true, new, and valuable about art and the artist. but in everything that he wrote he wrote from the outside. he said nothing which had not been said before him, or which was not the mere wilful contrary of what had been said before him. indeed, it is not too much to say that oscar wilde never saw the full face of beauty. he saw it always in profile, always in a limited way. the pretence of strict logic in wilde's writing on "artistic philosophy" is only a pretence, and severe and steady thinkers recognise the fallacy. let us examine oscar wilde's æsthetic teaching. in one of his lectures given in america he said- "and now i would point out to you the operation of the artistic spirit in the choice of subject. like the philosopher of the platonic vision, the poet is the spectator of all time and all existence. for him no form is obsolete, no subject out of date; rather, whatever of life and passion the world has known in the desert of judea or in arcadian valley, by the ruins of troy or damascus, in the crowded and hideous streets of the modern city, or by the pleasant ways of camelot, all lies before him like an open scroll, all is still instinct with beautiful life. he will take of it what is salutary for his own spirit, choosing some facts and rejecting others, with the calm artistic control of one who is in possession of the secret of beauty. it is to no avail that the muse of poetry be called even by such a clarion note as whitman's to migrate from greece and ionia and to placard 'removed' and 'to let' on the rocks of the snowy parnassus. for art, to quote a noble passage of mr swinburne's, is very life itself and knows nothing of death. and so it comes that he who seems to stand most remote from his age is he who mirrors it best, because he has stripped life of that mist of familiarity, which, as shelley used to say, makes life obscure to us. "whatever spiritual message an artist brings to his age, it is for us to do naught but accept his teaching. you have most of you seen probably that great masterpiece of rubens which hangs in the gallery of brussels, that swift and wonderful pageant of horse and rider, arrested in its most exquisite and fiery moment, when the winds are caught in crimson banner and the air is lit by the gleam of armour and the flash of plume. well, that is joy in art, though that golden hillside be trodden by the wounded feet of christ; and it is for the death of the son of man that that gorgeous cavalcade is passing. "in the primary aspect a painting has no more spiritual message than an exquisite fragment of venetian glass. the channels by which all noble and imaginative work in painting should touch the soul are not those of the truths of lives. this should be done by a certain inventive and creative handling entirely independent of anything definitely poetical in the subject, something entirely satisfying in itself, which is, as the greeks would say, in itself an end. so the joy of poetry comes never from the subject, but from an inventive handling of rhythmical language." and further he said that "in nations as in individuals, if the passion for creation be not accompanied by the critical, the æsthetic faculty also, it will be sure to waste its strength. it is not an increased moral sense or moral supervision that your literature needs. indeed one should never talk of a moral or immoral poem. poems are either well written or badly written; that is all. any element of morals or implied reference to a standard of good and evil in art is often a sign of a certain incompleteness of vision. all good work aims at a purely artistic effect." in "intentions" he enunciated serious problems which seemed constantly to contradict themselves, and he causes ourselves to ask questions which only bewilder and astonish. to sum up all the æsthetic teaching of the author it amounts simply and solely to the aphorism that there must be a permanent divorce between art and morals. "all art," he says, "is immoral." some people have taken the view that oscar wilde in his philosophy of beauty was never quite sincere. he did not write for philistines with his heart in his mouth, but merely with his tongue in his cheek. i remember mr richard le gallienne once said that in "intentions" wilde's worship of beauty, which had made a latter-day myth of him before his time, was overlaid by his gift of comic perception, and, rightly viewed, all his flute-tone periods were written in the service of the comic muse. when he was not of malice aforethought humorous in those parts of the work where he seems to be arguing with a serious face enough, it is implied that he did so simply that he might smile behind his mask at the astonishment of a public he had from the first so delighted in shocking--that he had a passion for being called "dangerous," just as one type of man likes to be called "fast" and a "rake." this is, of course, one point of view, but it is not one with which i am in agreement. wilde laid such enormous stress upon the sensuous side of art, and never realised that this is but an exterior aspect which is impossible and could not exist without a spiritual interior, an informing soul. with all his brilliancy the author of "intentions" only saw a mere fragment of his subject. it may be that he wilfully shut his eyes to the truth. it is more likely that he was incapable of realising the truth as a whole, and that what he wrote he wrote with absolute sincerity. it has been said that the artist sees farther than morality. this is a dangerous doctrine for the artist himself to believe, but it has some truth in it. in oscar wilde's case, in pursuing the ideal of beauty he may have seen "farther than morality," but blind of one eye he missed morality upon the way and did not realise that she was ever there. it is the fashion nowadays among a certain set of writers, who form the remainder of the band of "æsthetes" who followed wilde in his teachings, to decry ruskin, though, in the beginning of wilde's "æsthetic" movement, wilde was an ardent pupil of this great master of english prose. we do not now accept ruskin's artistic criticisms as adequate to our modern needs. much water has flowed under the bridge since the days when ruskin wrote, and his peculiar temperament, while appreciating much that was beautiful and worthy to be appreciated, was at the same time blind to much that is beautiful and worthy to be appreciated. ruskin's criticism on the painting of whistler would not be substantiated by a single writer of to-day. at the same time, all ruskin's philosophy of art--that is to say, æsthetics--is as true now as it ever was. ruskin showed, as the experience of life and art has shown and always will show--show more poignantly and particularly in the case of oscar wilde than in any other--that art and morality cannot be divorced, and that if all art is immoral, then art ceases to exist. "i press to the conclusion," he said, at the end of his famous lecture on the relation of art to morals, "which i wish to leave with you, that all you can rightly do, or honourably become, depends on the government of these two instincts of order and kindness, by this great imaginative faculty, which give you inheritance of the past, grasp of the present, authority over the future. map out the spaces of your possible lives by its help; measure the range of their possible agency! on the walls and towers of this your fair city, there is not an ornament of which the first origin may not be traced back to the thoughts of men who died two thousand years ago. whom will _you_ be governing by your thoughts, two thousand years hence? think of it, and you will find that so far from art being immoral, little else except art is moral; that life without industry is guilt, and industry without art is brutality: and for the words 'good' and 'wicked,' used of men, you may almost substitute the words 'makers' and 'destroyers.' far the greater part of the seeming prosperity of the world is, so far as our present knowledge extends, vain: wholly useless for any kind of good, but having assigned to it a certain inevitable sequence of destruction and of sorrow. its stress is only the stress of wandering storm; its beauty the hectic of plague: and what is called the history of mankind is too often the record of the whirlwind, and the map of the spreading of the leprosy. but underneath all that, or in narrow spaces of dominion in the midst of it, the work of every man, _qui non accepit in vanitatem animan suam_, endures and prospers; a small remnant or green bud of it prevailing at last over evil. and though faint with sickness, and encumbered in ruin, the true workers redeem inch by inch the wilderness into garden ground; by the help of their joined hands the order of all things is surely sustained and vitally expanded, and although with strange vacillation, in the eyes of the watcher, the morning cometh, and also the night, there is no hour of human existence that does not draw on towards the perfect day." for our own part let us examine a little into the relation between art and morality for ourselves. when we hear it asserted that morality has nothing to do with art and that moral considerations are quite beside the mark in æsthetic criticism and judgment, such a statement is simply equivalent to saying that actual life has nothing to do with art. the main demand that we can make from art of all kinds is the demand of truth. truth is beauty, and beauty is truth. by truth in this connection we mean that higher and more ideal truth which is inherent in the realities of things and contained by them, but which is brought out, explained, made credible, and visible by the artist in this or that sphere of art, and through the process of his art purified from the accidental obscurities which cloud it and hide it in the realm of actual life. if we are to demand truth from the artist, and let us always remember, as keats realised so strongly, that in demanding truth we demand beauty also, we must insist that the artist must give us nothing in which a false psychology obtains, must, for example, paint no passions that do not occur in actual life. it is, therefore, equally necessary, on a logical conclusion, that when the subject of a work of art requires it, the moral should be represented as it really is--that is, according to its truth--and that the moral law should not be misrepresented. if we require of the artist that he should give a vivid representation of the illusions of human life, of the struggles and rivalries of men for objects and ends of imaginary value, we must equally demand of the artist that he should know and be capable of describing that which alone has true and absolute value in human life. surely it is a truism that every drama from beginning to end contains a moral. it is a lie that art is immoral or can by its very nature ever be so. to say so, to pretend that art has a separate existence, is to say something which even the most brilliant paradox cannot prove and which immediately suggests to the mind of the thinking man an apologia or reason for licence of personal conduct. as a great german writer on æsthetics and the relation to the ethics has said, all human actions do of necessity presuppose a norm, a rule to which they conform, or from which they depart; and there is nothing which can be represented, whether as criminal or as ridiculous, or as an object of irony, otherwise than under this assumption. hence every artist enforces some kind of morality, and morality accordingly becomes of chief moment for æsthetic judgment. aristotle himself, from whom oscar wilde frequently quotes, and incidentally from whose poetics he attempts, by means of brilliant paradox, to infer an attitude which is not really there, has pointed out that art is a means of purification. if the morality of a work of art is false and wrong, if the artist is either ignorant of the subject with which he deals or deliberately misrepresents the morality of it, then his work is viewed merely as a work of art--and therefore as a thing whole and complete in itself--is a failure in art. in many respects it may have æsthetic excellence, but as a complete thing, as a work of art, it must inevitably fail. sibbern in his "æsthetik" tells us very sanely and wisely that art need not be limited by choice of subject, but depends for its artistic qualities upon the attitude of the artist in dealing with it. that art must not be limited by choice of subject is a great point of oscar wilde's own philosophy, and here he is perfectly sound. but he goes further in his paradoxical view, and shows that the artist must hold no brief for either good or evil, and that the excellence of a work of art depends entirely upon the skill of presentation. the german student, on the contrary, writes: "there are dramas in which the moral element is not brought into special prominence, but just hovers above the surface, and which yet have their poetic value. what must, however, be absolutely insisted on is, that the artistic treatment should never insult morality. we do not mean that art must not represent the immoral as well as the moral, for this is, on the contrary, indispensable, if art is truly to reflect life as it is. but immorality must not infect and be inherent in that view of life and those opinions which the poet desires by his work to promulgate; for then he would injure morality, and violate that moral ideal to which all human life, and therefore art itself, must be subordinated. plays and novels which depict virtue as that mere conventionality and philistinism which is but an object of ridicule, or which hold up to our admiration false and antinomian ideals of virtue, representing _e.g._, the sentimentality of a so-called good heart as sufficient to justify the most scandalous moral delinquencies or 'free genius' as privileged to sin, which paint vice in attractive and seductive colours, portraying adultery and other transgressions as very pardonable, and, under certain circumstances, amiable weaknesses, and which by means of such delineations bestow absolution on the public for sins daily occurring in actual life--such plays and novels are unworthy of art, and are as poison to the whole community. "equally with all untruth must all impurity be excluded from art. purity and chastity are requirements resulting from the very nature of art. but it is just because art is so closely connected with sensuousness, that there is such obvious temptation to present the sensuous in false independence, to call forth the mere gratification of the senses. the sensuous must, however, be always subordinated to the intellectual, for this is involved in the demand for _ideality_, in other words, for that impress of perfection given by the idea and the mind in every artistic representation. and even if æsthetic ideality is present in a work of art, it must be subordinated to ethic ideality, to the moral purity in the artist's mind, a purity diffused throughout the whole." enough has been said and quoted to prove to all those who believe that art, while it is the chief regenerative force in life, cannot possibly be dissociated from morals, that wilde's view of art in its relation to morals is entirely unsound and dangerous to the half-educated and those who do not know how the greatest brains of the world have regarded this question. it is not necessary to continue or to pile proof upon proof, easy though this would be. from the people who have a little culture, imagine they have much more, and are dazzled by the splendour and beauty of wilde's execution, it will be idle to expect an assent. those who believe in art for art's sake as an infallible doctrine, may be divided into three classes. first of all there are the very young, whose experience of life has not taught them the truth. they have not seen or known life as a whole, and, therefore, no sound ethical view can possibly disabuse them of the heresy. there are those again, older and more mature, who have not made experience of life in its harsher and sadder aspects sufficient to wean them from wilde's theory, in which they are interested from a purely academic point of view. and there is another class who are convinced secretly in their own hearts that art for art's sake is an untenable doctrine, but know that if they accepted it they would have to give up much which they are unable to do without and which makes life pleasant and dulls the conscience. it is more satisfactory to turn to the consideration of "intentions," and pay an enthusiastic and reverential meed of praise to this perfection of art. marred here and there perhaps by over-elaboration and ornament, the book nevertheless remains a masterpiece. in its highest expression, where paradox and point of view were not insisted on, where pure lyric narrative fills the page, i know of nothing more lovely. "lovely" may be an exaggerated word, yet i think that it is almost the only word which can be applied in this connection. let me give, as an example, a few lines from the marvellous and inspired pages which treat of the divine comedy of dante. would that i could quote the whole of the supreme and splendid passages! that is impossible. but listen at least to these few lines. the poet is describing his spiritual experiences while reading the mighty harmonies of the florentine: "on and on we go climbing the marvellous stair, and the stars become larger than their wont, and the song of the kings grows faint, and at length we reach the seven trees of gold and the garden of the earthly paradise. in a griffin-drawn chariot appears one whose brows are bound with olive, who is veiled in white, and mantled in green, and robed in a vesture that is coloured like live fire. the ancient flame wakes within us. our blood quickens through terrible pulses. we recognise her. it is beatrice, the woman we have worshipped. the ice congealed about our heart melts. wild tears of anguish break from us, and we bow our forehead to the ground, for we know that we have sinned. when we have done penance, and are purified, and have drunk of the fountain of lethe and bathed in the fountain of eunoe, the mistress of our soul raises us to the