The October issue of
The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine
It is believed that *
* The above conjecture of the Commentators as to the date when this play was written is partly founded on a passage in the third Act, where Sir
Toby says to
Enter Orsino, Duke of Illyria, Curio. Atlendants, Musicians.“ Duke.If music be the food of love, play on,Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.— That strain again;—it had a dying fall: O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet south, That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour.—Enough; no more; ’Tis not so sweet now as it was before. O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou! That notwithstanding thy capacity Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there, Of what validity and pitch soever, But falls into abatement and low price, Even in a minute! so full of shapes is fancy* That it alone is high fantastical. Curio.Will you go hunt, my lord?Duke.What, Curio?Cur.The hart.Duke.Why so I do, the noblest that I have:O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, Methought she purged the air of pestilence; That instant was I turn’d into a hart; And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, E’er since pursue me.—How now? What news from her? EnterValentine.
Val.So please my lord, I might not be admitted,
Antonio, “Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you.” This is thought to be a stage allusion to the political world. There were certain
persons who had in that year, 1614, undertaken to carry things for the King in the House of Commons, to the great scandal of the nation, and these individuals
were called Undertakers. Certainly Shakespeare’s play was written after
First. In Marston’s play two individuals personate a third; as Viola personates her brother; and these appear on the stage at the same time.
Second. We are reminded of Shakespeare’s “high phantastical” duke in these passages in Marston.—One says,
Third. The Clown’s question to Malvolio about the soul has this parallel in Marston.
Fourth. Olivia’s mood may have been suggested by Marston’s “Do but scorne her; shee is thine own,
”
&c., and
Fifth. Viola’s spirit is prefigured in Marston’s lines,
* Love.
But from her handmaid do return this answer: The element itself, till seven years heat, Shall not behold her face at ample view; But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk, And water once a day her chamber round With eye offending brine: all this, to season A brother’s dead love, which she would keep fresh, And lasting, in her sad remembrance. Duke.O, she, that hath a heart of that fine frame,To pay this debt of love but to a brother, How will she love, when the rich golden shaft Hath kill’d the flock of all affections else That live in her! when liver, brain and heart,* These sov’reign thrones, are all supplied, and fill’d (Her sweet perfections!) with one self king! Away before me to sweet beds of flowers; Love thoughts lie rich, when canopied with flowers.”— Acti.scene1.
There can be gathered from these sentences no good augury for the happy issue of the passion of which they are the exponent. Yet Orsino at once wins our interest, nor does he fail altogether to command respect.
The words,
are not those of a voluptuary: they express, very exquisitely, a high poetical passion, sprung from a momentary impression. The use, in our
poet’s day, of the word “fancy,” in many cases where we now should say “love,” proves the general
recognition, formerly, of the fact that love, most often, does arise from the impression of a moment; of some moment in which the fancy is struck, perhaps
inexplicably so, and the sense is awakened in the breast that a certain object possesses a beauty such as is owned by no other creature. But, what shall come of
that impression—whether it shall fade like the ripple made by a pebble thrown upon the water, or,
must depend on subtle sympathies, the existence or non-existence of which is left to time to prove.
There is no indication in the passages above quoted of any such sympathy: on the contrary, everything we hear betrays the uncongeniality of the two persons.
That Orsino should obtrude his suit on Olivia’s profound grief, shows how little he understands her; nor does her own account of her state of mind
awaken in him one touch of sympathy. From her pathetic message he gathers this only—food for admiration, and for hope;—he does not sorrow
that she is in sorrow: but, whilst she is bathed in tears, and will not let the air itself “behold her face at ample view
,”
he withdraws, not to mourn in spirit with her, but to seek those delicious scenes of nature most suggestive to the poet and the lover of the “love
thoughts” with which he be-decks the idol of his imagination. Just as Romeo loves not Rosalind, but has a mental image of beauty for which Rosalind
stands, till Juliet, the true impersonation of it appears, so does Orsino love, love—but not Olivia.
Well does she read him. We find her in an after scene discoursing thus with one who has come to plead his cause:
Olivia. Where lies your text?Viola. In Orsino’s bosom.Oli. In his bosom? In what chapter of his bosom?Vio. To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.Oli. O, I have read it; it is heresy.
And, with the same discrimination, she will not let the envoy speak the speech Orsino has written, though told
Vio. Alas! I took great pains to study it, and it is poetical.Oli. It is the more like to be feigned. I pray you keep it in.”— Act i. scene 5.
The fate of this love both to its subject
“* The supposed seats of passion, judgment, and sentiment.
Clo. Now, the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffata, for thy mind is a very
opal.—I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be everything, and their intent everywhere; for
that’s it, that always makes a good voyage of nothing.”— Act ii. scene 3.
It is not that the passion has sprung from a vivid momentary impression that we despair of it; nor yet that it meets with no reciprocation; but that it lacks
every symptom of true love, and abounds in every symptom of the spurious kind; inasmuch as it inspires not the man with sympathy, even for the beloved object, nor
breathes into his life noble energy and purpose, or yet nobler self-denial—but on the contrary, to the exclusion of all these, fills him with an
insatiable thirst for its own indulgence, as well as (and the Clown is right in arguing as he does from the circumstance), with an incredible caprice in the whims
which constitute that indulgence. This “spirit of love” may indeed “fall into abatement and low price, even in
a minute,” and we shall see, later, that the Duke himself has ever and anon an uneasy consciousness, against which he struggles, of the insecurity of
his feeling, notwithstanding its violence.
In spite of all that is disparaging, however, we trace in Orsino, even in this first scene, a man of a most pure nature, of highly poetical and artistic
temperament; a man of heart too, and of a reflective, philosophical cast of mind. Subsequently we find also that (though the aspect under which he first presents
himself to us is such as we have seen under those bowery canopies where he, like Jacques’s
his life previously had been sterner tunes his distresses and records his woes
” in the opening scene. Speaking of one whom he supposes to be a pirate, he
says:
And addressing the same individual, he adds:
Act v. scene1.
In these spirited words heroic delight in martial enterprise is clearly indicated, as well as the awful power and wrath of the supreme and ruling prince,
about to exercise his high prerogative of dealing justice to the enemy of the country. But so different is he from his best self when first we see him, that we
must coincide in the remark in which a speaker, who knew him well, glances at him in a subsequent scene, when she says, in her own gentle way, that
We must now turn to the second scene of this drama, which has altogether a different tone from the first. Here, in contrast with that Orsino,“rich love thoughts” amongst “sweet beds of
flowers;”
in contrast too with the Countess Olivia, who, immured in her princely mansion, nourishes her regret, the shipwrecked stranger,
Viola, wanders along the shore, struggling as she may with grief and danger. Nobly born and rich, very young and most beautiful, cast by the storm on a country
not deemed safe even for a brave man to traverse alone, her position is one of peril; but it is not her own danger that weighs, in the first instance, on her
mind; another more grievous anxiety oppresses her, and it is not until relieved in some degree of this that her own difficulties and dangers occur to her mind.
The dialogue which we proceed to quote is between herself and the captain and sailors saved with her.
Viola. What country, friends, is this?Cap. Illyria, lady.Viola. And what should I do in Illyria?Cap. It is perchance that you yourself were saved.Viola. O my poor brother! and so perchance may he be.Cap. True, madam; and, to comfort you with chance,Vio. For saying so, there’s gold:Act i. scene 2.
After the first impassioned exclamation, “And what should I do in Illyria?
” we see that Viola recoils from the idea of
her loss, and three times in these few lines reiterates the hope of her brother’s safety. It is not simply For saying so, there’s gold,
” but the tenderness of the sister wishes
“to pay this debt of love” “to a brother,”
as if by that very action she rendered more secure in
reality, as she does to her own imagination, the fact of his existence.
The words of Viola seem like an echo rising up from the far-off shore to Orsino’s enthusiastic eulogy on sisterly love, which we have just heard.
We see that she possessed that “fine frame of heart
” which (by the rule that he propounds, and which is strictly true) does,
in its deep sisterly affection, imply capacity for love itself. Nor are we long in learning who is the object of that love.
Her anxiety for her brother now mitigated by hope, she turns her attention to her own safety, and, with a view to securing that, continues her dialogue with
the captain. He having replied to her question, “Know’st thou this country?” in the affirmative, she asks:
Vio. Who governs here?Cap. A noble duke, in natureVio. What is his name?Cap. Orsino.Vio. Orsino! I have heard my father name him.
Viola has heard of Orsino, perhaps has seen him; at all events loves him. The quick “he was a bachelor then,
” betrays
the uppermost thought. Spenser, in his “
The varying emotions with which she listens to the Captain’s replies tohe was a
bachelor then,
” the dialogue continues thus:
Cap. And so is now,Vio. What’s she?Cap. A virtuous maid, the daughter of a countVio. O that I served that lady;Cap. That were hard to compass,
Very natural is the hurried, anxious “What’s she?” Then we see, that, as the Captain proceeds, her heart warms to Olivia, in
whose sisterly love and sorrow she finds a point of sympathy, and the sense of safety in a house exempt from “the company and sight of
men
” makes her wish to seek the protection of the Countess; but this wish is as instantaneously as silently renounced on hearing that Olivia
“will admit no kind of suit.
” Viola is too high born to sue, and too delicate to intrude on privacy, and above all on a
mourner’s grief.
Baffled then in her desire to enter this safe and decorous asylum, she adopts a resolution which shows equal spirit, delicacy, and judgment; and, having
formed her plan, there is both wisdom and nobleness in the manner in which, by confiding in the Captain, and appealing to his best feelings, she endeavours to
secure his aid, as the first condition of its successful execution. She says:
Vio. There is a fair behaviour in thee, Captain;
Act i. scene 2.
If, as she fondly believes, her brother is saved, Viola knows he is sure to betake himself to Orsino’s court, Orsino being well acquainted with
her family. She has, therefore, this motive to proceed thither; but there is, besides, another attraction which draws her. Never indeed would Viola’s
foot have sought that city had Orsino’s love for “the fair Olivia” been reciprocated; or, at all events, her object in
undertaking the pilgrimage would have been quite other than that which now leads her on, and which she obscurely hints at in the lines,
What else may hap to time I will commit.”
When to the information that Olivia “will admit no kind of suit,” the Captain adds, “No, not the Duke’s,” those four little words light the soft fire of hope, fix Viola’s resolves, and decide her destiny. Trusting thenceforth to her own resources, she turns with aching yet not despairing heart from the sea whose green billows she will not believe enfold her brother, to seek the city of Orsino—who loves Olivia.