paradise of heaven. out of that eternal pearl, the moon, the face of piccarda donati leans to us. her beauty troubles us for a moment, and when, like a thing that falls through water, she passes away, we gaze after her with wistful eyes." do not these words strike almost the highest, purest, and most beautiful note that any writer of prose has struck throughout the centuries. in english, at least, i know of nothing more rapt and ecstatic. it is above criticism and the man who wrote it must for ever wear in our minds one of the supreme laurels that artistic achievement can bestow. one more paragraph will show the author of "intentions" in a different mood, but yet one in which the supreme sense of beauty and of form throbs out upon the page and fills our pulses with that divine and awestruck excitement that great art can give. "... wake from his forgotten tomb the sweet syrian, meleager, and bid the lover of heliodore make you music, for he too has flowers in his song, red pomegranate-blossoms, and irises that smell of myrrh, ringed daffodils and dark blue hyacinths, and marjoram and crinkled ox-eyes. dear to him was the perfume of the beanfield at evening, and dear to him the odorous eared-spikenard that grew on the syrian hills, and the fresh green thyme, the winecup's charm. the feet of his love as she walked in the garden were like lilies set upon lilies. softer than sleep-laden poppy petals were her lips, softer than violets and as scented. the flame-light crocus sprang from the grass to look at her. for her the slim narcissus stored the cool rain; and for her the anemones forgot the sicilian winds that wooed them. and neither crocus, nor anemone, nor narcissus was as fair as she was." if the song of meleager was sweet and if the suns of summer greet the mountain grave of helikê, and the shepherds still repeat their legends where breaks the blue sicilian sea by which theocritus tuned his lyre; if the voice of dante yet rings and sounds in the world-weary ears of mortals of to-day; if "as you like it" has still its appeal to our modern ears as from a woodland full of flutes, then, indeed, this prose of oscar wilde's, so beautiful and so august, will remain with us always as an imperishable treasure of literature and as a lyric in our hearts. "poems in prose" that oscar wilde wrote were published first in _the fortnightly review_, during july, 1894, when mr frank harris was the editor. we must remember the date because it was only a few months before the absolute downfall of the author. in criticising this work of wilde's, we cannot help the reflection that it was written at a time when enormous, sudden, and overwhelming success had thrown him entirely from his mental balance, and had filled him with an even greater egoism than he ordinarily had, at the time these fables, or allegories, let us call them, were produced, oscar wilde was at the very height of his success, and of his almost insane irresponsibility also. that they are beautiful it would be idle to deny. still we have the sure and dexterous pen employed upon them. there is no faltering in phrase, no hesitation of artistry. it is said by many people who heard the poet recite these stories upon social occasions, tell them to please, amuse, or bewilder one of those gatherings in which he was the centre in a constellation, that, spoken, they were far more beautiful than when at length he wrote them down and published them in the review. i can well believe it. on the two occasions when i myself heard oscar wilde talking, i realised how unprecedented his talent for conversation was, and wished that i also could hear him at times when he attempted his highest flights. yet, even as pieces of prose, the title the author chose for them is perfectly justified. they are indeed "poems" in prose and triumphant examples of technical accomplishment and mastery. yet, the condemnation of their teaching can hardly be too severe. with every wish in the world to realise that a paradox is only a truth standing on its head to attract attention, with every desire to give the author his due, no honest man, no christian, no catholic, no protestant, but must turn from these few paragraphs of allegory with sorrow and a sense of something very like shame. and it is for this reason. the poet has dared an attempt of invasion into places where neither he nor any artist has right. with an insane pride he dares to patronise, to limit and to explain the almighty. nowhere in this appreciation have i made a whole-hearted condemnation of anything wilde has written. even at times when i most disagreed with his attitude i have attempted, i hope with humility and sincerity, to present the other side of the shield. here i do not see there is anything to be said in favour of at least two or three of the prose poems--those two or three which give colour to the whole. there is one of them called "the doer of good." it begins in this wise: "it was night time and he was alone, and he saw afar off the walls of a round city and went towards the city." our lord is meant. the allegory goes on to say that when christ came near to the city he heard music and the sounds of happiness and joy. he knocked at the gate and "certain of the gatekeepers opened to him." our lord passes through the beautiful halls of a palace and sees upon a "couch of sea purple" a man bearing all the signs of an ancient greek stupefied by pleasure and by wine. the protagonist asks the man he sees--"why do you live like this?" then wilde's prose goes on to tell how the young man turns and recognises his interlocutor and answers that he was a leper once, that christ had healed him. how else should he live? our lord leaves the palace and walks through the city, and he sees another young man pursuing a harlot, while his eyes are bright with lust. he speaks to the young man and asks him the reason of his way of life, and the young man turns and tells the saviour of mankind that he was once blind and that he had given him sight, and, therefore, at what else could he look? the allegory goes on, but it is not necessary to continue an account of it. all it is necessary and right to say is, that the allegory is blasphemous and horrible--horrible with the insane pride of one who has not realised his imminent fall, who has realised the horror of his mental attitude no less than the life he was proved to have been leading at the time. i have purposely refrained from quotation here. but let it again be said that the artistic presentment of these parables is without flaw. i do not think it would be a kindness to the memory of oscar wilde, nor be doing a service to anyone at all, to continue this ethical criticism of the "poems in prose." let me say only that wilde, in another story, takes a sinner to the judgment seat and introduces god the father into a dialogue in which the sinner silences the almighty by his repartee. all these "poems in prose" are written beautifully, as i have said, but also with an extraordinarily adroit use of actual phrases from the new testament. i will permit myself one quotation before i conclude, which is surely saddening in its significance in the view of after events. and god said to the man: "thy life hath been evil, and the beauty i have shown thou hast sought for, and the good i have hidden thou did'st pass by." it remains to say something about wilde's final essay, entitled "the soul of man," which also appeared in _the fortnightly review_. upon its appearance it was called "the soul of man under socialism," but it has since been republished under the title of "the soul of man." this essay, brilliant in conception, brilliant in execution, has none of the old lyric beauty of phrase. it can in no sense be considered a masterpiece of prose, but only a piece of fine and cultured writing. in it paradox obscures the underlying truth. the very first words strike the old weary note. "the chief advantage that would result from the establishment of socialism is, undoubtedly, the fact that socialism would relieve us from that sordid necessity of living for others, which, in the present condition of things, presses so hardly upon himself and everybody." as far as the prose artist is concerned, the essay has little to recommend it. he was tired, tired out, and had no longer the wish or the stimulus to produce the marvellous and glowing prose to which we have been accustomed in these other statements of the writer's attitude towards art, towards morals and towards beauty. yet, at the same time, the man's love of individualism drove him to write this essay, and at certain points it comes strangely into impact with catholic truth. the more catholic the conception of religion and of art becomes, the more surely the socialistic idea obtains. certainly our lord taught that individual character can only be developed through community. the great socialistic organ of england attempted the value and weight of oscar wilde's defence of socialism in the following words:- "christ taught that individual character could only be developed through community. some say he opposed socialism because, when two young capitalists came to him wrangling about their private property, he ignored them, saying, 'who made me a divider among you?' i suppose these objectors still think that socialism means dividing up. when his enemies were closing in upon him, and his life hung in the balance, a woman came and anointed his feet, and wiped them with her hair, and the good people were shocked, and complained of the waste. might not the ointment have been sold, and the money doled out to the poor? christ defended her generous impulse, and remarked: 'the poor you have always with you. you have plenty of opportunities of helping them. me you have not always.' this is erected into a great pronouncement that we must not attempt to abolish poverty! to such amusing shifts are christian individualists driven! "but our contention is that although christ was not a state socialist, his spirit, embodied in the christian church, inevitably urges men to socialism; that the political development of the catholic faith is along the lines of socialism; and that, as the state captured the church in the past, so now it is the business of the church to recapture the state, and through it to establish god's kingdom on earth." i quote them here in order to show what sympathy the essay awakened, even though that sympathy is utterly alien to the belief of the chronicler. and now let us finally bid farewell to oscar wilde as æsthete, or, rather, as prophet and expounder of the æsthetic. i have placed on record not only my own small opinion of his teachings, but a very solid and weighty consensus of condemnation of his attitude. and i hope, from the purely literary point of view, i have made obeisance and given every credit to one of the greatest literary artists of our time. part viii "de profundis" "de profundis" "i have entered on a performance which is without example, whose accomplishments will have no imitator. i mean to present my fellow-mortals with a man in all the integrity of nature; and this man shall be myself. "i know my heart, and have studied mankind; i am not made like anyone i have been acquainted with, perhaps like no one in existence; if not better, i at least claim originality, and whether nature did wisely in breaking the mould with which she formed me, can only be determined after having read this work. "whenever the last trumpet shall sound, i will present myself before the sovereign judge with this book in my hand, and loudly proclaim, thus have i acted; these were my thoughts; such was i. with equal freedom and veracity have i related what was laudable or wicked, i have concealed no crimes, added no virtues; and if i have sometimes introduced superfluous ornament, it was merely to occupy a void occasioned by defect of memory. i may have supposed that certain, which i only knew to be probable, but have never asserted as truth a conscious falsehood. such as i was, i have declared myself; sometimes vile and despicable, at others, virtuous, generous, and sublime. even as thou hast read my inmost soul, power eternal! assemble round thy throne an innumerable throng of my fellow-mortals, let them listen to my confessions, let them blush at my depravity, let them tremble at my sufferings; let each in his turn expose with equal sincerity the failings, the wanderings of his heart, and, if he dare, aver, _i was better than that man_." these are the first words in that book which it was supposed would always stand as a type of real self-revelation and confession and which now is thought of by all the world as merely a brilliant piece of literature and an amazing tissue of misrepresentations. jean jacques rousseau never gave his real self to the world despite the loud gallic boast of the paragraphs above. did de quincey? did st augustine? did anyone ever tell the truth about himself from the very beginnings of literature? newman's "apologia"; bunyan's "grace abounding"; the journals of wesley; the memoirs of madame de stael de launay; the diary of madame d'arblay; the "ausmeinem leben" of goethe, the "lavengro" of borrow--how much in all these and in the hundred other works of like nature which crowd to the mind, how much is self-deception, how much picturesque fiction? who can say? there is only one way of determining the value of an autobiographical statement--by a comparison of internal evidence with external historic fact. in the case of people whose generation has passed away this task is beset with difficulties, though not impossible. in the case of one who has but recently died, whose friends and contemporaries are living still, about whom documentary and oral evidence abounds, the task is more easy, though still a hard and, possibly, a thankless one. in a consideration and criticism, however, of oscar wilde's greatest work, "de profundis," such an attempt must undoubtedly be made. yet, this question of sincerity or reality is not the only one to be determined, and it will be well, therefore, to treat of "de profundis" with the assistance of a definite plan of criticism. let us then divide this part of the book into several sections. there are, undoubtedly, a great many people who have heard the name of the book and read the extraordinarily copious reviews of it in the public press, but have no further acquaintance with it than just that. it will be necessary, therefore, in the first instance, to give an account of the actual subject-matter in order to make the following criticism intelligible and, it is to be hoped, to induce them to purchase and read this marvellous monograph, which is one of the world's minor masterpieces, for themselves. secondly, a purely literary criticism will not be out of place, a criticism which treats of the book as a consummate work of art and a piece of prose almost unparalleled for its splendour and beauty in modern literature. thirdly, the vexed question of its conscious or unconscious sincerity must be dealt with, while the fourth consideration should surely be devoted to the philosophy and teaching, especially in its regard to the christian faith, which is definitely promulgated within the book. lastly, a few words about its actual legacy to the europe of to-day should conclude this part of the appreciation. * * * * * "de profundis" was published by messrs methuen & company on 23rd february 1905. it was written by oscar wilde when in prison, by special permission of the home secretary. a fuller account of these details will be found in part i. of this book. directly "de profundis" made its appearance the whole press of england, almost without exception, devoted a large space to its consideration. the sensation the book occasioned was extraordinary and almost without parallel in modern times. an enormous controversy arose about it immediately. every possible aspect of the book was canvassed and discussed, and, strange as it may seem, a vast amount of venom and bitterness was mingled with the bulk of eulogy. the student of contemporary literature, or perhaps, in view of what i am going to say, it would be better to call it contemporary book publishing, can find no parallel to the interest and excitement this book occasioned, save only in the case of a very different production called "when it was dark," an over-rated sensational novel by a mr "guy thorne," whose views excited the various religious parties in the church of england to a sort of frenzy for and against them. in pure literature i know of nothing which, upon its appearance, made such an immediate stir as "de profundis." with the various views of various sections of the community, i propose to deal later. with the doubts that were thrown on its authenticity as a genuine prison manuscript i have already dealt. i may here, however, quote a few words of a statement made by the editor of "de profundis," mr robert ross, to a representative of an evening paper. they will explain for the reader all that he will further find necessary to introduce him to the circumstances under which "de profundis" appeared. "my object," he said, "in publishing this book, as i have indicated in the preface and in my letter to _the st james's gazette_, was that mr oscar wilde might come to be regarded as a factor in english literature along with his distinguished contemporaries. the success of 'de profundis' and the reviews lead me to believe that my object has been achieved. "i cannot expect the world to share my admiration of mr oscar wilde as a man of letters, at present, although that admiration is already shared by many distinguished men of letters in england, by the whole of germany, and by a considerable portion of the literary class in france. "with regard to the authenticity of the manuscript, i may say that it was well known that during his incarceration at reading gaol he was granted the privileges of pen and paper, only permitted in exceptional cases, at the instance of influential people not his personal friends. the manuscript of 'de profundis,' about which he wrote to me very often during the last months of his imprisonment, was handed to me on the day of his release. the letters he had written to me in reference to it are published in the german edition of the work, and later on, perhaps, they may appear in england, if i think it desirable to publish them here. "contrary to general belief the manuscript contains nothing of a scandalous nature, and if there was another object in publishing the work it was to remove that false impression which had gained ground. the portions which i have omitted in the english publication, apart from the letters to which i have already referred as appearing in the german edition, are all of a private character. there are one or two unimportant passages which the english publisher--very wisely, i think--deemed unsuitable for immediate reproduction in england. "in germany mr oscar wilde's place in english literature had already been accepted. 'salomé,' for instance, is now part of the repertoire, and strauss, the great musician, is engaged on an opera based on mr wilde's work, which he selected out of many others because of its popularity in germany, and also, no doubt, on account of the dramatic intensity of mr wilde's interpretation of the biblical story. "it is not for me to criticise or to appreciate 'de profundis' on which many competent writers have given their opinions, but i should have imagined that it was sufficiently clear that mr oscar wilde had not attempted to throw any blame for his misfortune on anyone but himself. "the manuscript is written on blue prison foolscap. there are a few corrections. although mr wilde gave me very full instructions with regard to those portions which he wished published he allowed me absolute discretion in the matter, which he did about all his other manuscript and letters." the subject-matter of "de profundis" i have said that for those who have not read the book, a short synopsis of its contents is necessary here. but i am immediately confronted with a difficulty because, probably, no book is more difficult to sum up, to make a _précis_ from, than this. however, i do all that is possible, and only ask my readers to remember that this bald catalogue will be elucidated further on in the article. in the preface to the book a letter of oscar wilde to the editor is quoted in which he says: "i don't defend my conduct. i explain it. also there is in my letter certain passages which deal with my mental development in prison, and the inevitable evolution of my character and intellectual attitude towards life that has taken place; and i want you and others who still stand by me and have affection for me to know exactly in what mood and manner i hope to face the world. of course, from one point of view, i know that on the day of my release i shall be merely passing from one prison into another.... prison life makes one see people and things as they really are. that is why it turns one to stone.... i have 'cleansed my bosom of much perilous stuff.' i need not remind you that mere expression is to an artist the supreme and only mode of life.... for nearly two years i have had within a growing burden of bitterness, of much of which i have now got rid." this, in some sort of way, will give the reader an idea of what the book consists or, at anyrate, of its other view about it. he begins the work by a statement of the terrible suffering he is undergoing in prison. the iron discipline, the paralysing immobility of a life which is as monotonous and regular as the movement of a great machine, are set forth subjectively by a presentment of the effects they are having upon the prisoner's brain. "it is always twilight in one's cell, as it is always twilight in one's heart." ... he is transferred to a new prison. three months elapse, and he is told of his mother's death. he speaks of his deep love and veneration for her and says that he who was once a "lord of language" has now no words left in which to tell of the appalling shame which has seized upon his heart and mind. he realises the infamy with which he has covered that honoured name. an anecdote comes into these sorrowful pages. it is an anecdote of his sad and guarded appearance among the world of men when he was brought to appear before the court of bankruptcy. as he walked manacled in the corridor towards the court room, a friend of his, who was waiting, lifted his hat and bowed. waited, "that, before the whole crowd, whom such an action so sweet and simple hushed into silence, he might raise his hat to me, as, handcuffed and with bowed head, i passed him by." a page or two is occupied with the poor convict's gratitude for this simple, sweet and dignified action. a marvellous eulogy is pronounced upon it. what prison means to a man in the upper ranks of life is set forth in words of anguish, and then, following these paragraphs, is a frank admission that wilde had ruined himself. "i am quite ready to say so. i am trying to say so, though they may not think it at the present moment. this pitiless indictment i bring without pity against myself." he describes the great and brilliant position he had held in the world. he tells of all the splendid things with which fortune had endowed him. he admits that he allowed pleasure to dominate him and that his end came with irremediable disgrace. he has lain in prison for nearly two years, and now he begins to describe his mental development during the long torture. humility, he says, is what he has found, like a treasure in a field. from this newly discovered treasure he builds up a method of conduct which he will pursue when he is released from durance. he knows, indeed, that kind friends will await him on the other side of the prison door. he will not have to beg his bread, but, nevertheless, humility shall bloom like a flower in his heart. he begins to speak of religion, and avows his atheism. "the faith that others give to what is unseen, i give to what one can touch, and look at." there is no help for him in religion. he goes on to speak of reason. there is no help for him in reason. reason tells him that the laws under which he was convicted were wrong and unjust laws, the system under which he suffered a wrong and unjust system. yet, in pursuance of his determination of humility, he resolves to make all that has happened to him into a spiritualising medium. he is going to weave his pain and agony into the warp and woof of his life with the same readiness with which he wove the time of pleasure and success into the completion of his temperament. then there comes a long discussion of his own position at the moment, a common prisoner in a common gaol, and of what his position will be afterwards. he tells of occasions on which he was allowed to see his friends in prison, and afterwards describes a moment of his deepest degradation, when he was jeered at in convict dress as he stood, one of a chained gang, on clapham junction platform. the story is utterly terrible. on the occasion of his removal from london to reading, he says, "i had to stand on the centre platform of clapham junction in convict dress and handcuffed, for all the world to look at.... when people saw me they laughed. each train as it came up swelled the audience. nothing could exceed their amusement. that was, of course, before they knew who i was. as soon as they had been informed they laughed still more. for half-an-hour i stood there, in the grey november rain, surrounded by a jeering mob." we find now, in our short survey of the book, the widely discussed passages about the personality and message of christ. these form the greater part of this strange and moving masterpiece. they will be treated of hereafter. finally, come anticipations of release and plans for the future, and "de profundis" concludes with an especially poignant and almost painfully beautiful passage which anticipates the kindliness of nature to heal a bruised soul to which man has given no solace: "but nature, whose sweet rains fall on unjust and just alike, will have clefts in the rocks where i may hide, and secret valleys in whose silence i may weep undisturbed. she will hang the night with stars so that i may walk abroad in the darkness without stumbling, and send the wind over my footprints so that none may track me to my hurt; she will cleanse me in great waters, and with bitter herbs make me whole." "de profundis" as a piece of prose there is very little of the wise and sensuous geniality of horace in oscar wilde's outlook upon life. but some lines of the poet, never a great favourite with wilde by the way, certainly have a direct application upon the style of the author of "de profundis"- "saepe stilum vertas, iterum quæ digna legi sint scripturus; neque te ut miretur turba labores, contentus paucis lectoribus."--s. i. 10, 72. a piece of prose to oscar wilde was always, in a sense, like a definite musical composition in which words took the place of notes, and he carried out the poet's injunction to polish and rewrite with meticulous care. wilde had, in a marvellously developed degree, the sense that a piece of prose was a built-up thing proceeding piece by piece, movement by movement, sentence by sentence, and word by word towards a definite and well-understood effect. "it was the architectural conception of work which foresees the end in the beginning and never loses sight of it, and in every part is conscious of all the rest, till the last sentence does but, with undiminished vigour, unfold and justify the first." these lines were written by oscar wilde's master in english prose, walter pater, and we shall see how entirely wilde has adhered to such an artistic attitude. like the greeks, he believed in an elaborate criticism of language, and the metrical movements of prose were scientifically and artistically interesting to him, as any student of harmony takes pleasure in a contrapuntal exercise. the analogy is perfectly correct, and wilde himself has drawn attention to it more than once in his prose writings. counterpoint consisted, in the old days of music, when a system of sounds called points were used for notation, in two or more lines of these points; each line represented a melody which, when set against each other and sounded simultaneously, produced correct harmony. wilde's prose was moulded entirely upon an appreciation of these facts, and the ear must always be the critic of the excellence of his prose rather than the intelligence, in the first instance, as reached by the eye. if we read aloud passages of "de profundis" the full splendour of them strikes us far more poignantly than in any other way. it is true that wilde's prose makes an appeal _ad clerum_, and it is not necessary for the connoisseur, the initiate, to apply the test of the spoken word. but those who are not actually conversant with the more technical niceties of style will do well to read wilde's prose aloud. they will discover in it new and unsuspected beauties. wilde, at one period of his career, published a series of short paragraph stories which he called "poems in prose." with him there were many points of contact between prose and poetry. the two things could overlap and intermingle, though in his hands neither lost its own individuality in the process. there has been too much said in the past about the old principle of sharp division between poetry and prose. this was a classical tradition and was one which well applied to the greek and latin languages. it was maintained, until a late era in our own english literature, by the gibbons and macaulays who moulded themselves upon cicero and livy. but during the last century the force of the old tradition weakened very much. a newer and more flexible style of writing became permissible. coleridge, de quincey, swift, lamb, to mention a few names at random, showed that, at anyrate, prose need no longer be written as a stately cataract of ordered words with due balance and antithesis, and with certain rigid movements which were thought indispensable to correct writing. dr boswell said, apropos of style--"some think swift's the best; others prefer a fuller and grander way of writing." to whom dr johnson replied--"sir, you must first define what you mean by style, before you can judge who has good taste in style and who has bad. the two classes of persons whom you have mentioned don't differ as to good and bad. they both agree that swift has a good neat style, but one loves a neat style, another a style of more splendour. in the like manner one loves a plain coat, another loves a laced coat; but neither will deny that each is good in its kind." although johnson and his contemporaries certainly had a great sense of rhythm and harmony in prose they were the last defenders of the old axiom that poetry and prose were two entirely separate things. it was walter pater who, in our own times, finally demolished the old tradition, and opened the way for a writer, such as oscar wilde, to bring the new discovery to its fullest perfection. walter pater showed that it was not true that poetry differs only from prose by the presence of metrical restraint. wilde, understanding this, most thoroughly, resolved early in his literary career that his prose should be beautifully coloured, jewelled, ornate, and yet capable of every delicate nuance, every almost lyric echo that could be caught from the realms of poesy and welded into the many-coloured fabric. in wilde's "intentions" we have an example of his most ornamented and decorated prose, so marvellously musical that it reminds us of a fugue played on a mighty organ with innumerable stops. yet, at the same time, in this book of essays, oscar wilde frequently laid himself open to the charge of precocity and over-elaboration. it is possible to obscure the grand and massive lines of a building by an over-elaboration of detail. beautiful as decorated gothic is, i have in mind the cathedral of cologne, there is a more massive grandeur in the early mediæval work than anything the later style can give. "de profundis" is purged of all the faults--one might almost say the faults of excellence--that the hypercritical student may sometimes find in the earlier prose of its author. just as the man himself was purged and purified in mind by the terrible experiences of prison, so his style also became stronger and more beautiful, and what was once reminiscent of a marvellous nocturne or ballade of chopin, or "some mad scarlet thing by dvorak" inherent with all the beauty of just this, now acquires the harmony and strength of a great wind blowing through a forest. the prose is still full of the old symbolism and imagery, but these two means of producing an effect are used with much more restraint of language and simplicity of words. note, for example, how the following paragraph, especially when read aloud, proceeds from symbol to symbol with a marvellously adroit use of the dactyl and the spondæ, or rather their equivalents in english prosody, until the final thought is enunciated, the voice drops, the sentence is complete. "when one has weighed the sun in the balance and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven heavens, star by star, there still remains oneself." here we notice in addition, the extraordinary influence that the words of the bible always had upon the prose of oscar wilde. in his lonely prison cell, where nearly the whole of his reading must have consisted of holy scripture, the influence was naturally greater than ever before. no one can read "de profundis" with its rhythmic repetitions of phrase without realising this in an extraordinary degree. take the passage i have just quoted and the following paragraph, which, let me assure my readers, i have taken quite at random, opening a bible and turning over but a very few leaves of the old testament without any regular search,--"so that they shall take no wood out of the field, neither cut down out of the forest; for they shall burn the weapons with fire: and they shall spoil those that spoiled them, and rob those that robbed them, saith the lord god." yes! there can be no possible doubt that much of the inspiration of "de profundis"--that is, the purely literary inspiration--came from the solemn harmonies and balanced phrases of the old hebrew singers and poets. with job, oscar wilde might well have said, and his own lamentations are strangely reminiscent of the phrase, "my harp is turned to mourning and my organ into the voice of them that weep." in "de profundis" the special passages of rare and melodious beauty which star the printed page at no long intervals, have been very widely commented upon and quoted. by this time they are quite familiar to all who take an interest in modern literature, and this masterpiece of it in particular. yet, in considering the prose of "de profundis" we must not forget to pay a due meed of praise to the great substance of the book in which an extraordinary ease and dignity of style, an absolute simplicity of effect, which conceals the most elaborate art and the most profound knowledge of the science of words, links together those more memorable, because more striking, passages which leap out from the page and plant themselves in the mind of the appreciative reader like arrows. "there is hardly a word in 'de profundis' misplaced, misused, or used at all unless the fullest possible value is got from its presence in the sentence. even now and then, when, in the midst of the grave rhetoric of his psychology, the author descends into colloquialism, the ear is not offended in the least. he knows the precise moment when the little homely word will bring back to the reader the fact that he is reading a human document written by a human sufferer in a prison cell. "if, after i am free, a friend of mine gave a feast, and did not invite me to it, i should not mind a bit, i can be perfectly happy by myself." here in the midst of passages of calculated and cadenced beauty we have a little carefully devised sentence to which, though the ordinary reader will not realise the art and cunning of its employment, it will have precisely the effect upon the brain of the ordinary reader that oscar wilde designed when he wrote it. the literary man himself, accustomed to deal with words, can, and will, appreciate the art of the artist in this regard. it is with the profoundest appreciation