The impression that Viola produced at the court, where we next see her in male attire, and under the name of Cesario, appears from the following dialogue:
Valentine. If the Duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanced; he
hath known you but three days, and already you are no stranger.Viola. You either fear his humour or my negligence, that you call in question the continuance of his love. Is he
inconstant, sir, in his favours?Val. No, believe me.Viola. I thank you. Here comes the Count.”—Act i. scene
4.
Apparently she was at once established as the friend rather than the attendant of Orsino. She never sings to him in the play, but that, in another sense, she “speaks to him in many sorts of music,” is evident from the delight he takes in her society; and the question, “Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours,” as well as the gentle “I thank you,” which follows Valentine’s answer in the negative, mark how precious to her was this confidence, which was not only the proof of his appreciation, but which gave her the opportunity of being in his society, of watching his emotions, of thoroughly understanding his character, and of ministering to his mind such solace as she could give.
The short dialogue between Valentine and Viola is evidence also of the facility and tact with which she at once performed duties that must indeed have been
strange to one always, hitherto, accustomed to command services, instead of rendering them. The power of adapting itself to circumstances is a mark of a fine
mind; it results from clearness of intellect and delicacy of moral perception. This characteristic propriety (to use the word in its highest sense, of beauty and
fitness combined) is conspicuous in Viola throughout, and is felt even in her language. Cymbeline, on hearing his daughter speak, exclaims, “the
” Now, applying to the expression of the speaker that phrase which Cymbeline applied to the voice, we
may say that we are distinctly conscious in reading this play of “the tune” of Viola. It differs from that of tune of Imogen!
Whilst Valentine and Viola are speaking, the Duke enters, and making his suite retire, he thus addresses her:
and thereupon he proceeds to require of her the performance of a task that she certainly had not imagined to herself, when, standing on the shore, she
uttered the resolve, “I’ll serve this Duke;” for he adds: Duke. Cesario,
More able to appreciate Olivia’s state of feeling than himself, Viola urges:
Still, with the same want of sympathy we have before commented on, he regards not Olivia’s grief, but, in his violent and selfish self-will,
persists in his plan: and in order to carry it out, imposes on his “gentleman Cesario” a proceeding beneath his own ducal
Anxious, however, to give him any relief she can, it is evident she mentally vows she Duke. Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds,will gain admittance, and then answers:
Perhaps she scarcely anticipated the extent of his commission, which is as follows: Vio. Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then?”
From which answer, she would have him infer, that himself would be the fitter “nuncio;” but he continues: Duke. O then unfold the passion of my love,Vio. I think not so, my lord.”
Duke. Dear lad, believe it;Vio. I’ll do my bestaside] a barful strife!
Act i. scene 5.
The firmness which could enable her to repress all sign of the torture occasioned by his allusion, under the circumstances, to her feminine beauty and sweetness, is truly wonderful; whilst the reward he holds out to her in the words “Prosper well,” &c, might, in any inferior mind, have raised a bitter contrast, between the recompense he offered, and the relation to him she coveted; but, rising above all this, she adopts, as we have seen, the only course worthy of her.
Her position was now so painful one would at first be tempted to believe nothing could be worse: but we must observe, in passing, that from one misery, at least, Viola was exempt. She was in no uncertainty as to Orsino’s feelings; on that head she could entertain no doubt. Doubt!—perhaps the only evil under which a great mind may sink without incurring blame, or losing our admiration. Doubt!—which brings to the verge of madness natures different as that of the energetic Othello and the contemplative Hamlet: and no wonder: for, in the phantom region of Doubt, the Mind and Will know not what arms to bring forth, not knowing what enemy there is, nor even if there be one—but, fevered and exhausted, nature sinks, as does a warrior under the poisoned arrows of an invisible foe.
Viola’s path was clear, and she resolved at once to tread it:
With what tact and zeal, with what unswerving fidelity the resolution was kept, any one studying the subsequent scenes will judge for himself. And it
could not be otherwise: for, now, in the silence to which her own passion was doomed, the unutterable love could find no manifestation except in the ardent and
assiduous effort to promote the happiness and dearest wishes of the beloved. The struggle was deadly, and death must have followed the victory: but the death of
victory is not the worst alternative which fate may proffer to our choice. We must confess that Viola might have been more unhappy than she was. She might have
been unable to render service to Orsino.
In showing us this heroine subject to so severe an ordeal, Shakespeare has not been without a motive. He has wished to prove to us that a perfect love must
be born, if at all, out of a perfect friendship, and this law of the mind is one of those which the drama we are considering was intended to trace; and this it
does trace, in characters
Whilst Viola, accompanied by a suite, wends her way to the scene of her fiery trial, let us cast a glance into the interior of Olivia’s house.
There we hear Sir Toby’s complaint: “What a plague means my niece to take the death of her brother thus? I am sure care’s an enemy to life.”— “No, indeed, Sir; the lady Olivia has no folly: she will keep no fool till she be married.”— “Nay, either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open my lips so wide as a bristle may enter in, in way of thy excuse: my lady will hang
thee for thy absence. “ “
Her brother has been dead a year, during which time she has closely shut herself up. Her accustomed amusements have become distasteful to her: for
instance, the Jester has had no acceptance with her of late; so he has been hanging about Orsino’s court, singing to him, and turning an honest penny
that way. In reply to Viola’s question, Act i. scene 3.
he answers:
This absence has, however displeased Olivia, as we learn from the waiting woman, Maria, who says to the clown, Act iii.
scene 1.
On entering, Olivia’s first words are, Act i.
scene 5.
After some further parley, he says: Clo.Do you not hear, fellow? Take away the lady.Oli. Go to, you’re a dry fool. I’ll none of you: besides
A pretty expression, by the way, as Oli. Can you do it?Clo. Dexterously, good Madonna.Oli. Make your proof.Clo.I must catechise you for it, Madonna:
That he has obtained his pardon by this delicate flattery, is clear, from her delighted remark to Malvolio: Oli. Well, sir, for want of other idleness I’ll bide your proof.Clo. Good Madonna, why mourn’st thou?Oli. Good fool, for my brother’s death.Clo. I think his soul is in hell, Madonna.Oli. I know his soul is in heaven, fool.Clo. The more fool you, Madonna, to mourn for your brother’s soul being in heaven.—Take away
the fool, gentlemen.”
Malvolio’s cynical answer draws from Olivia an observation which lays open a very leading trait in her own character: Oli. What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend?”
Oli. O you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free
disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon-bullets: There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail;
nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove.”
Now from this we conceive, in part, why Orsino’s suit had been so distasteful to Olivia. She has no self-love, consequently, no love of
admiration, and many passages show her dislike of praise. Nor has she the poetical temperament; consequently, the character she was most likely to value was one
which could win her esteem by its well-regulated balance: the “known discreet man” who would “reprove” her, would be
more likely to gain her love than the man who should idolize her. Nor would she, having so little self-esteem, deem it any proof of a man’s
“discreet” judgment that he admired her excessively: she would be more apt to respect his judgment who thought slightingly of her, nay,
scorned her: and her affection would flow to him whom she admired, not to one who admired her. Emerson has a passage descriptive ofThe continual effort to raise himself, to work a pitch above his last
height, betrays itself in a man’s relations. We thirst for approbation, yet cannot forgive the approver. The sweet of nature is love; yet if I have
a friend, I am tormented by my imperfections. The love of me accuses the other party; if he were high enough to slight me then I could love him, and rise by
my affection to new heights.
”—Essays
At the precise moment when the clown’s “catechising” had startled the mind of Olivia into a sudden brightness and
reconciliation, by bringing before her that one only thought which reconciles us to the death of our friends, and which does so the more quickly and completely
the deeper is our love; at that moment Maria enters and says: “Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much desires to speak with you.” “Go you, Malvolio; if it be a suit from the Count, I am sick, or not at home; what you will to dismiss it.” “
“
With the instinctive apprehension of a lady undergoing the peculiar sort of persecution to which Olivia is subject, she answers,
Olivia despatches Malvolio in these words: Maria. I know not, madam; ’t is a fair young man and well attended.
After a time Malvolio returns, and in his account we see that, while Viola most carefully conceals whence she comes, as the first condition of effecting
an entrance, she is acting up to the letter of the instructions, which we have heard Orsino deliver:
This description of his youth (Orsino for once guessed aright) added to the fact of his spirited pertinacity, decides Olivia: she says: Mal. Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I told him you were sick; he takes on him to understand so much,
and therefore comes to speak with you: I told him you were asleep; he seems to have a foreknowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you.
What is to be said to him, lady? He’s fortified against any denial.Oli. Tell him, he shall not speak with me.Mal. He has been told so: and he says, he’ll stand at your door like a sheriff’s post, and be the supporter of a
bench but he’ll speak with you.Oli. What kind of man is he?Mal. Why of mankind.Oli. What manner of man?Mal. Of very ill manner; he’ll speak with you, will you or no.Oli. Of what personage and years is he?Mal. Not yet old enough for a man nor young enough for a boy; as a squash is before ’t is a peascod, or a codling when
’t is almost an apple: ’t is with him e’en standing water, between boy and man. He is very well favored and he speaks
very shrewishly; one would think his mother’s milk were scarce out of him.”
Oli. Let him approach: Call in my gentlewoman—Give me my veil. . . . .We’ll once more hear
Orsino’s embassy.”
When we realize the fact that Viola had had to encounter the pert Maria, the swaggering half intoxicated Sir Toby, and the formal, morose steward, her
generous perseverance appears in clearness to our mind, and the embarrassment of her position on being “
Most exquisite, radiant, and unmatchable beauty .
”—The ridiculousness of rehearsing this
to a veiled unknown, stops Viola, and from that moment she drops Orsino and takes the matter in her own hands. She is not put out of countenance, but with modest
ease appeals to them as ladies: “Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible even to the least sinister
usage.
” With admirable tact she so conducts the dialogue that from being the butt of ridicule she soon begins to have the sway. Her first
object is to ascertain if she is addressing Olivia herself. Having stated that she has a speech to recite, Olivia asks, “Are you a
comedian?
” And we, the audience, can well understand her answer, and sympathize in all it implies:
Vio. No, my profound heart; and yet by the very fangs of malice I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house?Oli. If I do not usurp myself I am.Vio. Most certain if you are she you do usurp yourself; for what is yours to bestow is not yours to reserve. But this is from my
commission: I will on with my speech in your praise, and then show you the heart of my message.Oli. Come to what is important in’t; I forgive you the praise.”
The tone of reproof Viola assumes above, and the sincerity and dignity of her perseverance win upon Olivia, and at Viola’s request to be heard in
private, Maria is ordered to withdraw. But this is only one obstacle removed. Before Viola can “ “
do her best to woo
”
Orsino’s “lady” she must see her: she therefore endeavours next to get rid of the veil.
Vio. Good Madam, let me see your face.Oli. Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with my face? You are now out of your text: but we will draw Unveiling.]Vio. Excellently done, if God did
all.Oli. ’Tis in grain, sir,
’twill endure wind and weather.Vio. ’Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white
What can be more admirable than the generous recognition herein contained of Olivia’s beauty! What more noble than Viola’s friendship for Orsino! She even seems here, in the completeness of her sympathy to change existences with him; she looks with his eyes, thinks with his mind, and speaks with his tongue.
Olivia answers with her characteristic coldness to the voice of praise. “
Oli. O, sir, I will not be so hard hearted; I will give out divers schedules of my beauty: It shall be inventoried; and every
particle and utensil labelled to my will: as, item, two lips indifferent red; item, two grey eyes with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so
forth. Were you sent hither to praise me? Vio. I see you what you are: you are too proud;
This rebuke is not just, for Olivia is not proud; she is simply indifferent to Orsino, and indifferent to, though aware of, her personal attractions; but the
tone Viola takes secures from thenceforth Olivia’s serious and respectful attention. She asks: “How does he love me?”
Vio. With adorations, with fertile tears,
This picture of abject love is repulsive to Olivia; she answers steadily and gravely, and without the least touch of triumph,—we will not say
without the least touch of contempt,—but rather with a total indifference both
Oli. Your lord does know my mind, I cannot love him:
A speech which shows with perfect truth to nature that respect and admiration may exist without there ensuing any personal feeling; which fact Viola in her
answer entirely overlooks. She thinks that, with this opinion of Orsino, Olivia cannot fail at last to love him.
Vio. If I did love you in my master’s flame, With such a suffering, such a deadly life,
no sense,Oli. Why what would you?Vio. Make me a willow cabin at your gate,Oli. You might do much: What is your parentage?Vio. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
We see from the above how the mode of wooing that Viola describes, differing essentially in its energetic self-will and masterdom from Orsino’s
plaintive suffering and idolatry, pleases Olivia. She replies in continuation,
Another indignity for Viola to undergo in addition to those which she Oli. Get you to your lord;
And then adds, Vio. I am no fee’d post, lady; keep your purse:
Exit.]
These are the only harsh words we ever hear Viola utter; and if there be anything that not only can move the patience of a saint but ought to do so, it is to see a person whom she loves made to suffer by one whom she less esteems.
After Viola’s departure Olivia thus soliloquizes:
Oli. What is your parentage?Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
I am a gentleman.—I’ll be sworn thou art,
Here then is Olivia’s first impression of love; made by “perfections,” which she enumerates in one long line, and whose
effect, she in the three last describes perfectly. In addition and subordination to the reasons which, according to what we have said, it is clear such a nature
as Olivia’s would find for loving such a nature as Viola’s, we may add the extreme beauty of Viola (called somewhere in the play
“an estimable wonder,”) and which no doubt shone forth with unwonted lustre in this interview. It had “a mind put
in’t;” the intellectual and moral faculties were taxed to the uttermost. The magnanimity of her purpose and the self-possession she
exercised would give to her deportment dignity and repose;she’ll none o’ the count; she’ll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit: I have
heard her swear it.
” Now the Duke was not far above Olivia in any one of these respects, but he was in a measure, and Olivia’s
choice like that of Imogen, Portia, Rosalind, and others of Shakespeare’s heroines, fell upon “a poor but worthy gentleman,” (as
she thought him) rather than on one “above her degree.”
Viola returning “on a moderate pace,” (her recent interview
having given her plenty to think of, and besides being in no haste to communicate to the Duke the “unprofited return” she had made,) is
overtaken by Malvolio, who brings a ring from Olivia, which she says, “the county’s man had left behind him, would” she
“or no:” with this message,
On Malvolio’s exit the slight contempt expressed in the words, “I left
Vio. Fortune forbid my outside have not charm’d her!
In the words
she resents Olivia’s late expressions of “heresy” and “feigned” as applied to Orsino’s
sentiment and poetry, and remarks how easy it is for the “proper false,” that is the really false, to gain affection; but
follows with an humble observation taught by her own feeling, unconquered though hopeless, and which because hopeless, she might think unreasonable, and because
unreasonable, meriting to be called frailty: she says:
She then continues:
The epithet monster refers to her disguise. In the following lines of her speech she appeals to the Power she has once before invoked; the friend of the
unhappy; the hope of the heroic:
Act ii. scene 2.
Viola with her usual fine clearness of moral perception and delicacy of feeling now perceives that, added to all other motives, justice to Olivia demands
that her sex should become known; and, firmly persuaded in her own mind that Olivia never will change towards the Duke, she strives in the ensuing scene to
impress him with the same conviction, to induce him to look elsewhere for reciprocation, and to make the idea of her disguise flash upon his mind. In this
exquisite dialogue it is impossible not to feel how harmoniously these two natures act and react upon each other: the responses are like a piece of music played
by two flutes perfectly in accord. The Duke, having commanded “the old and antique song” he “heard last night,”
inquires “How dost thou like this tune?”
an answer which perhaps implies not only a glance at her own constancy, but a belief in the chance that the Duke himself may some day give up his present
fancy. Vio. It gives a very echo to the seatDuke. Thou dost speak masterly:Vio. A little by your favour.Duke. What kind of woman is’t?Vio. Of your complexion.Duke. She is not worth thee then. What years, i’ faith?Vio. About your years, my lord.Duke. Too old, by heaven; Let still the woman takeVio. I think it well, my lord.”
Duke. Then let thy love be younger than thyself,Vio. And so they are: alas, that they are so;
These words of Viola’s relate to her own anticipated doom; though they serve at the same time as a reply to the Duke’s remark on the
fleeting attraction of beauty. Orsino then begins to comment, with his usual fine taste, on the song which is about to be sung, and which he and Viola both like
so much—her reason we can well discern. He speaks to the Clown:
Duke. O, fellow, come, the song we had last night. *
Song
Viola feels every word of this in her heart’s core. Neither friend nor lover was there to weep on her “black coffin” in that
inhospitable land where she found herself a lonely stranger. The Duke’s feeling is merely sentimental: his reason for liking the song he has stated to
be,
Accordingly, no sooner is it concluded
* Simple truth.
(Olivia’s own words, and which Viola firmly believes.) Vio. But, if she cannot love you, sir?”
Duke. I cannot be so answer’d.Vio. ’Sooth but you must.Duke. There is no woman’s sides
Without disputing the Duke’s first position, which probably is true in nature, Viola proceeds to answer his last: and, not denying that the
passion of a man may be more violent than that which a woman can feel, she insists that a woman’s may be as true.
Vio. Ay, but I know,—Duke. What dost thou know?Vio. Too well what love women to men may owe:Duke. And what’s her history?Vio.
A blank, my lord: She never told her love,Was not this love indeed?
In that one word “a blank,” what worlds of pain are held Viola too well knew—and many others too well know. In the two
concluding lines how well, and yet how gently, she describes Orsino’s present passion—so great in show, so little containing of real love.
He answers,
Vio. I am all the daughters of my father’s house,
The first line of this reply should have struck him who had already said that all in her was “semblative a woman’s part;”
but it does not—and then she adds the mysterious, hesitating second line—and then, seeing that Orsino is still obtuse, she asks,
“Sir, shall I to this lady?
” The Duke, as if he reproached himself for a moment or two of sympathy spared to another than
himself, replies,
Viola , according to Orsino’s desire, having repaired to Olivia’s house, encounters the Clown and salutes him, saying,
“ “
Save thee, friend, and thy music.
” A very natural expression, for she has the pleasant recollection of having lately
heard him sing the “old and antique song” to the Duke and herself. After some other talk, from which we see that the Clown, who has a very
sharp pair of eyes, and looks through every one in the play, and prys into all their affairs, surmises her disguise, Viola, contrasting silently his feelings with
her own, says, “I warrant, thou art a merry fellow, and carest for nothing.
”
Clo. Not so, sir, I do care for something: but, in my conscience, sir, I do not care for you: if that be to
care for nothing, sir, I would it would make you invisible.*
Vio. I saw thee late at the Count Orsino’s. Clo. Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb, like the sun; it shines everywhere. I should be sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft
with your master, as with my mistress: I think I saw your wisdom there.Vio. Nay, an thou pass upon me, I’ll no more with thee. Hold, there’s expenses for thee.”
But she cannot buy off the two curious eyes that are searching her secret. He answers, laying a trap, into which she falls, “
Clo. Now Jove in his next commodity of hair send thee a beard.Vio. By my troth, I’ll tell thee I am almost sick for one: though I would not have it grow on my chin.”
(Of course not: remembering how Orsino has said, “Diana’s lip is not more smooth and rubious.
”)
She then desires the Clown to ask for Olivia: he knows quite well the purpose of her visit, guesses in silence at her disguise and at her love, and goes away
expressing his completely puzzled state. “My lady is within, sir. I will construe to them whence you come; who you are and what you would are
out of my welkin; I might say element, but the word is overworn.
”
Viola finds no difficulty now in obtaining an entrance into Olivia’s house. She is courteously received by every one. Sir Toby, for instance,
says, Will you encounter the house? my niece is desirous you should enter, if your trade be to her:
” but before she
can enter, Olivia already comes to meet her. Viola’s difficulties, therefore, have ceased to be, as in the first instance, external difficulties: the
“barful strife” is in the nature of the task itself. To the accomplishment of this, however, she now directs all her wonted unflinching
faithfulness, her consummate delicacy, and her nicety of judgment. As soon as the garden door is by Olivia’s order shut, she says to the supposed
Cesario,
Vio. My duty, madam, and most humble service.Oli. What is your name?Vio. Cesario is your servant’s name, fair princess.”
The calm respect and seriousness with which Viola withdraws from Olivia’s advances is extremely beautiful. A nature less noble might have enjoyed
the triumph of deluding and humiliating a favoured rival, but no such thought dims the clear soul of Viola: she is tender of the dignity of
“Orsino’s lady,” and is grieved at the disguise she must yet awhile assume, since only as long as she does assume it can she act
as Orsino’s “nuncio.” We shall see in the ensuing scenes with what singleness of purpose she watches every mood of Olivia and
every opening in the conversation to work her round to a consent. The dialogue proceeds:
* Both the names given to this play by Shakespeare denote the assumption by his
dramatis personæ
of an identity not their own. In our
Nor is it difficult to see why the play was called “What You Will.” This name appears to have been in Shakespeare’s day synonymous with our Will o’ the Wisp, Ignis Fatuus, and Phantasma. It is applied repeatedly in Marston’s Play, hearing the same name, to persons assuming a garb and an individuality not their own, and such persons are called in the same play Nothing—a word that the Clown here applies to Viola, whose sex he suspects.