and admiration for the marvellous skill of presentation, the perfect power and flexibility of the prose that i leave the consideration of the purely artistic merits of the book and turn to its real value as a human document. as oscar wilde said of himself, he was indeed a "lord of language." "de profundis" as a revelation of self we now come to a consideration of "de profundis" as a revelation, or not, of the real sentiments and thoughts of the man who wrote it. to the british temperament it is always far more important, in the judgment of a book, that the writer should be sincere in the writing than that what he wrote should be perfectly artistic. the british public, indeed, the whole anglo-saxon world, has never been able to adapt itself to the french attitude that, provided a thing is a flawless work of art, the sincerity of the writer has nothing whatever to do with its worth. this attitude wilde himself consistently preached in season and out of season. for example, he wrote a study of wainwright, the poisoner, which, read from the ordinary english ethical point of view, would seem to show him a most sympathetic advocate of crime, provided only the criminal committed his crimes in an artistic manner and had also a sense of art in life. when a friend reproached the monster wainwright with the murder of an innocent girl, helen abercrombie, to whom he owed every duty of kindness and protection, he shrugged his shoulders and said--"yes, it was a dreadful thing to do, but she had very thick ankles." if we are to take oscar wilde's essay, "pen, pencil and poison," quite seriously we must believe him to be utterly indifferent to the monstrous moral character of the hero of his memoir. he speaks of him as being not merely a poet and a painter, an art critic and antiquarian, a writer of prose and a dilettante of things delightful, but also a forger of no mean nor ordinary capacities, and as a subtle and secret poisoner almost without rival in this or any age. when "de profundis" first made its appearance and the flood of criticism began, dozens of critics pounced upon the book, admitted its marvellous literary charm and achievement, and said that its author was absolutely and utterly insincere in all he wrote about himself. _the times_ for example, which still holds a certain pre-eminence of place, although it is the fashion of a younger generation to decry it and to pretend that it has lost all its influence, owing both to the change of public taste in journalistic requirements and certain business enterprises which have been associated with its name, spoke out to this effect with careful and calculated sincerity. in an article which was extremely well written and had indubitably a certain psychological insight, the leading journal condemned "de profundis" from an ethical point of view with no uncertain voice. it said that, while it was possessed by every wish to understand the author and to sympathise with him in the hideous ruin of his brilliant career, it was impossible, except in a very few instances, to regard his posthumous book as anything but a mere literary feat. the excellence of that was granted, but it was not allowed to be anything more than that. it was not in this way, so said the writer in _the times_, that souls were laid bare, this was not sorrow, but the most dextrous counterfeit of sorrow. wilde, so the review stated, was "probably unable to cry from the depths at all." his book simply showed that there was an armour of egotism which no arrow of fate was able to pierce. even in "de profundis" the poseur supplemented the artist, and the truth was not in him. if the heart of a broken man showed at all in the book it must, said _the times_, "be looked for between the lines. it was rarely in them." in short, so the review, when summed up and crystallised, implied, wilde was incapable of telling the truth about himself, or about anything at all. sometimes in his writings he fell upon the truth by accident, and then his works contained a modicum of truth. consciously, he was never able to discover it, consciously, he was never able to enunciate it. now, that is a point of view which is natural enough, but which, after careful study, i cannot substantiate in any way. over and over again the same thing was said. everybody was prepared, at last, to admit that wilde was a great artist--in direct contradiction to that condemnation of even his literary power which was poured upon his works at the time of his downfall--but the general opinion of the leading critics seemed to point to the fact of "de profundis" being a pose and insincere. now, if the book was merely an excursion in attitude, a considered work of art without any very profound relation to the truth of its personal psychology, then i think the book would be a less saddening thing than it undoubtedly is. surely, the author had a perfect right, if he so wished, to produce a psychological romance. this i know is not a generally held opinion, but i do not see how anybody who knows anything about the brain of the artist and the ethics of creation can really deny it. if the work is absolutely sincere, as i believe it to be, then, from the moral point of view, it is indeed a terrible document. it shows us how little the extraordinary, complex temperament of oscar wilde was really chastened and purified. it provides us with a moral picture of monstrous egotism set in a frame of jewels. as has been said so often before in this book, the worse and insane side of oscar wilde must always obscure and conquer the better and beautiful side of him. oscar wilde describes himself as a "lord of language." this is perfectly true. he goes on to say that he "stood in symbolic relations to the art and culture of his time." this is only half true. he continues that "i felt it myself and made others feel it." the first half of this sentence is too true, the second half is untrue, inasmuch as it implies that he made everyone feel it, whereas he mistook the flattery and adulation of a tiny coterie for the applause and sanction of a nation. oscar wilde always lived within four very narrow walls. at one time they were the swaying misty walls conjured up by a few and not very important voices, at another they were the walls of concrete and corrugated iron, the whitewashed walls of his prison cell. he says that his relations to his time were more noble, more permanent, of more vital issue, of larger scope than byron's relation to his time. then, almost in the same breath, he begins to tell us that there is only one thing for him now, "absolute humility." that something hidden away in his nature like a treasure in a field is "humility." comment is almost cruel here. in another part of "de profundis" the author airily and lightly touches upon those horrors which had ruined him and made him what he was, and which kept him where he was. "people thought it dreadful of me to have entertained at dinner the evil things of life, and to have found pleasure in their company. but then, from the point of view through which i, as an artist in life, approached them, they were delightfully suggestive and stimulating. the danger was half the excitement...." is this humility and is this repentance? to me it seems as terrible a conviction of madness and inability to understand the depth to which he had sunk as one could find in the whole realm of literature. "people thought it dreadful of me to have entertained," etc. etc. does not the very phrase suggest that wilde still thinks in his new-found "humility" that it was not dreadful of him at all and that he had a perfect right to do so? there is no doubt of his absolute sincerity. he is absolutely incapable of understanding. he still thinks, lying in torture, that he has done nothing wrong. he has made an error of judgment, he has misapprehended his attitude towards society. he has not sinned. once only does he admit, in a single sentence, that any real culpability attached to him. "i grew careless of the lives of others." this shows that a momentary glimpse of the truth had entered that unhappy brain, but it is carelessly uttered, and carelessly dismissed. all he cared for, if we believe this book to be sincere, as i think nobody who really understands the man and his mental condition at the time that it was written, can fail to believe, is, that every fresh sensation at any cost to himself and others, was his only duty towards himself and his art. doubtless when he wrote "de profundis" oscar wilde believed absolutely in his own attitude. he was no lucifer in his own account, no fallen angel. he was only a spirit of light which had made a mistake and found itself in fetters. that is the tragedy of the book, that its author could never see himself as others saw him or realise that he had sinned. when satan fell from heaven, in milton's mighty work, he made no attempt to persuade himself that he had found something hidden away within him like a treasure in a field--"humility." there was in the imaginary portrait of the author of evil still an awful and impious defiance of the forces that controlled all nature and him as a part of nature. oscar wilde could look back upon all he did to himself and all the incalculable evil he wrought upon others and say quite calmly that he did not regret for a single moment having lived for pleasure. he tells us that he threw the "pearl of his soul into a cup of wine," that he "went down the primrose path to the sound of flutes." and then, after living on honeycomb he realises that to have continued living on honeycomb would have been wrong, because it would have arrested the continuance of his development. "i had to pass on." let us pass on also to a consideration of wilde's teaching on christianity in "de profundis." the author's view of the christian faith it is necessary to deal with this part of "de profundis" which treats of the unhappy author's "discoveries" in christianity, because his views were put so perfectly, with such a wealth of phrase, with such apparent certainty of conviction, that they may well have an influence upon young and impressionable minds which will be, and possibly has been, dangerous and unsettling. there is no doubt but that the teaching of "de profundis," or rather the point of view enunciated in it, which deals with christianity, shows that oscar wilde had failed to gain any real insight into the faith. it is quite true that various of the sects within the english church, especially those which dissent from the establishment, might find themselves in accordance with much that wilde said. a catholic, however, cannot for a moment admit that the poet's teachings are anything but paradoxical, dangerous, and untrue. a minister of the protestant church, canon beeching, preaching at westminster abbey on "the sinlessness of christ," referred to the portions of "de profundis," with which i am dealing now, in no uncertain way. there are here and there things that a catholic would not entirely endorse in canon beeching's sermon, yet, on the whole, it is a very sane and fair presentation of what a christian must think in reading "de profundis." it is as well to say frankly, that i write as a catholic, and, in this section of my criticism, for those who are also of the faith. i print some extracts from canon beeching's sermon: "one wonders sometimes," said he, "if englishmen have given up reading their gospels. a book has lately appeared which presents a caricature of the portrait of christ, and especially a travesty of his doctrine about sin, that is quite astonishing; and with one or two honourable exceptions the daily and weekly press have praised the book enthusiastically, and especially the study it gives of the character of christ; whereas, if that picture were true, the pharisees were right when they said to him that he cast out devils through beelzebub, and the priests were right in sending him to death as a perverter of the people. the writer of the book, who is dead, was a man of exceptional literary talent, who fell into disgrace; and whether it is pity for his sad fate or admiration of his style in writing that has cast a spell upon the reviewers and blinded them to his meaning, i cannot say; but i do say they have not done their duty to english society by lauding the book as they have done, without giving parents and guardians some hint that it preaches a doctrine of sin, which, if taken into romantic and impressionable hearts, will send them quickly down the road of shame. the chief point on which the writer fixes is christ's behaviour to the sinners; and his theory is that christ consorted with them because he found them more interesting than the good people, who were stupid. 'the world,' he says, 'had always loved the saint as being the nearest possible approach to the perfection of god; christ, through some divine instinct in him, seems to have always loved the sinner as being the nearest possible approach to the perfection of man. to turn an interesting thief into a tedious honest man was not his aim.... but in a manner not yet understood of the world he regarded sin and suffering as being in themselves beautiful and holy things, and modes of perfection.' it seems to have struck the writer at this point that our lord had himself explained that he consorted with sinners, as a physician with the sick, to call them to repentance. for he goes on:--'of course the sinner must repent; but why?--simply because otherwise he would be unable to realise what he had done.' in other words, a man is the better for any sort of emotional experience, when it is past, because he is fertilised by it as by a crop of wild oats; a form of philosophy which tennyson in 'in memoriam' well characterised as 'procuress to the lords of hell.' but even this writer, absolutely shameless and unabashed as he is, does not hint that christ himself gained his moral beauty by sinning. the lowest depth of woe is theirs who call evil good and good evil, for that is a poisoning of the well of life. what is the use of calling jesus "good" if we destroy the very meaning of goodness? may god have pardoned the sin of the man who put this stumbling-block in the way of the simple, and may he shield our boys and young men from that doctrine of devils that the way of perfection lies through sin." these words, although they are obviously said without any sympathy whatever for oscar wilde, have the germ of truth within them. strong as they are, and no one who had really studied the whole work and life of oscar wilde would perhaps care to make so fierce a statement, they are, nevertheless, words of weight and value. i have no record among my documents of any catholic priest who dealt with the christian aspect of "de profundis" upon its publication. nevertheless, i have conversed with christians of all denominations on the subject of wilde's "discovery" of christ, and i am certain that i am only representing the christian point of view when i state that a wholesale condemnation of the doctrines wilde enunciated is the only thing possible for us. of the way in which his doctrines were enunciated no one with a literary sense and who takes a joy in fine, artistic achievement, can fail to give a tribute of whole-hearted praise and admiration. let us consider. morality, philosophy, religion, wilde has already confessed have no controlling force or power for him. yet, he takes up the position of those dim and early seekers after the presence of divinity. he would see "jesus." accordingly, wilde writes of our lord very beautifully indeed. he tells us that the basis of "his nature was an intense and flame-like imagination.... there is almost something incredible in the idea of the young galilean peasant imagining that he could bear on his own shoulders the burden of the entire world--all that has been done and suffered, and all that was to be done and suffered--and not merely imagining it, but achieving it." as another anglican minister, canon gorton, appointed out at the time, wilde states that christ ranks next to the poets. there is nothing in the highest drama which can approach the last act of christ's passion. our lord becomes, in wilde's eyes, the source of all art. he is a requisite for the beautiful. he is in "romeo and juliet," in "the winter's tale" in provencal poetry, and in "the ancient mariner." "hence christ becomes the palpitating centre of romance, he has all the colour elements of life, mystery, strangeness, pathos, suggestion, ecstasy, love." and then wilde finally says "that is why he is so fascinating to artists." this summing up of the personality and mission of the saviour of the world as a mere element in the life of mental or spiritual pleasure enjoyed by those who are cultivated to such a life at all, strikes the christian man or woman with dismay. it is horrible, this patronising analysis of the redeemer as another and great dante, merely a supreme artist to whom artists should bow because of that, and no more. wilde, in fact, definitely states that the artistic life means for him the tasting in turn of good and evil, the entertainment of saints and devils, for the sake of extending the circle of his friends. he approaches the personality of christ _sub specie artis_, and only in this way, and his words are the more terrible to the devout christian because they are so beautiful. do we not remember, indeed, that once when a young man knelt to our lord and called him "good," the saviour put him aside? does it not strike one that there is something very nearly blasphemous in the man who had lived the consciously antinomian life that oscar wilde lived daring to call the saviour idyllic, poetic, dramatic, charming, fascinating? does not the poet use the personality of our lord as a mere peg on which to hang his own gorgeous and jewelled imagery, a reed through which he should make his own artistic music? our lord did not come into the world to win admiration but to win the soul from sin. his appeal was not to our imagination, but to our dormant souls to rouse and strengthen them. oscar wilde writes of jesus, but there is no cross. there is a saviour, but no repentance, no renewal, of life, no effort after holiness. it is