Olivia then refers to the sending of the ring and the construction to be put on such an action: then adds,“ Oli.My servant, sir! ’Twas never merry worldSince lowly feigning was called compliment: You are servant to the Count Orsino, youth. Vio.And he is yours, and his must needs be yours;Your servant’s servant is your servant, madam. Oli.For him, I think not on him; for his thoughts, would they were blanks, rather than filled with me!Vio.Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughtsOn his behalf:— Oli.O, by your leave, I pray you;I bade you never speak again of him: But would you undertake another suit, I had rather hear you to solicit that, Than music from the spheres.”
“To one of your receiving* Enough is shown; a cypress, not a bosom, Hides my poor heart: So let me hear you speak. Vio.I pity you.Oli.That’s a degree to love.Vio.No, not a grise; for ’tis a vulgar proof,That very oft we pity enemies.”
(This expresses Viola’s sentiment at the moment. She feels sincerely sorry for the pain her rival, who, in that sense, is her enemy, is suffering.)
Oli. Why, then, methinks, ’tis time to smile again:
(Clock strikes.)
This speech contains much that is offensive to Viola, but in the comparison of the lion and the wolf there is the nearest approach to a consent that Olivia
has yet uttered or felt. She adds a dismissal:
Vio. Then westward hoe.
Viola thinks that, Olivia’s pride being now roused, she is just in the mood to yield, and of this she takes advantage. To the gracious and almost
holy parting salutation, “grace and good disposition tend your ladyship,
” she adds words which suggest the mode in which she
would fain have these qualities show themselves, “You’ll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?
”
That this conduct won Olivia’s respect is evident from the anxiety she now feels to assure herself of Viola’s.
Oli. Stay:Vio. That you do think you are not what you are.Oli. If I think so, I think the same of you.Vio. Then think you right; I am not what I am.Oli. I would you were as I would have you be.Vio. Would it be better, madam, than I am,
Viola is justified in this indignation. Olivia first wooes—then rejects—now wooes again. Besides this vacillation, there is much in
Olivia’s conduct and speeches that Viola would not approve, and Olivia’s answer shows us this was the case.
Oli. O what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
“
Love’s night is noon
” in Olivia, but not in Viola—there is that difference in the two natures.
She adds:
*Ready apprehension.VOL. I. S S
(The objects by which Olivia here adjures Viola, are those suggested by the bright and noble beauty of Viola under the influence of her present feelings.)
Her reply is:
Vio. By innocence I swear, and by my youth,
This speech in its cold and firm obduracy contrasts singularly with Olivia’s. In the two we see the “conflict of flame and
ice.” Viola purposes by hers to destroy all hope in Olivia of winning her love, conscious that thus she is doing the best she can to further
Orsino’s cause: Olivia only answers,
Oli. Yet come again: for thou perhaps may’st move
It is these parting words that induce Viola once more to return. We hear Olivia soliloquising in a subsequent scene as follows:
The result of this interview we learn from the same speaker when she and Viola re-enter:
Viola says,
Oli. Here, wear this jewel for me, ’tis my picture;
Viola now sees in the influence she has obtained over Olivia one more chance, and, ever faithful, fails not to seize the opportunity. She replies,
Vio. Nothing but this, your true love for my master.Oli. How with mine honour may I give him thatVio. I will acquit you.Oli. Well, come again to-morrow: Fare thee well;
For the sake of concentrating the reader’s attention on Viola’s endeavours to win Olivia for Orsino, we have brought scenes together which actually are spread over three months. For that period has Viola borne this mortal agony, nor ever flinched or faltered.
Leaving these affairs for a while, we must now turn our eyes once more to the seashore, where we hear Sebastian, Viola’s brother, addressing his
friend Antonio, a sea-captain: “You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian; which I call Roderigo: my father was that Sebastian of Messaline, whom, I know, you
have heard of: he left behind him myself and a sister, both born in an hour. If the heavens had been pleased, would we had so ended! but you, sir, altered
that; for some hour before you took me from the breach of the
sea, was my sister drowned … A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me,
was yet of many accounted beautiful: but though I could not with such estimable wonder overfar believe that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her, she
bore a mind that envy could not but call fair: she is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem to drown her remembrance with
more.”
Subsequently he announces his intention of going to Orsino’s court, and forbids his friend to accompany him. Antonio, looking after him, says:
Space will not permit us in this essay to do justice to the characters, actions, and friendship of Sebastian and Antonio: suffice it to say, that by all that
appears, Sebastian is the worthy brother of Viola; in addition to her tenderness, high principle, and self-possession, he has manly courage and independence of
spirit. He answers to Olivia’s description of Viola:
His great resemblance to his twin sister she herself tells us.
This last she was sure to do, led by her affection and her sentimental kind of nature; and we must now relate briefly what came of this wonderful resemblance and imitation of the brother by the sister.
Sebastian reaches the capital, as he had purposed, and is there overtaken by Antonio; to whom, after mutual greeting, he says:
But Antonio declines this, because, being a political enemy of Orsino’s, the publicity would be perilous to him. Thus the two friends separate
till evening.
Let us now return to Viola. When, on leaving Olivia, on the occasion of the interview we have last related, she is met by Sir Toby and Fabian, they tell her
that a gentleman is lying in wait to attack her. Sir Toby’s great delight is in practical jokes, and this is one of them. Sir Andrew Aguecheek, “Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the count’s serving man than ever she bestow’d on me. I saw’t
i’the orchard”— “I think oxen and wainropes cannot hale them together. For Andrew, if he were opened, and you find so much blood in his liver as will clog the
foot of a flea, I’ll eat the rest of the anatomy.
“My remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence done to any man”—
Sir Toby urges him to fight, the humour of which he thus sets forth to Fabian:
The occasion tests Viola’s judgment and courage: nor does she fail here any more than heretofore. She first expresses, very prettily, her
innocence: Fabian. And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great presage of cruelty.”
and repeatedly urges to know her offence. Failing in that, she intends, with her usual good sense, to return to the house and ask the lady Olivia for an
escort; but Fabian misguides her to the place where Sir Andrew is, and she is obliged to draw her sword. At the moment of the commencement of the encounter
Antonio enters, and, seeing Sebastian, as he thinks, engaged in fight, calls out,
At the noise of this brawl officers come in, who at once recognize Antonio and carry him off to prison. When he is gone, Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Fabian
resolve to follow Viola, because they see her averse to fighting. They encounter Sebastian, whom, mistaking for her, Sir Andrew strikes, saying:
Olivia, summoned by the clown, enters, commands Sir Toby to withdraw, and entreats the supposed “Cesario” to go with her to her
house, Sebastian, amazed, says aside: Seb. Why there’s for thee, and there, and there—Sir T. Hold, sir, or I’ll throw your dagger o’er the house.Clo. This will I tell my lady straight:
In the next scene we have Sebastian’s soliloquy: Oli. Nay, come, I pr’ythee: Would thoud’st be ruled by me!Seb. Madam, I will.Oli. O, say so, and so be!”
Enter
Olivia
and a
Priest.Oli. Blame not this haste of mine: If you mean well,That my most jealous and too doubtful soul
May live at peace: … What do you say?Seb. I’ll follow this good man, and go with you,Oli. Then lead the way, good father:Act iv. Scene 3.
Olivia being married, her doors now open to receive the Duke. There is a little triumph, and still more security and self-gratulation in the words may not have in her answer to the Duke’s rapturous
The calm intrepidity of the Countess is admirable. Orsino being her feudal lord, his reply contains no vain boast, or threat either. Oli. What would my lord, but that he may not have,Vio. Madam?Duke. Gracious Olivia—Oli. What do you say, Cesario? Good my lord—Vio. My lord would speak—my duty hushes me.Oli. If it be aught to the old tune, my lord,Duke. Still so cruel?Oli. Still so constant, lord.Duke. What to perverseness? you uncivil lady,Oli. Even what it please my lord, that shall become him.”
Olivia here sends for the priest, who has performed the marriage ceremony, and, supposing that Viola denies her, from fear of Orsino, adds, in her usual
high-spirited way when the Duke is in question: Duke. Why should I not, had I the heart to do it,
[Going.]Vio. And I most jocund, apt and willinglyFollowing.]Oli. Where goes Cesario?Vio. After him I love
The priest bears witness to the solemnization of the marriage, adding,
The Duke, exclaiming,
adds,
So ends this passion: self-absorbed and selfish from first to last, it has run its wilful course, and “falls into abatement and low price
even in a minute.
” Yet like every feeling once strong in the heart of man, it did, as we shall see, contain within it an immortal essence
that survived its perishable half.
Sebastian now comes in, and the mystery of the marriage is cleared up. Viola and her brother enter into explanations regarding their family, and the Duke
reassures the wonder-struck Olivia by the words
this most happy wreck.”
Who does not realize what Viola felt on hearing these first words of love? We shall now see with what mingled delicacy and goodness of heart the Duke asks
for a confirmation of those expressions which Viola has ventured to utter under the shield of her disguise, and in addressing her still as
“Boy,” screens her from all reproach of indelicacy and forwardness.
Having heard his self-congratulation concerning his “share” in these events, she feels she may now reply as follows:
Duke. Give me thy hand—
Olivia now, in her warm bright manner, comes forward, desirous at once to place herself in her true position to the Duke and to Viola.
Oli. My lord, so please you, these things further thought on,Duke. Madam, I am most apt to embrace your offer.Viola) and, for your service done him,Oli. A sister?—you are she.”
The peace between Orsino and Olivia will be lasting; they have already a mutual esteem, well merited on both sides. The Duke shows his exact feelings to both
in his concluding speech,
A solemn combination shall be made
Of our dear souls.—Meantime, sweet sister,Orsino’s mistress and his fancy’s queen.”
In reviewing the drama of which we have now heard the concluding speech, we find still a few remarks to make; and first we will observe, that
Olivia’s love for Viola is quite natural. Long shut up in a house of mourning, there breaks upon her sight a vision of beauty and goodness of which she
at once becomes enamoured. It is not alone the “roses of the spring
” that captivate her in Viola, but the purity,
“the honour, truth, and everything.