terrible, indeed, to think of the poor unhappy author striving to appreciate jesus, though surely even his blind semi-appreciation of the personality of our lord was better than none at all, and then to know that even the little germ of truth which seemed to have come into his life was forgotten and pushed away when once more the "appreciator" of jesus of nazareth returned to the world. as an english minister pointed out, the moral of wilde's attitude towards the christian faith is as old as scripture itself, and as modern as browning also, who, in the painter's question--"gave art, and what more wish you?" replied- "to become now self-acquainters, and paint man, man, whatever the issue, make new hopes shine through the flesh they fray, new fears aggrandise the rags and tatters, to bring the invisible full into play, let the visible go to the dogs--what matters?" * * * * * finally we have to ask ourselves what is the precise value of this last legacy oscar wilde has left to us? i think it is just this. we have upon our shelves a piece of incomparable prose. i know of nothing written in recent years that comes anywhere near it as an almost flawless work of art. nobody who cares for english literature or who understands in the least degree, what fine writing is and means, will ever neglect this minor classic. from another point of view also, it has its value. we who appreciate the immense genius of oscar wilde and mourn for a wrecked life and the extinction of a bright intellect, will care for and treasure this volume for its personal pathos, its high and serene beauty of expression, and also because, as a psychological document, it throws a greater light upon the extraordinary brain and personality of its author than anything he had written in the past. index æsthetic movement, 7-9, 12, 19, 22, 29 æsthetics- art and morality, 337-344 art criticism distinguished from, 333 meaning and scope of, 332 ruskin's teaching regarding, 338-340 wilde's belief in his vocation as to, 331; his writings, 333; his lectures, 334-336 america, wilde's tour in, 18, 29; quotation from his lectures, 334-336 anderson, miss mary, 199-200 _apologia_, 269 aristotle cited, 342 art- art's sake, for, 345 morality and, 337-344 wilde's writings on, 333 _ave imperatrix_, 248-250 _ballad of reading gaol_- criticisms of, 285-286 dedication of, 287 estimate of, 262, 283-284, 298 quotations from, 287-297 revision of, 286 otherwise mentioned, 86, 273 ballad parody, 266 _ballade de marguérite_, 264-265 baudelaire, charles, influence of, on wilde, 245-246, 258, 273, 274, 282; quoted, 245, 252; _danse macabre_ quoted, 274-276 baugham, e. a., quoted--on _salomé_, 195-197 beardsley, aubrey, 40-41 beeching, canon, quoted--on _de profundis_, 387-389 berneval, wilde's life at, 84 bernhardt, mme. sarah, 161, 187-188; wilde's sonnet to, 267 _birthday of the infanta, the_, 239 boswell quoted, 373-374 _chanson_, 265 _charmides_, 263-264 currie, lady, quoted, 285-286 _daily chronicle_- "salomé" _critique_ in, quoted, 190-192 wilde's letters to, cited, 81-84 _daily mirror_ cited, 74 _daily telegraph_, extract from, 65-68 d'aubrevilly, barbey, quoted, 283 _de profundis_- authenticity of, as prison-written, 71-76, 364-365 biblical influence, 376-377 christ as depicted in, 386-392 estimate of, 362, 393 extracts from, 359-360, 376, 378, 383-386, 390-391 preface to, 366-367 press criticisms on, 380 publication and reception of, 362-363 ross, r., on publication of, 363-366 self-revelation in, 360, 379-386 sincerity of, 382, 384-385 style of, 371-373, 375-378; subject matter of, 367-371 _des sponettes_, 269 _devoted friend, the_, 229, 233-234 _dole of the king's daughter, the_, 265 dress, _rationale_ of, 14-15 _duchess of padua, the_- anderson, miss mary, refusal by, 199-200 estimate of, 199, 205-206 influences in, 49 plot of, 200-204 production of, in berlin, 205 _e tenebris_, 256, 257 _endymion_, 263 fairy stories, the- _format_ of 1891 edition of, 239-240 pathos of, 228 sacred matters, allusions to, 230-231 style of, 229 _fisherman and his soul, the_, 240-241 _florentine tragedy, the_- plot of, 217-218 production of, 215, 216, 219 theft of, 215 flowers- decorative effect of, 45-46 wilde's love of, 250-251, 260, 271 _fortnightly review_- _ballad of reading gaol_ criticised in, 285-286 _poems in prose_ in, 348 _soul of man, the_, in, 352 _fourth movement, the_, 268 fyfe, hamilton, cited, 75 _garden of eros, the_, 250-253 gide, andré, 77 gorton, canon, cited, 390 grolleau, charles, estimate of wilde by, 47-48 _happy prince and other tales, the_, 227-231. (_see also titles of the stories._) _harlot's house, the_, 272-274 _helas_, 248 holloway prison, journalistic account of wilde in, 59-64 house decoration, 44-46 _house of pomegranates, the_, 235-239 _humanitad_, 270 _ideal husband, the_- characters of, 129-131 estimate of, 129, 148 plot of, 131-148 _importance of being earnest, the_- estimate of, 149 plot of, 150-154 quotations from, 154-156 reception of, 150, 156 otherwise mentioned, 40 _impression de voyage_, 267 _impression du matin_, 263 _impressions de théâtre_, 267 _incomparable and ingenious history of mr w. h., the_- story of, 320-322 theft of, 215, 220, 302 theory of, 323-327 value of, 322 _intentions_, 49, 336, 337, 345-348, 375 irving, sir henry, wilde's sonnet to, 267 japanese artistic sense, 46 johnson, dr, quoted, 374 keats, influence of, on wilde, 246, 263, 264; wilde's epitaph on, 266-267 _la bella donna della mia mante_, 263 labouchere, h., estimate of wilde by, 17-19 _lady windermere's fan_- extracts from, 111-118 plot of, 107-109 reception of, by the public, 95, 106; by critics, 104-106 le gallienne, richard, cited, 336-337 _le reveillon_, 268 _lord arthur savile's crime_, 320 _madonna mia_, 257 _magdalen walks_, 262-263 meyerfeld, dr max, 192-193 moonlight, wilde's sentiment for, 168 moore, sturge, 216 morris, wm., wilde's estimate of, 251 nature, wilde's love of, 260, 271-272 nicholson, dr, cited, 75 _nightingale and the rose, the_, 231-232 nordau, dr max, 9-12; criticism of wilde by, 12-16 oxford union debate on the æsthetic movement, 39-41 _panthea_, 267-268 pater, walter, quoted, 371-372; cited, 374 _pen, pencil and poison_, cited, 379-380 pennington, harper, portrait of wilde by, 44 _picture of dorian gray, the_- epigrams from, in wilde's plays, 315 estimate of, 319 extracts from, 312-313, 316-318 huysmans' influence in, 49 preface to, 303 story of, 304-312 poe, e. a., influence of, on wilde, 246, 273 _poems in prose_, 348-352, 373 poems, pastoral, 259-262. (_see also titles of poems._) poetry, wilde's views as to simplicity in, 246-247 precious stones, wilde's knowledge of, 312 proverbs, wilde's transmutations of, 319 _punch_, 21-22, 38; bibliography of references to wilde in, 23-28; quotations, 29-34, 271 queensberry case, 56 _quia multi amori_, 269 _ravenna_, 247-248 reading gaol- _ballad of reading gaol_, see that title cruelties perpetrated in, 81-83 wilde's removal to, 370; his life in, 76-78, 85 rebell, hugues, estimate of wilde by, 48-50 _remarkable rocket, the_, 234-235 _requiescat_, 253-254 ricketts, c. s., 192, 193, 239-240, 283 roman catholic church, influence of, on wilde, 240, 254-255, 258, 272, 315 _rome unvisited_, 240, 256 ross, robert, quoted--on theft of wilde's mss., 215; on publication of _de profundis_, 363-366; cited, 217; mentioned, 75 rossetti, d. g., influence of, on wilde, 246, 252, 254, 256-258, 265 ruskin, john, quoted, 338-340 _sage green_, 266 _st james's gazelle_, extract from, 72-74 _salomé_- beardsley's illustrations to, 184-185 bernhardt, written for, 161; her dealings regarding, 187-188 censor's prohibition of, 187 criticisms on, quoted, 190-198 german popularity of, 365 language of, 186 production of--in paris, 188; in london, 189-193; in various continental countries, 193-194; in berlin, 195; in new york, 195 stage directions of, 167, 185-186 stagecraft of, 181-182 story of, 162-180 tone of, 183 _san miniato_, 255 scott, clement, criticism by, of _lady windermere's fan_, quoted, 104, 105 _selfish giant, the_, 232-233 _serenade, a_, 263 shakespeare's influence on wilde, 264 shannon, mr, 239 shaw, g. b., _don juan in hell_, cited, 121-123, 157 sherard, r. h., cited, 6, 11, 84 sibbern, cited, 342 simon, j. a., quoted, 39-41 socialism, wilde's views on, 353 _soul of man, the_, 235, 352-355 _sphinx, the_, 272, 276-283 _star-child, the_, 241-242 _story of an unhappy friendship, the_, cited, 6 style, 246, 371-378 swinburne, a. c., wilde's estimate of, 251 symons, arthur, cited, 333 tapestry, wilde's knowledge of, 313 terry, miss ellen, wilde's sonnets to, 267 _times, the_- _ballad of reading gaol_ praised by, 285 _de profundis_ criticised by, 380-381 _tribune_, extract from, 215-217 _truth_, extract from, 69-70 _vera, or the nihilists_- dramatis personæ of, 207-208 estimate of, 212-213 plot of, 208-212 production of, in america, 207 wainwright the poisoner, 379 wilde, constance mary, 235, 248; quoted, 44-46 wilde, oscar fingal o'flahertie wills- ancestry of, 11 appreciation of, growth of, 3-5 career of- first period, 7, 16-42; second, 42-53, third, 53-79; fourth, 79-90; tour in america, 18, 29; bankruptcy, 215, 220, 368; refusal to forfeit his bail, 54-57; the queensberry case, 56; trial and sentence, 65; clapham junction episode, 370; life in reading gaol, 76-78, 85; release, 76; last years, 84-88; death, 88 characteristics of- charm of manner, 46 complexity, 50-51, 79 conversational brilliancy, 34, 46, 86, 349 eccentricity, 38 egoism, 51-52, 349, 382 flowers, love of, 250-251, 260 generosity, 46, 51 humour, 17 imaginative faculty, 301 kindliness and gentleness, 46, 51, 77 language, felicity of, 252, 378 loyalty to friends, 53, 55 moonlight, sentiment for, 168 narrowness of view, 383 nature, love of, 260, 271-272 perversity and whimsicality, 34 profusion and splendour, taste for, 46 self-plagiarism, 315 versatility, 90, 301 wit, 46, 98, 103 dramatic powers of- brilliancy of dialogue, 95-99, 110 plot interest, 97-98 reality of characters and scenes, 96, 100, 102 estimates of, by- grolleau, m. charles, 47-48 labouchere, h., 17-19 nordau, dr max, 12-16 rebell, hugues, 48-50 fiction of, characteristics of, 302-303 home of, at chelsea, 43-44 insanity of, 11-12, 91, 382, 384 interview with, quoted, 35-38 _life of_, by sherard, cited, 6 literary style of, 371-378 portrait of, by penninton, 44 work of, absolutely distinct from private life, 4, 68 wilde, william, cited, 55 _woman covered with jewels, the_- bernhardt, written for, 221 loss of ms. of, 220-221 plot of, 222-223 _woman of no importance, a_- characters of, 126-128 dialogue of, 120-123 plot of, 123-125 popularity of, 121-123, 128 reception of, 119 _woman's world, the_, wilde's editorship of, 42 words, wilde's felicitous choice of, 252 a catalogue of the publications of t. werner laurie. abbeys of great britain, the (h. clairborne dixon and e. ramsden). 6s. net. (cathedral series.) abbeys of england, the (elsie m. lang). leather, 2s. 6d. net. (leather booklets.) adam (h. l.), the story of crime. fully illustrated. demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net. addison (julia), classic myths in art. illustrated with 40 plate reproductions from famous painters. crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s. net. adventures of an empress (helene vacaresco). 6s. aflalo (f. g.), sunshine and sport in florida and the west indies. 60 illustrations. demy 8vo, 16s. net. alien, the (helene vacaresco). 6s. anthony (e.) ("cut cavendish"), the complete bridge player. with a chapter on misery bridge. (vol. i., library of sports.) 320 pages. crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. net. armour (j. ogden), the packers and the people. eight illustrations. 380 pages. crown 8vo, 6s. net. arncliffe puzzle, the (gordon holmes). 6s. art in the dumps (eugene merrill). 1s. net. artist's life, the (john oliver hobbes). 2s. 6d. net. beauty shop, the (daniel woodroffe). 6s. becke (l.), notes from my south sea log. crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s. net. becke (l.), my wanderings in the south seas. illustrated. crown 8vo, 6s. net. becke (l.), sketches in normandy. crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. bell and arrow. the (nora hopper), 6s. bennett (a.). see phillpotts. biography for beginners, the (e. clerihew). 6s. net. bland (hubert) ("hubert" of the _sunday chronicle_), letters to a daughter. illustrated frontispiece. crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. net; paper, 1s. net. bland (hubert) ("hubert" of the _sunday chronicle_), with the eyes of a man. crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. blind redeemer, the (david christie murray), 6s. blindman's marriage (florence warden). 6s. blyth (j.), a new atonement. a novel. crown 8vo, 6s. bridge player, the complete (edwyn anthony). 2s. 6d. net. bridges (j. a.), reminiscences of a country politician. demy 8vo, 8s. 6d. net. browne (j. penman), travel and adventure in the ituri forests. demy 8vo, 16s. net. building of a book, the (f. h. hitchcock). 6s. net. bullock (shan f.), the cubs. a novel. crown 8vo, 6s.; prize edition, 3s. 6d. bullock (shan f.), robert thorne: the story of a london clerk. a novel. crown 8vo, 6s. bumpus (t. f.), the cathedrals of england and wales. (the cathedral series, vols. iii., iv., v.). with many plates and minor decorations, and specially designed heads and tailpieces to each chapter. octavo, decorative cover, cloth gilt, 6s. net each; in leather, 10s. 6d. net per vol. bumpus (t. f.), the cathedrals and churches of northern italy. with 80 plates, nine of them in colour, and a coloured frontispiece by f. l. griggs, 9 × 6-1/2. 16s. net. bumpus (t. f.), the cathedrals of northern germany and the rhine. (the cathedral series, vol. vi.). with many plates and minor decorations. 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s. net; leather, 10s. 6d. net. bumpus (t. f.), old london churches. in 2 vols. (uniform with the cathedral series.) many illustrations. crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s. net each. burlesque napoleon, the (philip w. sergeant), 10s. 6d. net. burrows (g. t.), some old inns of england. (the leather booklets, vol. ii.) 24 illustrations. 5 × 3, stamped leather, 2s. 6d. net. butler (w. m.), the golfers' guide. with an introduction by dr. macnamara. (vol. iii., library of sports.) crown 8vo., 2s. 6d. net. camp fires in the canadian rockies (w. t. hornaday), 16s. net. captains and the kings, the (henry haynie). 6s. net. carrel (frederic), the adventures of john johns. a novel. crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. net. castles of england, the (e. b. d'auvergne). leather, 2s. 6d. net. (leather booklets.) cathedral guide, the pocket (w. j. roberts). leather. 2s. 6d. net. (leather booklets.) cathedral series, the. crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s. net each. vol. i. the cathedrals of northern france. by francis miltoun. with 80 illustrations from original drawings, and many minor decorations, by blanche mcmanus. 1 vol., decorative cover. vol. ii. the cathedrals of southern france. by francis miltoun. vols. iii., iv., v. the cathedrals of england and wales. b. t. francis bumpus. with many plates and minor decorations, and specially designed heads and tailpieces to each chapter. 3 vols, decorative cover; also in leather, 10s. 6d. net per vol. vol. vi. the cathedrals of northern germany and the rhine. by t. francis bumpus. with many plates and minor decorations. also in leather, 10s. 6d. net. vol. vii. the cathedrals of northern spain. by charles rudy. many illustrations. catharine: the human weed (l. parry truscott). 6s. chain invisible, the (ranger gull). 6s. classic myths in art (julia addison). 6s. net. classical library, the. crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 2s. 6d. net each. vol. i. the works of virgil. translated into english by c. davidson. with notes and a memoir. with photogravure frontispiece. vol. ii. the works of horace. translated into english by c. smart. with notes and a memoir. with photogravure frontispiece. clerihew (e.), biography for beginners. a new nonsense book. with 40 diagrams by g. k. chesterton. medium 4to, 6s. net. cobb (t.), a sentimental season. a novel. crown 8vo, 6s. coenen (frans), essays on glass, china, silver, etc. in connection with the willet-holthuysen museum collection, amsterdam. with 32 illustrations. crown 4to, 6s. net. confessions of a young man (george moore). 6s. cost, the (d. g. phillips). 6s. courtships of catherine the great, the (p. w. sergeant). 10s. 6d. net. crosland (t. w. h.), the wild irishman. crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 5s. cross (victoria), six women. a novel. crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s. cross (victoria), life's shop window. a novel. crown 8vo, 6s. crowned skull, the (fergus hume). 6s. cubs, the (shan f. bullock). 6s. d'auvernge (e. b.), the castles of england. (the leather booklets series, vol. iii.). with 30 illustrations. 5 × 3, stamped leather, 2s. 6d. net. davidson (c.), the works of virgil. translated into english. with notes and a memoir. with photogravure frontispiece (classical library, vol. i.). crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 2s. 6d. davidson (gladys), stories from the operas. in 2 vols. (music lovers' library, vols. ii. and iii.). illustrated. crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d. net. days stolen from sport (philip geen). 10s. 6d. net. dick donovan (see muddock). dixon (h. c.) and e. ramsden, cathedrals of great britain. illustrated. crown 8vo, 6s. net. drake (m.), the salving of the derelict. a novel. crown 8vo, 6s. drake (m.), lethbridge of the moor. a novel. crown 8vo, 6s. dyke (j. c. van), the opal sea. crown 8vo, 6s. net. dyke (j. c. van), studies in pictures. an introduction to the famous galleries. 42 illustrations. crown 8vo, 6s. net. eclectic library, the. crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 1s. net each. vol. i. the scarlet letter. by nathaniel hawthorne. 320 pages. england and wales, the cathedrals of (t. francis bumpus). in three vols. 6s. net each; leather, 10s. 6d. each. england, the cathedrals of (mary taber). 