” Sebastian’s passion likewise is to be accounted for. He becomes suddenly
the object of the tenderness of “the fair Olivia:
” he is a witness also of the “smooth, discreet, and
stable bearing
” with which she could
“sway her house, command her followers, take and give back affairs and their
dispatch;
” in short, he at once sees the charms of her intellect, as well as those of her heart and person; and we may take his own word as a
solution of whatever seems difficult of comprehension both in Olivia’s love for Viola and his own for Olivia, where he says,
Nor is the sudden and stormy death of Orsino’s fancy unnatural. It is not so sudden as it seems; the months have been preparing it; and when
brought face to face with Olivia, and he cannot but perceive her indifference to himself and her love for another, the passions that in turn fleet over his soul
(each dismissed as quickly as it arises) are only the natural transitions which under the circumstances such a passion as his undergoes; though in this royal and
youthful lover these are indeed so sweet sister, we will not part from hence.
” We may trust the feeling whose tremulous dawn
he first reveals in the words, “I shall have share in
” words resembling the reflex,
on the yet heaving waters, of a star whose light the parted storm clouds permit to pass. In Viola’s poetical and sympathetic nature he has long found a
continual charm and solace. To a man of so much heart, the deep gratitude he entertains for her devoted love, and his admiration of her heroic unselfishness, are
sure to render her for aye “this most happy wreck:Orsino’s mistress and his fancy’s queen.
” And the nobleness of his
affection, and its enduring character, we gather from the words of promise,
For Viola, mute in her present blessedness, as in those days of trial when she “pined in thought,” we must for ourselves realize her
supreme felicity. In none of his impersonations, we should observe, has Shakespeare shown more wondrous skill than in this of Viola, for the very reason that he
has not “o’erstepped the modesty of nature,
” but has drawn a character which, like her own famous image of
Patience, charms and
* A character so reserved must be closely examined in order to be appreciated, and for this reason Viola, although she may vie with the very highest of Shakespeare’s
In the very first passage of the play, (in the words, “That strain again,” &c.) lies hidden its leading idea. It is, as it were, an overture foreshadowing the approach of her who is to be the guiding spirit of the piece; nay, almost naming her, whose harmonious and lofty nature is to change the destinies of those towards whom fate is leading her—who is to bring joy and peace where love and death have preceded her, only to leave behind them pain and sorrow—but who (as often happens in real life) is neither to achieve the happiness of her friends nor to consummate her own without undergoing a struggle of the severest description.
The peculiarity of Viola’s love does not consist in the firm suppression of all manifestation thereof; for it is not very rare to find persons capable of maintaining, when honour demands it, the silence and concealment which then become the best and only possible proof of true affection. Such persons might ask themselves, with the same proud fondness as Viola, is “not this love indeed?” and no one could gainsay them.
Neither is it the great peculiarity of this affection that the heroine’s deeds have been “against the mettle of her sex;
beneath her soft and tender breeding.
” Instances of this sort of virtue in women are of daily occurrence, and history is full of the bright
examples. Take, for instance, Her who was at the defence of Nottingham Castle, or Her who acted as her lord’s
But that in Viola which is rare, is, first, that her passion is not selfish, but sympathetic wholly. Witness her words, confirmed by all her deeds:
And, secondly, that her love is wholly independent for its
existence (though not for its happiness) on reciprocation. It is not nourished by love
bestowed by its object, but by love bestowed by its subject; that is to say, by utter admiration and love of another’s mind.To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die.”
Compare the words of Portia and Viola on the occasion of being affianced.
Portia’s are:
Merchant of Venice
scene 2.
Viola’s are:
In the former we see the passionate utterance of that love which cannot heroines, has never taken rank either on the stage or with the critics, according to her merit. How little she has been understood by one of the latter,
Dr. Johnson, let the following passages show. Alluding to the first scene in which she appears he says, “Viola seems to have formed a
very deep design with very little premeditation: she is thrown by shipwreck on an unknown coast, hears that the prince is a bachelor, and resolves to
supplant the lady whom he courts.
” Stevens follows in the same strain. A propos to her reception of the ring from Malvolio he
says:“This lady, as Dr. Johnson has observed, is an excellent schemer, she is never at a loss.
” And again,
referring to her words, “I am all the daughters of my father’s house,” &c. he says, “This was
the most artful answer that could be given.
” Our readers will not coincide, we think, in these judgments of the critics, nor yet
with the following: “The marriage of Olivia, and the succeeding perplexity, though well enough contrived to divert on the stage, wants
credibility, and fails to produce the proper instruction required in the drama, as it exhibits no just picture of life.
”—Dr. Johnson.
This sublime passion is not a poetic dream. Fiction is beautiful, but real life is more beautiful still. There have existed, there do exist those who comprehend in all their fulness the loftiest words of the poets. Doubt it not.
In the month of July last this piece was brought out at the Haymarket; and, we observe, is announced again for representation at the same theatre. We felt,
in the last scene, the advantage of seeing a play over reading one, for the actress had an opportunity of showing, by her attitude and expression of countenance,
that satisfaction which Shakespeare’s Viola does not allow her lips to breathe. The young actress who played the character availed herself of the
occasion with considerable delicacy of taste and effect. But this effect we think would have been enhanced if the audience had once seen her in her
“maid’s garments,” as Viola calls them, whereas,
Olivia was played rather too much in the modern drawing-room, fine lady style. The bright, impassioned, intelligent, kind-hearted Olivia, was not rendered; nor yet the rich and noble feudal countess, exercising unquestioned authority over her own affairs, and her numerous followers.
The comic parts were admirably sustained, though perhaps more archness might have been thrown into the character of Maria, that “excellent devil of wit,” as Sir Toby thinks her.
There were some very judicious omissions of jests too coarse, but other omissions of poetical passages we regretted; and worse than these omissions, we
observed two defects that we would gladly see corrected in future representations, since they really affect the spirit and style of the play. We allude, first, to
the music and to the songs. These have in this play more connection with the actions and the feelings of the characters than is the case in any other of
Shakespeare’s dramas: so that “
Managers should remember that music does speak to the senses and imagination, and that therefore overtures and interludes should have
some sort of
Another fault in the representation at the Haymarket was one calculated to lower the dignity of Viola, and, so far, it is very much to be reprehended. “He pants and looks pale as if a bear were at his heels,” “Pray God defend me! A little thing would make me tell them how much I lack of a man.”
Words which show that the emotion described by Fabian,
had been subdued, as well as the idea which had occurred to her, and which she utters aside,
These natural thoughts and feelings had passed over her mind, and left her, as ever, able to meet the emergency. If it be necessary “to make
the groundlings laugh,” let the real coward and mean-souled Sir Andrew be the object; his fear might be rendered grotesque: but under no circumstances
whatever could Viola appear so.
Toleration is not the question of one, but of all nations and times. It is common to all subjects, whatever peculiarities it may derive from
each. It is
*
List of Books.
By Connybeare.
Montégut (Anonymous.Emerson.
Guizot.
The stream of human life is continuous, though often lost to antiquarian research, as waters, that disappear for a space under ground, when hidden to the outward eye, are yet unbroken and progressive. Every word and every law, every custom, and every book, mark the addition of separate rills to the rolling flood. And like the main river, each minor stream has its own, however hidden or diluted, existence. Were it possible, it would be no trivial task to trace in its downward course the growing stream of toleration. It would be the surest method of convincing those who doubt that the degree of toleration proper for one age is very different from the amount necessary in another, and that its sound and sufficient definition required by existing light and circumstances, conscientiously adhered to, is perhaps the most vital and important root of diffused peace, progress, and satisfaction. Toleration is to a nation what temper is to a man.
It is beautifully told of Charles the Fifth, that he was particularly curious with regard to the construction of clocks and watches, and having found by repeated
trials that he could not bring any two of them to go exactly alike, he reflected, with a mixture of
A century later, in an intolerant age, Jeremy Taylor writes, that, amid the factions and partialities that troubled Christendom, mistaken physicians propounded
some a guide, and others a rule; but that who this guide should be only added to the flames of discussion, and that, even supposing men agreed of the rule, yet the
interpretation of the rule became so various, that this also became part of the disease for which the cure was pretended. Whereupon he continues,
“all men resolved upon this, that, though they had not yet hit upon the right, yet some way must be thought upon to reconcile differences in
opinion; thinking, so long as this variety should last, Christ’s kingdom was not advanced, and the work of the gospel went on but slowly. Few men, in
the mean time, considered that so long as men had such variety of principles, such several constitutions, educations, tempers and distempers, hopes, interests and
weaknesses,
”degrees of light and degrees of understanding, it was impossible all should be of one mind. And what is impossible to be done is not
necessary it should be done. And therefore, although variety of opinions was impossible to be cured, and they who attempted it did like him who claps his
shoulder to the ground to prevent an earthquake, yet the inconveniences arising from it might possibly be cured, not by uniting their beliefs, that was to be
despaired of, but by curing that which caused these mischiefs and accidental inconveniences, of their disagreeings. For although these
inconveniences, which every man sees and feels, were consequent to this diversity of persuasions, yet it was but accidentally and by chance;they may in most, Christendom should be no longer rent in
pieces, but would be redintegrated in a new pentecost.
Jeremy Taylor was far in advance of his age. Had he written in this, he would have said, not “they may in most,” but “they
should in all;” for his argument, if it includes any, must embrace every thing, since “degrees of light and degrees of
understanding,” if they apply to one, must apply to every subject and to every opinion, if indeed we agree with Archbishop Whateley that all faith
must rest upon grounds.
Another century, and the encyclopædists were maintaining, that man has a right to his own belief and to think what he pleases, and their opinions were
eagerly disseminated throughout Europe.
In our own day, a hundred years later, without the cynicism and with more weight, Mr. Hallam has condemned the notion of the “essential
criminality of religious error
,” and “the fallacy of assuming that truth must ever exist visibly on
earth.
” While a distinguished French publicist, whose name stands second in the list of books at the head of this article, has quite recently
contended that the definition of toleration suitable to the nineteenth century is, “that we are not responsible for our
opinions.
”
And this, though far from being universally acknowledged as such, will be found perhaps to contain the true philosophy of toleration.