6s. net. evil eye, the (daniel woodroffe). 6s. fair women, the book of (translated by elsie m. lang). 6s. net. financier's wife, the (florence warden). 6s. fisherman, the complete (w. m. gallichan). 2s. 6d. net. fishing for pleasure and catching it (e. marston). cloth, 3s. 6d. net; leather, 5s. net. france, the cathedrals of northern (francis miltoun). 6s. net. france, the cathedrals of southern (francis miltoun). 6s. net. friends the french, my (r. h. sherard). 16s. net gallichan (w. m.), the complete fisherman. illustrated. (library of sports, vol. ii.) crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. net. geen (p.), days stolen for sport. illustrated. demy 8vo, 10s. 6d. net. giberne (agnes), rowena. a novel. crown 8vo, 6s. given proof, the (h. h. penrose). 6s. glass, china, and silver, essays on (frans coenen). 6s. net. golfer's manual, the (w. meredith butler). 2s. 6d. net. griffith (g.), the mummy and miss nitocris. a novel. crown 8vo, 6s. gull (ranger), the chain invisible. a novel. crown 8vo, 6s. gull (ranger), retribution. a novel. crown 8vo, 6s. hardy (rev. e. j.), what men like in women. crown 8vo, paper, 1s. net; cloth, 2s. hawthorne (n.), the scarlet letter. (eclectic library, vol. i.). 320 pages. crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 1s. net. haynie (h.), the captains and the kings: intimate reminiscences of notabilities. 348 pages. 8-1/4 × 5-1/2, cloth gilt, 6s. net. hitchcock (f. h.), the building of a book. crown 8vo, 6s. net. hobbes (j. o.), the artist's life, and other essays. with frontispiece and a cover design by charles e. dawson. crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. net. holmes (gordon), the arncliffe puzzle. a novel. crown 8vo, 6s. hopper (nora) (mrs. hugh chesson), the bell and the arrow. an english love story. crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. horace, the works of (c. smart). 2s. 6d. net. hornaday (w. t.), camp fires in the canadian rockies. with 70 illustrations from photographs taken by john m. phillips and two maps. demy 8vo, 16s. net. hosken (heath). see stanton. hume (fergus), lady jim of curzon street. a novel. cover design by charles e. dawson. crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s; paper, 1s. net; cloth, 1s. 6d. net. hume (fergus), the crowned skull. a novel. crown 8vo, 6s. hume (fergus), the path of pain. a novel. crown 8vo, 6s. huneker (j.), melomaniacs: wagner, ibsen, chopin, nietzsche, etc. crown 8vo, 6s. net. huneker (j.), iconoclasts: a book of dramatists. illuminating critical studies of modern revolutionary playwrights. crown 8vo, 6s. net. huneker (j.), visionaries. crown 8vo, 6s. hunt (violet), the workaday woman. a novel. crown 8vo, 6s. husband hunter, the (olivia roy). 6s. iconoclasts (james huneker). 6s. net. india (pierre loti). 10s. 6d. net. ingleby (l. c.), oscar wilde: a literary appreciation. demy 8vo, 12s. 6d. net. irvine (a. m.), roger dinwiddie, soul doctor. a novel. crown 8vo, 6s. italy, the cathedrals of northern (t. francis bumpus). 16s. net. japp (a. h.), r. l. stevenson: a record, an estimate, and a memorial. illustrated with facsimile letters and photogravure frontispiece. crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s. net. john bull and jonathan, with (john morgan richards). 16s. net. john johns, the adventures of (frederic carrel). 2s. 6d. net. johnson (trench h.), phrases and names: their origins and meanings. crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s. net. jungle trails and jungle people (caspar whitney). 12s. net. kennard (h. p.), the russian peasant. 19 illustrations. crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s. net. king's wife, the (helene vacaresco). 6s. kuropatkin, the campaign with (douglas story). 10s. 6d. net. lady jim of curzon street (fergus hume). cloth, 6s.; paper, 1s. net.; cloth, 1s. 6d. lady lee (florence warden). 6s. lang (e. m.), literary london. 42 illustrations. crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s. net. lang (e. m.), the book of fair women. by federigo luigino of udine. translated from the venetian edition of 1554. with 6 pictures. foolscap 8vo, hand-made paper, parchment binding. 6s. net. lang (e. m.), the abbeys of england. (the leather booklets, vol. v.). illustrated. 5 × 3, stamped leather, 2s. 6d. net. last empress of the french, the (p. w. sergeant). 12s. 6d. net. last miracle, the (m. p. shiel). 6s. lathrop (e.), where shakespeare set his stage. with numerous full-page illustrations. demy 8vo, cloth, 8s. 6d. net. leather booklets, the. 5 × 3, stamped leather, 2s. 6d. net each. vol. i. the pocket cathedral guide. by w. j. roberts. 30 illustrations. vol. ii. some old inns of england. by g. t. burrows. 24 illustrations. vol. iii. the castles of england. by e. b. d'auvergne. with 30 illustrations. vol. iv. some old london memorials. by w. j. roberts. with 25 photographs by the author. vol. v. the abbeys of england. by elsie m. lang. 20 illustrations. lethbridge of the moor (maurice drake). 6s. letters to a daughter (hubert bland). 3s. 6d. net; paper, 1s. net. life in the law (john george witt). 6s. net. life's shop window (victoria cross). 6s. lindsay's love, a (charles lowe). 6s. literary london (elsie m. lang). 6s. net. loti (pierre), india. demy 8vo, 10s. 6d. net. lotus land (p. a. thompson). 16s. net. lover of queen elizabeth, the (aubrey richardson). 12s. 6d. net. lowe (c.), a lindsay's love. a tale of the tuileries and the siege of paris. a novel. crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 6s. lucy of the stars (frederick palmer). 6s. machray (r.), the night side of london. with 95 pictures by tom browne, r.i., r.b.a. cloth, 2s. net; paper, 1s. net. macquoid (k. s.), pictures in umbria. with 50 original illustrations by thomas r. macquoid, r.i. (uniform with the cathedral series.) 6s. net. malvery (o. c.), the speculator. a novel. crown 8vo, 6s. man and his future (lt.-col. w. sedgwick). 7s. 6d. net. marriage broker, the (florence warden). 6s. marston (e.), fishing for pleasure and catching it. illustrated. crown 8vo, leather, 5s. net; cloth, 3s. 6d. net. 2835 mayfair (frank richardson). 6s. meade (l. t.), the red ruth. a novel. crown 8vo, 6s. melomaniacs (james huneker). 6s. net. merrill (e.), art in the dumps. a satire on the commercialism of british literature, drama, painting, and music. cloth, 2s. net.; paper, 1s. net. miltoun (f.), the cathedrals of northern france. with 80 illustrations from original drawings, and many minor decorations, by blanche mcmanus. (the cathedral series, vol. i.) decorative cover. 7-3/4 × 5-1/4 × 1-3/8, cloth gilt, 6s. net. miltoun (f.), the cathedrals of southern france. with 90 illustrations by blanche mcmanus. 1 vol. decorative cover. 568 pages. 8vo, 7-3/4 × 5-1/4 × 1-1/2, cloth gilt, 6s. net. (cathedral series, vol. ii.). modern medicine for the home (e. r. walker). cloth, 1s. 6d.; paper, 1s. net. moore (george), confessions of a young man. new edition revised. crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. motor log book, my. a handy record for recording dates, runs, time, distances, weather, roads, cost of repairs, petrol, entertaining, etc. crown 8vo, leather, full gilt, 4s. 6d. net; cloth, 2s. 6d. net. muddock (j. e. preston, "dick donovan"), pages from an adventurous life. very fully illustrated. demy 8vo, 16s. net.; club edition, 21s. net. muddock (j. e. preston), tangled destinies. a novel. crown 8vo, 6s. muddock (j. e. preston), thurtell's crime. a novel. crown 8vo, 6s. oscar wilde his life and confessions by frank harris volume i [illustration: oscar wilde at about thirty] printed and published by the author 29 waverley place new york city mcmxviii imprime en allemagne printed in germany copyright, 1916, by frank harris contents volume i chapter page introduction iii i. oscar's father and mother on trial 1 ii. oscar wilde as a schoolboy 23 iii. trinity, dublin: magdalen, oxford 37 iv. formative influences: oscar's poems 50 v. oscar's quarrel with whistler and marriage 73 vi. oscar wilde's faith and practice 91 vii. oscar's reputation and supporters 102 viii. oscar's growth to originality about 1890 112 ix. the summer of success: oscar's first play 133 x. the first meeting with lord alfred douglas 144 xi. the threatening cloud draws nearer 156 xii. danger signals: the challenge 175 xiii. oscar attacks queensberry and is worsted 202 xiv. how genius is persecuted in england 229 xv. the queen _vs._ wilde: the first trial 261 xvi. escape rejected: the second trial and sentence 292 volume ii [transcriber's note: volume ii is also available on project gutenberg.] xvii. prison and the effects of punishment 321 xviii. mitigation of punishment; but not release 345 xix. his st. martin's summer: his best work 363 xx. the results of his second fall: his genius 406 xxi. his sense of rivalry; his love of life and laziness 433 xxii. "a great romantic passion!" 450 xxiii. his judgments of writers and of women 469 xxiv. we argue about his "pet vice" and punishment 488 xxv. the last hope lost 509 xxvi. the end 532 xxvii. a last word 542 shaw's "memories" 1-32 the appendix, 549 list of illustrations volume i oscar wilde at about thirty frontispiece facing page dr. sir william wilde 22 oscar wilde at twenty-seven, as he first appeared in america 75 oscar wilde 90 [transcriber's note: this illustration is not in the original list.] volume ii oscar wilde and lord alfred douglas about 1893 321 "speranza": lady wilde as a young woman 358 note to warder martin 576 the crucifixion of the guilty is still more awe-inspiring than the crucifixion of the innocent; what do we men know of innocence? introduction i was advised on all hands not to write this book, and some english friends who have read it urge me not to publish it. "you will be accused of selecting the subject," they say, "because sexual viciousness appeals to you, and your method of treatment lays you open to attack. "you criticise and condemn the english conception of justice, and english legal methods: you even question the impartiality of english judges, and throw an unpleasant light on english juries and the english public--all of which is not only unpopular but will convince the unthinking that you are a presumptuous, or at least an outlandish, person with too good a conceit of himself and altogether too free a tongue." i should be more than human or less if these arguments did not give me pause. i would do nothing willingly to alienate the few who are still friendly to me. but the motives driving me are too strong for such personal considerations. i might say with the latin: "non me tua fervida terrent, dicta, ferox: di me terrent, et jupiter hostis." even this would be only a part of the truth. youth it seems to me should always be prudent, for youth has much to lose: but i am come to that time of life when a man can afford to be bold, may even dare to be himself and write the best in him, heedless of knaves and fools or of anything this world may do. the voyage for me is almost over: i am in sight of port: like a good shipman, i have already sent down the lofty spars and housed the captious canvas in preparation for the long anchorage: i have little now to fear. and the immortals are with me in my design. greek tragedy treated of far more horrible and revolting themes, such as the banquet of thyestes: and dante did not shrink from describing the unnatural meal of ugolino. the best modern critics approve my choice. "all depends on the subject," says matthew arnold, talking of great literature: "choose a fitting action--a great and significant action--penetrate yourself with the feeling of the situation: this done, everything else will follow; for expression is subordinate and secondary." socrates was found guilty of corrupting the young and was put to death for the offence. his accusation and punishment constitute surely a great and significant action such as matthew arnold declared was alone of the highest and most permanent literary value. the action involved in the rise and ruin of oscar wilde is of the same kind and of enduring interest to humanity. critics may say that wilde is a smaller person than socrates, less significant in many ways: but even if this were true, it would not alter the artist's position; the great portraits of the world are not of napoleon or dante. the differences between men are not important in comparison with their inherent likeness. to depict the mortal so that he takes on immortality--that is the task of the artist. there are special reasons, too, why i should handle this story. oscar wilde was a friend of mine for many years: i could not help prizing him to the very end: he was always to me a charming, soul-animating influence. he was dreadfully punished by men utterly his inferiors: ruined, outlawed, persecuted till death itself came as a deliverance. his sentence impeaches his judges. the whole story is charged with tragic pathos and unforgettable lessons. i have waited for more than ten years hoping that some one would write about him in this spirit and leave me free to do other things, but nothing such as i propose has yet appeared. oscar wilde was greater as a talker, in my opinion, than as a writer, and no fame is more quickly evanescent. if i do not tell his story and paint his portrait, it seems unlikely that anyone else will do it. english "strachery" may accuse me of attacking morality: the accusation is worse than absurd. the very foundations of this old world are moral: the charred ember itself floats about in space, moves and has its being in obedience to inexorable law. the thinker may define morality: the reformer may try to bring our notions of it into nearer accord with the fact: human love and pity may seek to soften its occasional injustices and mitigate its intolerable harshness: but that is all the freedom we mortals enjoy, all the breathing-space allotted to us. in this book the reader will find the figure of the prometheus-artist clamped, so to speak, with bands of steel to the huge granitic cliff of english puritanism. no account was taken of his manifold virtues and graces: no credit given him for his extraordinary achievements: he was hounded out of life because his sins were not the sins of the english middle-class. the culprit was in[1] much nobler and better than his judges. here are all the elements of pity and sorrow and fear that are required in great tragedy. the artist who finds in oscar wilde a great and provocative subject for his art needs no argument to justify his choice. if the picture is a great and living portrait, the moralist will be satisfied: the dark shadows must all be there, as well as the high lights, and the effect must be to increase our tolerance and intensify our pity. if on the other hand the portrait is ill-drawn or ill-painted, all the reasoning in the world and the praise of all the sycophants will not save the picture from contempt and the artist from censure. there is one measure by which intention as apart from accomplishment can be judged, and one only: "if you think the book well done," says pascal, "and on re-reading find it strong; be assured that the man who wrote it, wrote it on his knees." no book could have been written more reverently than this book of mine. frank harris. nice, 1910. footnotes: [1] [transcriber's note: printer error. in the 1930 u.s. edition the word "in" is deleted.] oscar wilde: his life and confessions chapter i on the 12th of december, 1864, dublin society was abuzz with excitement. a tidbit of scandal which had long been rolled on the tongue in semi-privacy was to be discussed in open court, and all women and a good many men were agog with curiosity and expectation. the story itself was highly spiced and all the actors in it well known. a famous doctor and oculist, recently knighted for his achievements, was the real defendant. he was married to a woman with a great literary reputation as a poet and writer who was idolized by the populace for her passionate advocacy of ireland's claim to self-government; "speranza" was regarded by the irish people as a sort of irish muse. the young lady bringing the action was the daughter of the professor of medical jurisprudence at trinity college, who was also the chief at marsh's library. it was said that this miss travers, a pretty girl just out of her teens, had been seduced by dr. sir william wilde while under his care as a patient. some went so far as to say that chloroform had been used, and that the girl had been violated. the doctor was represented as a sort of minotaur: lustful stories were invented and repeated with breathless delight; on all faces, the joy of malicious curiosity and envious denigration. the interest taken in the case was extraordinary: the excitement beyond comparison; the first talents of the bar were engaged on both sides; serjeant armstrong led for the plaintiff, helped by the famous mr. butt, q.c., and mr. heron, q.c., who were in turn backed by mr. hamill and mr. quinn; while serjeant sullivan was for the defendant, supported by mr. sidney, q.c., and mr. morris, q.c., and aided by mr. john curran and mr. purcell. the court of common pleas was the stage; chief justice monahan presiding with a special jury. the trial was expected to last a week, and not only the court but the approaches to it were crowded. to judge by the scandalous reports, the case should have been a criminal case, should have been conducted by the attorney-general against sir william wilde; but that was not the way it presented itself. the action was not even brought directly by miss travers or by her father, dr. travers, against sir william wilde for rape or criminal assault, or seduction. it was a civil action brought by miss travers, who claimed £2,000 damages for a libel written by lady wilde to her father, dr. travers. the letter complained of ran as follows:- tower, bray, may 6th. sir, you may not be aware of the disreputable conduct of your daughter at bray where she consorts with all the low newspaper boys in the place, employing them to disseminate offensive placards in which my name is given, and also tracts in which she makes it appear that she has had an intrigue with sir william wilde. if she chooses to disgrace herself, it is not my affair, but as her object in insulting me is in the hope of extorting money for which she has several times applied to sir william wilde with threats of more annoyance if not given, i think it right to inform you, as no threat of additional insult shall ever extort money from our hands. the wages of disgrace she has so basely treated for and demanded shall never be given her. jane f. wilde. to dr. travers. the summons and plaint charged that this letter written to the father of the plaintiff by lady wilde was a libel reflecting on the character and chastity of miss travers, and as lady wilde was a married woman, her husband sir william wilde was joined in the action as a co-defendant for conformity. the defences set up were:-first, a plea of "no libel": secondly, that the letter did not bear the defamatory sense imputed by the plaint: thirdly, a denial of the publication, and, fourthly, a plea of privilege. this last was evidently the real defence and was grounded upon facts which afforded some justification of lady wilde's bitter letter. it was admitted that for a year or more miss travers had done her uttermost to annoy both sir william wilde and his wife in every possible way. the trouble began, the defence stated, by miss travers fancying that she was slighted by lady wilde. she thereupon published a scandalous pamphlet under the title of "florence boyle price, a warning; by speranza," with the evident intention of causing the public to believe that the booklet was the composition of lady wilde under the assumed name of florence boyle price. in this pamphlet miss travers asserted that a person she called dr. quilp had made an attempt on her virtue. she put the charge mildly. "it is sad," she wrote, "to think that in the nineteenth century a lady must not venture into a physician's study without being accompanied by a bodyguard to protect her." miss travers admitted that dr. quilp was intended for sir william wilde; indeed she identified dr. quilp with the newly made knight in a dozen different ways. she went so far as to describe his appearance. she declared that he had "an animal, sinister expression about his mouth which was coarse and vulgar in the extreme: the large protruding under lip was most unpleasant. nor did the upper part of his face redeem the lower part. his eyes were small and round, mean and prying in expression. there was no candour in the doctor's countenance, where one looked for candour." dr. quilp's quarrel with his victim, it appeared, was that she was "unnaturally passionless." the publication of such a pamphlet was calculated to injure both sir william and lady wilde in public esteem, and miss travers was not content to let the matter rest there. she drew attention to the pamphlet by letters to the papers, and on one occasion, when sir william wilde was giving a lecture to the young men's christian association at the metropolitan hall, she caused large placards to be exhibited in the neighbourhood having upon them in large letters the words "sir william wilde and speranza." she employed one of the persons bearing a placard to go about ringing a large hand bell which she, herself, had given to him for the purpose. she even published doggerel verses in the _dublin weekly advertiser_, and signed them "speranza," which annoyed lady wilde intensely. one read thus:- your progeny is quite a pest to those who hate such "critters"; some sport i'll have, or i'm blest i'll fry the wilde breed in the west then you can call them fritters. she wrote letters to _saunders newsletter_, and even reviewed a book of lady wilde's entitled "the first temptation," and called it a "blasphemous production." moreover, when lady wilde was staying at bray, miss travers sent boys to offer the pamphlet for sale to the servants in her house. in fine miss travers showed a keen feminine ingenuity and pertinacity in persecution worthy of a nobler motive. but the defence did not rely on such annoyance as sufficient provocation for lady wilde's libellous letter. the plea went on to state that miss travers had applied to sir william wilde for money again and again, and accompanied these applications with threats of worse pen-pricks if the requests were not acceded to. it was under these circumstances, according to lady wilde, that she wrote the letter complained of to dr. travers and enclosed it in a sealed envelope. she wished to get dr. travers to use his parental influence to stop miss travers from further disgracing herself and insulting and annoying sir william and lady wilde. the defence carried the war into the enemy's camp by thus suggesting that miss travers was blackmailing sir william and lady wilde. the attack in the hands of serjeant armstrong was still more deadly and convincing. he rose early on the monday afternoon and declared at the beginning that the case was so painful that he would have preferred not to have been engaged in it--a hypocritical statement which deceived no one, and was just as conventional-false as his wig. but with this exception the story he told was extraordinarily clear and gripping. some ten years before, miss travers, then a young girl of nineteen, was suffering from partial deafness, and was recommended by her own doctor to go to dr. wilde, who was the chief oculist and aurist in dublin. miss travers went to dr. wilde, who treated her successfully. dr. wilde would accept no fees from her, stating at the outset that as she was the daughter of a brother-physician, he thought it an honour to be of use to her. serjeant armstrong assured his hearers that in spite of miss travers' beauty he believed that at first dr. wilde took nothing but a benevolent interest in the girl. even when his professional services ceased to be necessary, dr. wilde continued his friendship. he wrote miss travers innumerable letters: he advised her as to her reading and sent her books and tickets for places of amusement: he even insisted that she should be better dressed, and pressed money upon her to buy bonnets and clothes and frequently invited her to his house for dinners and parties. the friendship went on in this sentimental kindly way for some five or six years till 1860. the wily serjeant knew enough about human nature to feel that it was necessary to discover some dramatic incident to change benevolent sympathy into passion, and he certainly found what he wanted. miss travers, it appeared, had been burnt low down on her neck when a child: the cicatrice could still be seen, though it was gradually disappearing. when her ears were being examined by dr. wilde, it was customary for her to kneel on a hassock before him, and he thus discovered this burn on her neck. after her hearing improved he still continued to examine the cicatrice from time to time, pretending to note the speed with which it was disappearing. some time in '60 or '61 miss travers had a corn on the sole of her foot which gave her some pain. dr. wilde did her the honour of paring the corn with his own hands and painting it with iodine. the cunning serjeant could not help saying with some confusion, natural or assumed, "that it would have been just as well--at least there are men of such temperament that it would be dangerous to have such a manipulation going on." the spectators in the court smiled, feeling that in "manipulation" the serjeant had found the most neatly suggestive word. naturally at this point serjeant sullivan interfered in order to stem the rising tide of interest and to blunt the point of the accusation. sir william wilde, he said, was not the man to shrink from any investigation: but he was only in the case formally and he could not meet the allegations, which therefore were "one-sided and unfair" and so forth and so on. after the necessary pause, serjeant armstrong plucked his wig straight and proceeded to read letters of dr. wilde to miss travers at this time, in which he tells her not to put too much iodine on her foot, but to rest it for a few days in a slipper and keep it in a horizontal position while reading a pleasant book. if she would send in, he would try and send her one. "i have now," concluded the serjeant, like an actor carefully preparing his effect, "traced this friendly intimacy down to a point where it begins to be dangerous: i do not wish to aggravate the gravity of the charge in the slightest by any rhetoric or by an unconscious over-statement; you shall therefore, gentlemen of the jury, hear from miss travers herself what took place between her and dr. wilde and what she complains of." miss travers then went into the witness-box. though thin and past her first youth, she was still pretty in a conventional way, with regular features and dark eyes. she was examined by mr. butt, q.c. after confirming point by point what serjeant armstrong had said, she went on to tell the jury that in the summer of '62 she had thought of going to australia, where her two brothers lived, who wanted her to come out to them. dr. wilde lent her £40 to go, but told her she must say it was £20 or her father might think the sum too large. she missed the ship in london and came back. she was anxious to impress on the jury the fact that she had repaid dr. wilde, that she had always repaid whatever he had lent her. she went on to relate how one day dr. wilde had got her in a kneeling position at his feet, when he took her in his arms, declaring that he would not let her go until she called him william. miss travers refused to do this, and took umbrage at the embracing and ceased to visit at his house: but dr. wilde protested extravagantly that he had meant nothing wrong, and begged her to forgive him and gradually brought about a reconciliation which was consummated by pressing invitations to parties and by a loan of two or three pounds for a dress, which loan, like the others, had been carefully repaid. the excitement in the court was becoming breathless. it was felt that the details were cumulative; the doctor was besieging the fortress in proper form. the story of embracings, reconciliations and loans all prepared the public for the great scene. the girl went on, now answering questions, now telling bits of the story in her own way, mr. butt, the great advocate, taking care that it should all be consecutive and clear with a due crescendo of interest. in october, 1862, it appeared lady wilde was not in the house at merrion square, but was away at bray, as one of the children had not been well, and she thought the sea air would benefit him. dr. wilde was alone in the house. miss travers called and was admitted into dr. wilde's study. he put her on her knees before him and bared her neck, pretending to examine the burn; he fondled her too much and pressed her to him: she took offence and tried to draw away. somehow or other his hand got entangled in a chain at her neck. she called out to him, "you are suffocating me," and tried to rise: but he cried out like a madman: "i will, i want to," and pressed what seemed to be a handkerchief over her face. she declared that she lost consciousness. when she came to herself she found dr. wilde frantically imploring her to come to her senses, while dabbing water on her face, and offering her wine to drink. "if you don't drink," he cried, "i'll pour it over you." for some time, she said, she scarcely realized where she was or what had occurred, though she heard him talking. but gradually consciousness came back to her, and though she would not open her eyes she understood what he was saying. he talked frantically: "do be reasonable, and all will be right.... i am in your power ... spare me, oh, spare me ... strike me if you like. i wish to god i could hate you, but i can't. i swore i would never touch your hand again. attend to me and do what i tell you. have faith and confidence in me and you may remedy the past and go to australia. think of the talk this may give rise to. keep up appearances for your own sake...." he then took her up-stairs to a bedroom and made her drink some wine and lie down for some time. she afterwards left the house; she hardly knew how; he accompanied her to the door, she thought; but could not be certain; she was half dazed. the judge here interposed with the crucial question: "did you know that you had been violated?" the audience waited breathlessly; after a short pause miss travers replied: "yes." then it was true, the worst was true. the audience, excited to the highest pitch, caught breath with malevolent delight. but the thrills were not exhausted. miss travers next told how in dr. wilde's study one evening she had been vexed at some slight, and at once took four pennyworth of laudanum which she had bought. dr. wilde hurried her round to the house of dr. walsh, a physician in the neighbourhood, who gave her an antidote. dr. wilde was dreadfully frightened lest something should get out.... she admitted at once that she had sometimes asked dr. wilde for money: she thought nothing of it as she had again and again repaid him the monies which he had lent her. miss travers' examination in chief had been intensely interesting. the fashionable ladies had heard all they had hoped to hear, and it was noticed that they were not so eager to get seats in the court from this time on, though the room was still crowded. the cross-examination of miss travers was at least as interesting to the student of human nature as the examination in chief had been, for in her story of what took place on that 14th of october, weaknesses and discrepancies of memory were discovered and at length improbabilities and contradictions in the narrative itself. first of all it was elicited that she could not be certain of the day; it might have been the 15th or the 16th: it was friday the 14th, she thought.... it was a great event to her; the most awful event in her whole life; yet she could not remember the day for certain. "did you tell anyone of what had taken place?" "no." "not even your father?" "no." "why not?" "i did not wish to give him pain." "but you went back to dr. wilde's study after the awful assault?" "yes." "you went again and again, did you not?" "yes." "did he ever attempt to repeat the offence?" "yes." the audience was thunderstruck; the plot was deepening. miss travers went on to say that the doctor was rude to her again; she did not know his intention; he took hold of her and tried to fondle her; but she would not have it. "after the second offence you went back?" "yes." "did he ever repeat it again?" "yes." miss travers said that once again dr. wilde had been rude to her. "yet you returned again?" "yes." "and you took money from this man who had violated you against your will?" "yes." "you asked him for money?" "yes." "this is the first time you have told about this second and third assault, is it not?" "yes," the witness admitted. so far all that miss travers had said hung together and seemed eminently credible; but when she was questioned about the chloroform and the handkerchief she became confused. at the outset she admitted that the handkerchief might have been a rag. she was not certain it was a rag. it was something she saw the doctor throw into the fire when she came to her senses. "had he kept it in his hands, then, all the time you were unconscious?" "i don't know." "just to show it to you?" the witness was silent. when she was examined as to her knowledge of chloroform, she broke down hopelessly. she did not know the smell of it; could not describe it; did not know whether it burnt or not; could not in fact swear that it was chloroform dr. wilde had used; would not swear that it was anything; believed that it was chloroform or something like it because she lost consciousness. that was her only reason for saying that chloroform had been given to her. again the judge interposed with the probing question: "did you say anything about chloroform in your pamphlet?" "no," the witness murmured. it was manifest that the strong current of feeling in favour of miss travers had begun to ebb. the story was a toothsome morsel still: but it was regretfully admitted that the charge of rape had not been pushed home. it was felt to be disappointing, too, that the chief prosecuting witness should have damaged her own case. it was now the turn of the defence, and some thought the pendulum might swing back again. lady wilde was called and received an enthusiastic reception. the ordinary irishman was willing to show at any time that he believed in his muse, and was prepared to do more than cheer for one who had fought with her pen for "oireland" in the _nation_ side by side with tom davis. lady wilde gave her evidence emphatically, but was too bitter to be a persuasive witness. it was tried to prove from her letter that she believed that miss travers had had an intrigue with sir william wilde, but she would not have it. she did not for a moment believe in her husband's guilt. miss travers wished to make it appear, she said, that she had an intrigue with sir william wilde, but in her opinion it was utterly untrue. sir william wilde was above suspicion. there was not a particle of truth in the accusation; _her_ husband would never so demean himself. lady wilde's disdainful speeches seemed to persuade the populace, but had small effect on the jury, and still less on the judge. when she was asked if she hated miss travers, she replied that she did not hate anyone, but she had to admit that she disliked miss travers' methods of action. "why did you not answer miss travers when she wrote telling you of your husband's attempt on her virtue?" "i took no interest in the matter," was the astounding reply. the defence made an even worse mistake than this. when the time came, sir william wilde was not called. in his speech for miss travers, mr. butt made the most of this omission. he declared that the refusal of sir william wilde to go into the witness box was an admission of guilt; an admission that miss travers' story of her betrayal was true and could not be contradicted. but the refusal of sir william wilde to go into the box was not, he insisted, the worst point in the defence. he reminded the jury that he had asked lady wilde why she had not answered miss travers when she wrote to her. he recalled