It is well understood that we owe the novel entitled “
, and since reprinted, in separate forms, through several editions. In that article Mr. Connybeare described with humour and discrimination the conflicting
parties dividing the English Church. His account of the “High and Dry,” “the Low and Slow,” was readily accepted by all
but themselves; while those who, if they could, would take their stand on the larger, more indefinite ground, which, for want of an existing word, the author
dexterously called the “Broad Church,” hailed the new cry for the mere sound of its catholicity and toleration. All who think that the human
mind may and must expand under cultivation; that the direction of its growth is due not more to spontaneous efforts, than to infinite circumstances beyond human
control; that differences of opinion, in a word, heterodoxies,
* Man has not the right to think as he pleases. He has not the right to be orthodox, unless convinced of the truth of the orthodoxy for the
time being; but he is bound to judge up to the measure of his light and degree of understanding and no more. But though he may not have “the
abstract right” of belonging to a party, he may not have the power of disengaging his thoughts or his feelings from the bias of early education, in
which case, as Jeremy Taylor says, “what is impossible to be done, it is not necessary it should be done,
” were it even
desirable.
But it would seem, for any liberal interpretation of the epithet, suitable to real and actual requirements, we must not look to Mr. Connybeare, who appears
disposed under the specious mask of comprehension to use the term as a convenient, in proportion as it is an indefinite, symbol of exclusion. The scope of such a word
must evidently depend on the spirit in which it is applied: for however he may enlarge the limits of his field, if he shuts all the visible gates, its breadth more
vacant than before, is gained only at the expense of beating back all, for the sake of none or one. Mr. Connybeare certainly succeeds in making a clear space, but for
aught I can see he stands in it alone. But truth abhors a vacuum, and he may perhaps find the space he has cleared but a barren tract after all, if, with the vacant
breadth they assume, his views are neither definite nor deep. So much for what can be gathered of the author’s own personal opinions. But in his account of
“the causes of infidelity,” it will be seen that I speak of philosophical insight only. For as a religious humourist, he is faithful and
pleasing. But, as a philosopher of causes, he is ludicrous and small. A clever photographist, he can seize accurately and well every pimple on the face of the body
religious; but, when he descends to the
, he confounds the depth of his subject with the plate of his picture; momentous laws with puny effects; pimples and freckles with primary organs; he applies his
daguerreotype to the face of the heavens indeed, but without the space-penetrating power of Herschel’s telescope;
some most excellent people, who have objected to the appearance of levity given to the treatment of a serious subject,” he very properly observes that “
to say such exposure casts ridicule on religion is as mistaken as it would be to say that those who decry pews and galleries are ridiculing church architecture.” No doubt: but then, what becomes of the notion, that the absurdities exposed are the source of infidelity among a class of men, who are fitted no less perhaps than Mr. Connybeare to distinguish between Church architecture and a pew.
There are many ways of considering a question. You may consider it in all its petty and contemptible aspects, and trade upon the galling and lilliputian prejudices of the market.
Or you may take the rancorous view of a subject; seize upon, or invent, prominent members of any obnoxious sect or set of men, paint them in every alarming and hostile, or glaring and disgusting colour, and dismiss them an example and sign for ever.
Or again (and a clever man will combine all methods), you may deal in safe and convenient generalities, dexterously confound innocent and guilty, emulate the
ancient feat, and make one black fleece cover twenty white, and so get rid of all your opponents at once. Nothing more convenient for the Athenian poet, the
representative of the orthodox enemies to all thought and progress, save in their own track, to club all the sophists under one name, their most eloquent
opponent’s, in many instances. Socrates thought, and thought for himself, two things which are not always synonymous. That was enough to make him amenable
to the charge
But, it may be observed, as soon as mennot “think,” each man being like a true zero, nothing in himself but much in
sequence”*if it leads men to calumniate the legitimate freedom of others. For I am far from insinuating that
the placid agreement of those who have never thought on a subject is wicked or dishonest. It is even necessary to the well-being of society, in which it forms the
temporary substitute for that higher and more powerful cement ultimately to arise, we trust, from the coincidence of conscious convictions in those
who, having thought, have come to the same conclusions.
But I fear we are subject to a great fallacy on the subject of freedom of thought. For as human faculties are so limited that few men can inquire into
everything, and most men can inquire into comparatively little, active and usurping spirits come to look on the passive acquiescence of the majority as a sort of
prescriptive right, and ill brook when any man, whose circumstances have jostled his mind out of the beaten track into the stream of living thought, tries as well as
he can to swim for himself, and perhaps occasions a great splashing, not more agreeable to himself than his neighbours. As all national institutions are for the most
part framed by the superior activity of such usurping tempers, they are stamped, so to speak, with the genius of intolerance, which, being handed down with the
institutions themselves, comes to be looked upon as part and parcel of the institutions: and this may account for the intolerance to be for ever clamouring for a hollow unity, lest the real should never come; whereas honest difference and sincere
comparing of notes is the only real road to genuine and universal truth.
There is a deeper and more refined persecution than the cup or the stake. Now, as in those ancient days of Socrates, of Jesus, and later of Galileo, men are
tempted to injustice and supineness. What eager champions did then for the truth as it was in their day, official and officious defenders of the different sects and
churches do now,—burning, though without stake, crucifying, though without cross, and, confounding under one type every species of real and apparent
unbelief. In the words of Emerson: “Great believers are always reckoned infidels, impracticable, fantastic, atheistic, and really men of no
account.
”
It is a delicate task, that of attempting to do justice to those whom the world calls infidels, and of whom the world is often not worthy. But amid a practical
people, so just, though too careless of distinctions, it is not to be endured that honourable and inevitable differences of opinion should be falsely, sometimes
ungenerously, but more often unthinkingly, classed as infidelity and villainy. If a man were the first to moot so critical a subject, he might deserve the credit of
good intentions, if not of prudence and wisdom. But the controversy is universal. It rises at every corner. Why shut our eyes and ears to it? Latent or expressed, at
the peasant’s hearth, at the rich man’s table, the question is, “What is truth?” It is, in fact, the question of
questions, most eloquent where silence points to the blank. Every list of new *
These questions cannot be blinked. They are vital. To answer them offhand is to be a sciolist or an enthusiast. These, and not the petty foibles of paltry sections, high or low, or dry or slow, are some of the real theological problems of the day. Each army, again, is subdivided into parties, agreed only in resisting the common foe on some one point, and at variance on every other.
Now where so much contention exists, it is only reasonable to suppose that much is undetermined, and charitable to refrain from taxing severe and truthful students with the indefinite charge of infidelity.
It is curious to observe, how Mr. as belonging to the domain of metaphysics, rather than of religion.
”— Essays
There is the sceptic from lassitude of life. He has run through every activity and every enjoyment, and he says: “all things are
vanity.
” There is the sceptic from lassitude of thought. He has laboured through systems and creeds, and having reached the limits of his own
understanding and looked back on the long chain of his endeavours after truth, he is weary and asks, “What is truth?”
There is the sceptic from over-suspicion, and the sceptic from over-confidingness and trust often deceived.
There is the sceptic from love of truth and rational independence of character, and the sceptic from selfishness and hatred of legitimate restraint.
There is the sceptic from vanity, imbecility, fashion, &c. &c. &c., as there are many more people religious overmuch from fashion, imbecility, or vanity, &c.
Again, no less than the three great types described by the author of the
There is indeed a speculative pusillanimity, which in the eyes of the Creator must be the greatest of all infidelity; since it betrays a fear that error may chance to be stronger than truth, and a blind, panic-stricken desire to make one man’s span the measure of all ages. And although the word sceptic only means an “Enquirer,” it is no difficult task to see how, like many other good names, it acquires a bad meaning from the intolerance and infidel haste of men to establish their own notions.
Were it even granted that all the contention must arise from an innate perversity in men and a radical preference of evil and error; this no doubt, of itself,
would be an accusation against men. But surely the evidence in favour of the various truths under discussion is by no means always so great as to infer and convict
that perversity! Where men, with all friendly feeling, looking at objects in broad daylight, often cannot agree as to what it is they see, why accuse men of
perversity or infidelity because they cannot agree when they look “through a glass darkly?” When it is so difficult to get at the truth of an
event that took place an hour ago at the top of your street, of which, by the time they get to the bottom, twenty eye witnesses give twenty different accounts, will
you tax men with hatred of the truth because they differ on the most delicate,
Let it be granted, for argument’s sake, that all who oppose an orthodoxy do so from a reprobate mind, from a wish to shake off the restraints which
orthodoxies generally put on some men’s convenience. Still, that they never attack the self-evident truths, that two and two make four, or that the whole
is greater than the part, is evident. Yet if a bad man could delude sane persons into believing that the part exceeds the whole, he might turn it to far greater
advantage than any more transcendental heterodoxy—nay, without more ado he might upset the world and feed upon the spoils. Why then is the attempt not
made? Because, I apprehend, however perverted a man may be, though desperately wicked, and above all things deceitful, he cannot persuade himself
that the axiom is false. He is powerless before the truth. He stands naked before his brother. And if he resists the received truth on other points, it must therefore
arise from one of three things: either, that the received truth he assails is not really the truth; or that those points on which he assails it are weak, being
imperfectly understood, and so open to error and illusion; or finally, that he sincerely believes the truth not to be such, in which case his
sincerity, so far as that truth is concerned, is all that is required of him; since the same sincerity, which leads him to protest, will lead him to agree, when
sufficient grounds are produced for his agreement.
But it is with a sense of shame and grief that I argue thus in detail, and think how many fathers and mothers, and heedless sons and daughters, that will be
fathers and mothers, allow words and imputations to cross their
Let me rather boldly ask the question, who in the present day that lays claim to wisdom and sobriety will affirm that doubt and dissent are a necessary, or even ordinary, badge of perversity?
Does not the Christian Religion command righteous judgment? It is the part of a Christian to doubt, where doubt exists; to sift evidence impartially; to make
allowances for frailties of judgment to which, in all sincerity, he himself is subject; and still further allowance for those infirmities to which he, indeed, may not
be subject, but which are divided among men according to time, age, temper, circumstances and constitution. “It is not required of
us,
” says Jeremy Taylor, “not to be in error, but that we should try and avoid it.
” But it is too common to
observe how, if you differ from people, they will jump to the conclusion that, because according to them you are wrong, you have not tried to avoid error, and are
therefore guilty for your opinions.
In the estimation of society, I know that a freethinker is one who considers himself at liberty “to think just as it suits his convenience and
his vices.
” And as there are men who do actually try to consider themselves so at liberty, society is quite right in branding them with some
word or other in self-defence. But when the same word with the same meaning is applied to men, who, for thinking themselves free from any intellectual allegiance to
other men’s opinions, only consider themselves more than ever bound to the truth, such as they really conceive it educated girls in ten that come out every season will
confound Atheists, Deists, Unitarians, Freethinkers and Infidels, as all very much the same thing under different names. I appeal to my reader’s own
personal knowledge for the moderation of the statement. And these girls are to be the future mothers of educated England, and sow the first seeds of true toleration
and righteous judgment in educated England’s sons! This is indeed one source of real infidelity, and of opposition to truth, far deeper than may be thought
at first sight.
Every man is imbued with the spirit of his times; for he is clearly so imbued if he sympathizes with it; and if he does not sympathize, his hostility and opposition is necessarily determined by the nature of the thing opposed, so that in neither case is he independent of the period in which he lives.
To adopt a most expressive technical term, we are each and all “functions” of the age in general, and of those
particular circumstances in which we have lived; dependent on every pulsation of the surrounding world; vessels, though ever so skilfully managed, supported by every
wind and wave speeding our course. The shape of the waves, the power and direction of the winds are beyond our control. Slaves, indeed, to every such wind and wave we
need not, independent we cannot, be, and to every man his own depth.
Moreover, the spirit of every age has its advantages and disadvantages. As in the life of a man, if old age wants the confiding innocence of childhood, the
faith of youth lacks the wisdom of later years, so in the life of nations, there are periods of infancy, maturity, and
Let us judge the Time with impartiality, the Man with mercy, nay, justice.
In the eloquent words of Emerson, “The philosophy we want is one of fluxions and mobility. The Spartan and Stoic schemes are too stark and
stiff for our occasion. A theory of St. John, and of non-resistance, seems, on the other hand, too thin and aërial. We want some coat woven of elastic
steel, stout as the first, and limber as the second. We want a ship in these billows we inhabit. An angular dogmatic house would be rent to chips and splinters in
this storm of many elements. No, it must be tight, and fit to the form of man, to live at all;
”as a shell is the architecture of a house founded on
the sea. The soul of man must be the type of our scheme, just as the body of man is the type after which a dwelling-house is built. Adaptiveness is the peculiarity of human nature. We are golden averages, volitant stabilities, compensated or periodic errors, houses founded on the
sea.
The unquestioning faith and implicit confidence of early ages is not, and cannot be, the spirit of reform and discovery natural to later periods of civilisation. So long as men, by reason of infirmity, award equal conviction to error and truth: roast human flesh for witchcraft and the Copernican system, believe in spirit-rapping and the Holy Ghost, die for Juggernaut and Christ, that spirit in man which resists rightly the tyranny of falsehood, will be liable also wrongly to withstand the force of truth, until the chaff be winnowed from the wheat, and the distinction between them placed beyond the reach of a doubt.
But in the meantime doubt is the primary dissolvent of error, the harbinger of approaching truth. If Columbus had not doubted the mistaken
When a fool hears a new opinion, he decides upon it at once; but the first impulse of a man of sense and sincerity is to pause and consider: hence he seems to hesitate, to beat about the bush, he doubts, balances, and finally decides.
What is true of a man, is true of an age. Its phases are necessary and inevitable. To judge men with any degree of justice, we must take the phase into
consideration, and ours would seem to be one of hidden travail and expectation. After the crash of ancient constitutions; amid the dull, but ominous heavings and
seethings of neighbouring nations; amid the vast, undigested treasures of accumulating lore and speculations pouring in on all hands; amid fresh lights struck on
History’s old lamp; amid new, revealed VOL. I. T Tours, would still confound liberty of thought with
Atheism and villainy: men, who believe in immutable laws of truth, whom the history of human error has taught humility, whose purer faith rises beyond the paltry
pride of a hollow consistency, and whose courage is superior to the weakness that cowers behind a rotten landmark; such men cannot for ever be bound to the arbitrary
track of orthodoxies. They see that every error countenanced in its day by a majority for the time being has been an orthodoxy for the time. What two vessels, they
ask, bound for the same port, ever yet pursued the same track? What two leaves on any one tree were ever identical? What two men were ever known to have identical
opinions? And how much less ten millions? We may stand up, say they, in church and, bowing our heads, repeat a creed. We may be, most of us are, perfectly sincere in
so doing. But in our minds are we all agreed? If every person present should paraphrase, so as to explain the creed he repeats, would not every paraphrase differ from
every other? “No doubt,” it is answered, “but the differences would be insignificant.” To which they reply,
“How do you know they would be insignificant?” To us who are finite they may be so, in as far as they only affect human cooperation. But as
regards absolute truth, God, who sees men’s hearts, and holds both ends of the chain of truth, knows the value of every link in our opinions, and the
difference of the smallest link may be the difference of the whole chain, as every logician
Without grounds no faith can or ought to exist, except on sufferance. Even when we believe a thing to be unintelligible, we can only do so after trying to understand it, and the correctness of this trial sets the seal to the grounds of the belief, grounds, which depend upon varying degrees of knowledge and reflection, equal probably in no two men that ever lived.
Indeed if there is a truth more broadly than another written over the face of our century, it is that no honest man is responsible for his
opinions. This is the true and fundamental principle of real toleration. Toleration, at the time of our Revolution, was but the truce of panting tigers. Its
philosophy and Christian spirit it remained for us to discover, at any rate to apply.
In the words of M. Montégut, who has reviewed the novel before us in a spirit which does honour to the thinking men of France:
“Men forget to enquire what new definition the nineteenth century might give of Toleration. There is, however, one, which springs out of the
inextricable moral confusion in which we are involved,—namely, ‘
”that we are not responsible for our opinions,’.
. . . . . . . . . The state of our century compels the greatest reserve, therefore, in judging the opinions of our fellows; the unbeliever and the sceptic deserve
all our interest and all our charity. We should reflect that, if their opinions are floating, they are less to blame than the time; we must reflect that, if they
believe not, theyFaith is laborious and painful now-a-days, and to the primeval
anathema which doomed man to earn his bread at the sweat of his brow, another seems added condemning him to earn his opinions at the sweat of his
thought. Intolerance in our time is not only a crime against charity, it is also a mark of incurable blindness and incurable folly, since
nothing is more remarkable than the hearty goodwill displayed on all sides by the minds of men and the religious attempts in all directions which occur every
day. . . . You see nothing but people preoccupied in the search of some reason for believing, and for the most part the very least would suffice them.
We believe, we judge, we conclude up to the measure of the light that is in us,—more than this is unwarranted, and, if we are aware of it, dishonest. We believe, because, in the language of Bishop Butler, the sum of the probabilities resulting from the accumulation of evidence on one side or the other is in favour of our belief. The “sum of these probabilities” Archbishop Whateley would call those “grounds” without which no faith should exist. In a word, we believe, not because we wish to believe, not because it is our duty to believe, but because we cannot help believing. There is, then, something always antecedent to this belief, which, by educated men, can be expressed and weighed at its proper or approximate value.
It can be expressed: for belief is in its nature rational, not sensational. Whatever is thought can be expressed in words, and then it is right or not right, true or not true, probable or improbable, possible or impossible.
But the Hannah Mores and Charlotte Elizabeths of the land will tell you that in their earnest desire to believe such and such a doctrine they prayed to the
Almighty for faith, and having felt the delightful conviction stealing into their minds, wonder that you can ask for reasons and arguments, or, in short, for other
grounds than their ineffable sensations. I should not mention them if they had not sons to influence and to educate. On this I observe that from all time lawgivers,
prophets and apostles have appealed to the reason of mankind. And it
* M. Montégut evidently, from what follows, understands the clergy only under the word “church,” as he
distinguishes it from the “
And reasons must be given in words or intelligible symbols. Nor is it conceivable, while the reasons for the thing should be in words, the thing itself might
not be, for then we should be giving definite reasons for an indefinite thing, of which all that we know is that we know nothing. As if a man should give an
explanation of, or reason for, a thing that might be fish or flesh, sun or moon, matter or spirit, all or none, whence it would follow that any reason might do for
any, and every reason for every, thing. “For sentiments so trite I can only apologise to men of sense, and patiently endure the anger they will
excite among those with whom they will pass for original.
” But they will hardly be thought needless by those who observe how many thousands of
persons believe that their “feelings” are a sufficient reason for other people’s faith, not to say, their own, and
who, when called upon to express those feelings, answer that (owing to sublimer properties, as a matter of course) “they cannot be
expressed.” The answer is simple. If they cannot be expressed, they are not binding upon me: if they can be expressed, they are, like all other
subject-matter of language, amenable to the ordinary laws of probation and truth.
Little difficulty appears in tracing the springs of authorship in “
The world, no doubt, congratulates Mr. Connybeare on the success of his defence; for, however they may strain their eyesight, he seems to have the full benefit of his own boat. “See,” he seems to say, “I am no latitudinarian, God forbid! I believe what the broad church believes, and the broad church believes what I believe, and because it is so broad, whoever is out of it cannot be saved, and is unreasonable if he wishes to be saved.”
But if we ask where it is, we are told, “why here to be sure;” and, if we ask what it is, he answers, that it is neither high and dry, nor low and slow which is to be henceforth our creed.
But to leave no inconvenient doubts about himself, he gallantly attacks the problem of infidelity.
Mr. Connybeare does not kick and cuff men into Christians after the fashion of some “holy bullies and evangelical swaggerers:” his plan is more refined and suited to the times. It consists in the ingenious use of the alternating bugbear in one hand with barley-sugar in the other. Mr. Archer, who is an infidel and therefore a villain, represents the former: Mr. Charles Bampton supplies the latter by the gratifying spectacle of rose-water doubts removed by rose-water means and Bampton lecture arguments, a composition of artifice most excellently adapted to a boy of eleven.
But what is Mr. Archer? A man radically bad, bold, selfish, and unscrupulous, withal highly accomplished and fascinating, a hackneyed sophist of indulgence,
skilled in the art of making
As for Mr. Charles Bampton, he ought to be an argument in favour of the docility of sceptics; for the decent debility of his doubts is removed by tonics sufficient for a schoolboy perhaps, but scarcely for men wrestling with all the great questions of their day.
Mr. Connybeare affirms, indeed, that the fashionable scepticism of the last ten or fifteen years is “
” because, as he adds, ‘directly caused by the dissensions of the Church
When doctors differ,
” But inasmuch as the so-called sceptics of the present day, who deserve any serious attention, are not fashionable sceptics, but sceptics against fashion, it will be found that they are, for the most part, sincere and, in whatever degree,
original thinkers. When, therefore, they ask such a question, it is in nine cases out of ten not “the expression of an inevitable
scepticism;” that is, inevitably arising from clerical inconsistencies, but a polite parry and home-thrust to wave discussion with men, who, in the words
of Hallam, they perfectly well know, “will assume their own truth as an axiom in the controversy.