lady wilde's reply: "i took no interest in the matter." every woman would be interested in such a thing, he declared, even a stranger; but lady wilde hated her husband's victim and took no interest in her seduction beyond writing a bitter, vindictive and libellous letter to the girl's father.... the speech was regarded as a masterpiece and enhanced the already great reputation of the man who was afterwards to become the home rule leader. it only remained for the judge to sum up, for everyone was getting impatient to hear the verdict. chief justice monahan made a short, impartial speech, throwing the dry, white light of truth upon the conflicting and passionate statements. first of all, he said, it was difficult to believe in the story of rape whether with or without chloroform. if the girl had been violated she would be expected to cry out at the time, or at least to complain to her father as soon as she reached home. had it been a criminal trial, he pointed out, no one would have believed this part of miss travers' story. when you find a girl does not cry out at the time and does not complain afterwards, and returns to the house to meet further rudeness, it must be presumed that she consented to the seduction. but was there a seduction? the girl asserted that there was guilty intimacy, and sir william wilde had not contradicted her. it was said that he was only formally a defendant; but he was the real defendant and he could have gone into the box if he had liked and given his version of what took place and contradicted miss travers in whole or in part. "it is for you, gentlemen of the jury, to draw your own conclusions from his omission to do what one would have thought would be an honourable man's first impulse and duty." finally it was for the jury to consider whether the letter was a libel and if so what the amount of damages should be. his lordship recalled the jury at mr. butt's request to say that in assessing damages they might also take into consideration the fact that the defence was practically a justification of the libel. the fair-mindedness of the judge was conspicuous from first to last, and was worthy of the high traditions of the irish bench. after deliberating for a couple of hours the jury brought in a verdict which had a certain humour in it. they awarded to miss travers a farthing damages and intimated that the farthing should carry costs. in other words they rated miss travers' virtue at the very lowest coin of the realm, while insisting that sir william wilde should pay a couple of thousands of pounds in costs for having seduced her. it was generally felt that the verdict did substantial justice; though the jury, led away by patriotic sympathy with lady wilde, the true "speranza," had been a little hard on miss travers. no one doubted that sir william wilde had seduced his patient. he had, it appeared, an unholy reputation, and the girl's admission that he had accused her of being "unnaturally passionless" was accepted as the true key of the enigma. this was why he had drawn away from the girl, after seducing her. and it was not unnatural under the circumstances that she should become vindictive and revengeful. such inferences as these, i drew from the comments of the irish papers at the time; but naturally i wished if possible to hear some trustworthy contemporary on the matter. fortunately such testimony was forthcoming. a fellow of trinity, who was then a young man, embodied the best opinion of the time in an excellent pithy letter. he wrote to me that the trial simply established, what every one believed, that "sir william wilde was a pithecoid person of extraordinary sensuality and cowardice (funking the witness-box left him without a defender!) and that his wife was a highfalutin' pretentious creature whose pride was as extravagant as her reputation founded on second-rate verse-making.... even when a young woman she used to keep her rooms in merrion square in semi-darkness; she laid the paint on too thick for any ordinary light, and she gave herself besides all manner of airs." this incisive judgment of an able and fairly impartial contemporary observer[2] corroborates, i think, the inferences which one would naturally draw from the newspaper accounts of the trial. it seems to me that both combine to give a realistic photograph, so to speak, of sir william and lady wilde. an artist, however, would lean to a more kindly picture. trying to see the personages as they saw themselves he would balance the doctor's excessive sensuality and lack of self-control by dwelling on the fact that his energy and perseverance and intimate adaptation to his surroundings had brought him in middle age to the chief place in his profession, and if lady wilde was abnormally vain, a verse-maker and not a poet, she was still a talented woman of considerable reading and manifold artistic sympathies. such were the father and mother of oscar wilde. footnotes: [2] as he has died since this was written, there is no longer any reason for concealing his name: r.y. tyrrell, for many years before his death regius professor of greek in trinity college, dublin. chapter ii the wildes had three children, two sons and a daughter. the first son was born in 1852, a year after the marriage, and was christened after his father william charles kingsbury wills. the second son was born two years later, in 1854 and the names given to him seem to reveal the nationalist sympathies and pride of his mother. he was christened oscar fingal o'flahertie wills wilde; but he appears to have suffered from the pompous string only in extreme youth. at school he concealed the "fingal," as a young man he found it advisable to omit the "o'flahertie." in childhood and early boyhood oscar was not considered as quick or engaging or handsome as his brother, willie. both boys had the benefit of the best schooling of the time. they were sent as boarders to the portora school at enniskillen, one of the four royal schools of ireland. oscar went to portora in 1864 at the age of nine, a couple of years after his brother. he remained at the school for seven years and left it on winning an exhibition for trinity college, dublin, when he was just seventeen. the facts hitherto collected and published about oscar as a schoolboy are sadly meagre and insignificant. fortunately for my readers i have received from sir edward sullivan, who was a contemporary of oscar both at school and college, an exceedingly vivid and interesting pen-picture of the lad, one of those astounding masterpieces of portraiture only to be produced by the plastic sympathies of boyhood and the intimate intercourse of years lived in common. it is love alone which in later life can achieve such a miracle of representment. i am very glad to be allowed to publish this realistic miniature, in the very words of the author. "i first met oscar wilde in the early part of 1868 at portora royal school. he was thirteen or fourteen years of age. his long straight fair hair was a striking feature of his appearance. he was then, as he remained for some years after, extremely boyish in nature, very mobile, almost restless when out of the schoolroom. yet he took no part in the school games at any time. now and then he would be seen in one of the school boats on loch erne: yet he was a poor hand at an oar. "even as a schoolboy he was an excellent talker: his descriptive power being far above the average, and his humorous exaggerations of school occurrences always highly amusing. "a favourite place for the boys to sit and gossip in the late afternoon in winter time was round a stove which stood in 'the stone hall.' here oscar was at his best; although his brother willie was perhaps in those days even better than he was at telling a story. "oscar would frequently vary the entertainment by giving us extremely quaint illustrations of holy people in stained-glass attitudes: his power of twisting his limbs into weird contortions being very great. (i am told that sir william wilde, his father, possessed the same power.) it must not be thought, however, that there was any suggestion of irreverence in the exhibition. "at one of these gatherings, about the year 1870, i remember a discussion taking place about an ecclesiastical prosecution that made a considerable stir at the time. oscar was present, and full of the mysterious nature of the court of arches; he told us there was nothing he would like better in after life than to be the hero of such a _cause celèbre_ and to go down to posterity as the defendant in such a case as 'regina versus wilde!' "at school he was almost always called 'oscar'--but he had a nick-name, 'grey-crow,' which the boys would call him when they wished to annoy him, and which he resented greatly. it was derived in some mysterious way from the name of an island in the upper loch erne, within easy reach of the school by boat. "it was some little time before he left portora that the boys got to know of his full name, oscar fingal o'flahertie wills wilde. just at the close of his school career he won the 'carpenter' greek testament prize,--and on presentation day was called up to the dais by dr. steele, by all his names--much to oscar's annoyance; for a great deal of schoolboy chaff followed. "he was always generous, kindly, good-tempered. i remember he and myself were on one occasion mounted as opposing jockeys on the backs of two bigger boys in what we called a 'tournament,' held in one of the class-rooms. oscar and his horse were thrown, and the result was a broken arm for wilde. knowing that it was an accident, he did not let it make any difference in our friendship. "he had, i think, no very special chums while at school. i was perhaps as friendly with him all through as anybody, though his junior in class by a year.... "willie wilde was never very familiar with him, treating him always, in those days, as a younger brother.... "when in the head class together, we with two other boys were in the town of enniskillen one afternoon, and formed part of an audience who were listening to a street orator. one of us, for the fun of the thing, got near the speaker and with a stick knocked his hat off and then ran for home followed by the other three. several of the listeners, resenting the impertinence, gave chase, and oscar in his hurry collided with an aged cripple and threw him down--a fact which was duly reported to the boys when we got safely back. oscar was afterwards heard telling how he found his way barred by an angry giant with whom he fought through many rounds and whom he eventually left for dead in the road after accomplishing prodigies of valour on his redoubtable opponent. romantic imagination was strong in him even in those schoolboy days; but there was always something in his telling of such a tale to suggest that he felt his hearers were not really being taken in; it was merely the romancing indulged in so humorously by the two principal male characters in 'the importance of being earnest.'... "he never took any interest in mathematics either at school or college. he laughed at science and never had a good word for a mathematical or science master, but there was nothing spiteful or malignant in anything he said against them; or indeed against anybody. "the romances that impressed him most when at school were disraeli's novels. he spoke slightingly of dickens as a novelist.... "the classics absorbed almost his whole attention in his later school days, and the flowing beauty of his oral translations in class, whether of thucydides, plato or virgil, was a thing not easily to be forgotten." this photograph, so to speak, of oscar as a schoolboy is astonishingly clear and lifelike; but i have another portrait of him from another contemporary, who has since made for himself a high name as a scholar at trinity, which, while confirming the general traits sketched by sir edward sullivan, takes somewhat more notice of certain mental qualities which came later to the fruiting. this observer who does not wish his name given, writes: "oscar had a pungent wit, and nearly all the nicknames in the school were given by him. he was very good on the literary side of scholarship, with a special leaning to poetry.... "we noticed that he always liked to have editions of the classics that were of stately size with large print.... he was more careful in his dress than any other boy. "he was a wide reader and read very fast indeed; how much he assimilated i never could make out. he was poor at music. "we thought him a fair scholar but nothing extraordinary. however, he startled everyone the last year at school in the classical medal examination, by walking easily away from us all in the _viva voce_ of the greek play ('the agamemnon')." i may now try and accentuate a trait or two of these photographs, so to speak, and then realise the whole portrait by adding an account given to me by oscar himself. the joy in humorous romancing and the sweetness of temper recorded by sir edward sullivan were marked traits in oscar's character all through his life. his care in dressing too, and his delight in stately editions; his love of literature "with a special leaning to poetry" were all qualities which distinguished him to the end. "until the last year of my school life at portora," he said to me once, "i had nothing like the reputation of my brother willie. i read too many english novels, too much poetry, dreamed away too much time to master the school tasks. "knowledge came to me through pleasure, as it always comes, i imagine.... "i was nearly sixteen when the wonder and beauty of the old greek life began to dawn upon me. suddenly i seemed to see the white figures throwing purple shadows on the sun-baked palæstra; 'bands of nude youths and maidens'--you remember gautier's words--'moving across a background of deep blue as on the frieze of the parthenon.' i began to read greek eagerly for love of it all, and the more i read the more i was enthralled: oh what golden hours were for us as we sat together there, while the white vests of the chorus seemed to wave up a light air; while the cothurns trod majestic down the deep iambic lines and the rolling anapæstics curled like vapour over shrines. "the head master was always holding my brother willie up to me as an example; but even he admitted that in my last year at portora i had made astounding progress. i laid the foundation there of whatever classical scholarship i possess." it occurred to me once to ask oscar in later years whether the boarding school life of a great, public school was not responsible for a good deal of sensual viciousness. "englishmen all say so," he replied, "but it did not enter into my experience. i was very childish, frank; a mere boy till i was over sixteen. of course i was sensual and curious, as boys are, and had the usual boy imaginings; but i did not indulge in them excessively. "at portora nine out of ten boys only thought of football or cricket or rowing. nearly every one went in for athletics--running and jumping and so forth; no one appeared to care for sex. we were healthy young barbarians and that was all." "did you go in for games?" i asked. "no," oscar replied smiling, "i never liked to kick or be kicked." "surely you went about with some younger boy, did you not, to whom you told your dreams and hopes, and whom you grew to care for?" the question led to an intimate personal confession, which may take its place here. "it is strange you should have mentioned it," he said. "there was one boy, and," he added slowly, "one peculiar incident. it occurred in my last year at portora. the boy was a couple of years younger than i--we were great friends; we used to take long walks together and i talked to him interminably. i told him what i should have done had i been alexander, or how i'd have played king in athens, had i been alcibiades. as early as i can remember i used to identify myself with every distinguished character i read about, but when i was fifteen or sixteen i noticed with some wonder that i could think of myself as alcibiades or sophocles more easily than as alexander or cæsar. the life of books had begun to interest me more than real life.... "my friend had a wonderful gift for listening. i was so occupied with talking and telling about myself that i knew very little about him, curiously little when i come to think of it. but the last incident of my school life makes me think he was a sort of mute poet, and had much more in him than i imagined. it was just before i first heard that i had won an exhibition and was to go to trinity. dr. steele had called me into his study to tell me the great news; he was very glad, he said, and insisted that it was all due to my last year's hard work. the 'hard' work had been very interesting to me, or i would not have done much of it. the doctor wound up, i remember, by assuring me that if i went on studying as i had been studying during the last year i might yet do as well as my brother willie, and be as great an honour to the school and everybody connected with it as he had been. "this made me smile, for though i liked willie, and knew he was a fairly good scholar, i never for a moment regarded him as my equal in any intellectual field. he knew all about football and cricket and studied the school-books assiduously, whereas i read everything that pleased me, and in my own opinion always went about 'crowned.'" here he laughed charmingly with amused deprecation of the conceit. "it was only about the quality of the crown, frank, that i was in any doubt. if i had been offered the triple tiara, it would have appeared to me only the meet reward of my extraordinary merit.... "when i came out from the doctor's i hurried to my friend to tell him all the wonderful news. to my surprise he was cold and said, a little bitterly, i thought: "'you seem glad to go?' "'glad to go,' i cried; 'i should think i was; fancy going to trinity college, dublin, from this place; why, i shall meet men and not boys. of course i am glad, wild with delight; the first step to oxford and fame.' "'i mean,' my chum went on, still in the same cold way, 'you seem glad to leave me.' "his tone startled me. "'you silly fellow,' i exclaimed, 'of