”
Scholars and “men of the highest rank and most intelligent professions” need not be “Pantheists of the forum,” as it
is disingenuously assumed, and yet they may be sincere enough, independent and courageous enough, to confront those great and universal questions which stare them in
the face. Having confronted them, and accepted battle, who knows that they will—who can assert, that every man must or can, settle questions coextensive
with mankind in one lifetime? “What is impossible to be done, it is not necessary it should be done.
” In the meantime, unless Mr.
Connybeare believes that God’s true children have no part in the ordinary difficulties of humanity, these men appear to me to be fighting out (if sincere)
that very battle between truth and error, “the final victory in which,” Mr. Connybeare himself admits, may be “preceded by many ages
of defeat.” And yet they are branded as infidels, enemies towards God and the Church, and possibly villains among men: at any rate treated coldly, and
subject to constant suspicion. Be this as it may, if they have the experience of “men of the highest rank and most intelligent professions,” it
is very unlikely they should be led astray by the clerical
Mr. Connybeare endeavours to trace the causes and consequences of unbelief, distinguishing three classes of unbelievers: those whose natural depravity would
escape from the yoke of the moral law; those whom the sight of the hypocrisy and self-seeking of the clergy has robbed of their faith; and finally, those who reject
the historical and philosophical proofs of Christianity. On this M. Montégut observes, that the unbelievers of the first two classes are scarcely to be
found in the circles to which Mr. Connybeare refers, arguing that the spectacle of the hypocrisy or self-seeking of the clergy really influences only the popular
classes, those, namely, who identify the idea with the containing body, the institutions with those who represent them. If scandals become too general, and are too
often repeated, if the vices and foibles of the clergy are visible to all eyes, there can be no doubt that the popular classes will soon be alienated from the Church
and fall into infidelity. But their infidelity in such a case will have no anti-christian or anti-religious motive: it will arise simply from the
fury of having been duped and deceived. Now Mr. Connybeare’s unbelievers do not belong to the popular, they belong to positive unbelief, but mere indifference. With regard to unbelivers from excess of depravity, they
are happily rare, and their irreligion is not the cause, but the consequence of their perversity. It is quite natural that a forger, or a gambler should be without
any religion, but such men seldom take the precaution to rid themselves of all religious ideas before they give way to their vices. Perversity
always precedes irreligion. An unbeliever is not necessarily depraved, but a depraved man is naturally an unbeliever, unless indeed he
But, continues Mr. Montégut, and I will quote his own admirable words:
“The author of Perversion has forgotten a fourth category of sceptics and unbelievers, the most interesting, in fact, and that which is
peculiar to our epoch.
”The Scepticism of the present day is above all a scepticisrn of lassitude. Violent revulsions, changes startling and
headlong, political actions and reactions, disconcerting our hopes or fears at every moment, unsettle and uproot our beliefs and our convictions. There is no man
but his faith will reel, when it is powerless to give him a clue to events and furnish him with weapons to combat or defend them. Now this is a phenomenon of
hourly occurrence; our faith is never, so to speak, in equilibrium. Every day we are compelled, according to our temper and character, to relax or to contract our
opinions,—to relax them, if inclined to tolerance,—to contract them, if rather inclined to obstinacy. It never occurs to me to wonder, when,
in full view of the cotemporary drama, I see a Protestant * On the other hand, a free liver need not be a freethinker: so inconsistent is human nature. Cold Addison “died of
brandy,” and gentle Harry Fielding was stained with claret, which prevented neither from hiccupping “Church and State”
with exemplary fervour. So that isolated cases are really often good for nothing at all, either one way or the other.true idea of things, that all you have thought of time and space, of the world and God, is, as it were, but a
prolongation of yourself, and that all your researches can end only in objectivating yourself! Brought up in the most
Christian ideas, you recoil with terror before the impious doctrines which bear the name of Pantheism. To brace yourself in your opinions, you say, that these
doctrines are even more powerless than the others in explaining the first principle of life. Beware however lest you should be tempted to apply them to the
science of the physical world, to historical investigations, to the explanation of arts and of literatures, for the results obtained on subjects, apparently so
unconnected with your religious faith, will be so marvellous, so luminous, so startling, that the effect will be irresistible. And yet, what other means than
wilful blindness have you to check the bent of vour curiosity?
What other means, indeed? For the germs of all these different systems do not lie dormant in the pages of Descartes, Kant, and Spinoza, so that you will be safe from their intrusion, if you should only take care not to disturb the dust from their volumes. They are human problems, coextensive with mankind, the germs and sporules of which penetrating every crevice of the human atmosphere take root one or all, or none, according to the soil on which they happen to fall.
It is not to be supposed, that a man of Mr. Connybeare’s attainments is ignorant of all this, as he plainly shows, in the conclusion, for instance,
to his
, by the admission that the conflict of ideas in some minds produces absolute Pyrrhonism. But, secure in the prejudices of the bulk of his readers, he dismisses
the subject with too haughty and churchmanlike brevity, and I think, coming from him, not without some
“Even when,
” says M. Guizot, speaking of subjects in general, “by dint of meditation, reasoning and
study, a man has attained to profound conviction, he can scarcely ever disenthrall his mind from the toils he has passed through, the mazes in which he has
wandered, and the false steps he has made. He has reached the goal, but the journey fills his mind with the recollection of
”a certain fatigue accompanies it, which
enervates its practical virtue and fruitfulness; he can hardly forget, or pull down the scaffolding of enquiry and give himself up without reserve to the truth,
for which it was erected; or like a winged insect, he is hampered in taking flight by the shell, in which he was born, and from which he is not fully
disengaged.
( To be continued.)
Cavalay was soon tired of London. He was in no humour for public amusements; neither could he at the time bear solitude. He knew few
people in town, and even those he did know he did not call upon; for, though he dreaded being alone, he shrank from society. In fact, he was in a morbid and
altogether unsatisfactory state, from which, fortunately, he was roused before long by an invitation to Cambridge from an old schoolfellow named Wilton. Wilton
was, in many respects, a sort of contrast to him; not very clever, far from brilliant, but steady and industrious. Cavalay always professed that Wilton had great
influence over him, and there really did exist great mutual regard; the one admiring the versatility of the other, while
My Dear Wilton,—
James Cavalay.”
Some people seem to carry adventures with them, and meet with romantic persons and romantic incidents even in steamboats and railway carriages; but, I am
bound to confess, my hero travelled to Cambridge with nothing to excite or interest him, except the strange beauty of
Wilton met him at the station, and they walked to Trinity together. The time before dinner they spent in strolling about the town and its neighbourhood, and after dinner they called on a Trinity man who had been with them both at school. But, when after chapel they were sitting alone over tea, Wilton was very curious to hear the tale which the other had informed him he had to tell; but Cavalay put him off, not being in the humour at present. It was not till they had again walked about the town, and called on several mutual acquaintances, and had paced for more than an hour up and down the cloisters of Trinity, by which time it was after midnight, that Cavalay would commence his “confession,” which he did on their return to Wilton’s room. They remained for more than two hours, the one on a sofa, the other in an armchair, drinking coffee and talking, safe from interruption. Our hero told his tale with a strange mixture of jest and earnest, which completely puzzled his listener, and left him in doubt whether he had been serious in the matter.
“And do you think you were really in love?” he said; “for I can’t even guess whether you were or not.”
Cavalay smiled. “You will never see through a stone wall, Wilton. You will, for many years, go through the
“I don’t know, except from your manner of talking about it. It was a very short acquaintance, too.”
“That would be no objection. There are some men, and women too, who fall in love at first sight. And I say if a month was not long enough, no time would be. But I must talk to you quite out of riddles, or you won’t understand me; so I’ll give you my opinion now in plain words, having first filled my meerschaum. It’s often a very difficult thing, as I have no doubt you know, for a man to tell whether he is in love or not. My decided opinion then, though not positive assertion, is, that I was not in love. That was her opinion too, and it struck me at the time as very plausible, and has seemed more and more probable ever since.”
“What a cool fellow you are! I should think nobody else would talk like this upon such a matter. But what sort of a girl is she?”
“What a question to ask! I have more than once determined to answer such by a slight description of the face and figure,—‘Short, with blue eyes and dark hair.’ That’s the reply your question deserves; but I’ll tell you a little more about her. She is neither clever, nor accomplished, nor very pretty; but she sings and plays, and has plenty of sense and a pleasing face. Add to this, that she is kind and amiable, and I have said quite enough to keep me free from the charge of calumny.”
“A tempting description enough to a fellow who is no admirer of bluestockings or heroines. And it may prove a seasonable warning, too; for I am going there in the vacation: it will be a dangerous place.”
“No; danger is not the word. You
“Well, it will be my own fault now, if I am not on my guard.”
And then the conversation passed off to University subjects, which soon proved not sufficiently interesting to keep them out of their beds. Cavalay slept in the college; though slept is hardly the word, he lay so long awake, to hear the silvery strokes of the clocks striking the quarters, and to enjoy the novelty of finding himself in the sister University.
Wilton understood enough of his character not to trouble him much about seeing the buildings in Cambridge, but was careful to introduce him to as much
society as he could; and, belonging to so large a college as Trinity, he was able to take him among men of widely various tastes,—reading men, and idle
men, and boating men,—yes, and fast men too. It was a keen enjoyment to Cavalay, loving as he did to study human nature, to have such a world thrown
open to him,—a world, besides its novelty, very different to what is generally understood as “society”—a world in
which character is really brought out, and which, in a little compass, exhibits dispositions and mental capacities and acquirements the most varied. He easily
adapted himself to the company in which for the time he found himself. I can scarcely say which he most enjoyed, the noisy suppers of the boating men, or the
quiet talk over coffee and tobacco with that large middle class who neither “read,” nor “boat,” nor do anything in
particular,—or the hard, serious conversations with the “reading men,” against whose greater amount of knowledge he set his own
versatility and readiness of mind. And much did it puzzle these last to understand why he took so little interest in University matters, and was so little
ambitious of University honours, when so splendid a career must lie open to him. He was quite the lion, during
Alma Mater
so idle and so pleasant a time.
On leaving Cambridge, our hero took lodgings at a little distance from London, where we must leave him till the Oxford Long Vacation.
When the Cambridge Easter vacation came, Wilton paid his visit to Mr. Hartle’s. The morning after his arrival, his host made to
him the proposal which he made to all his visitors, to go and view the ruins which my reader will perhaps remember Cavalay had so shrunk from.
“Father,” said Clarence, who had come home a day or two before, “you always tease people that come to our house to go and see those unfortunate ruins. Do you suppose Wilton has never seen an old castle before? Besides, he must be tired after his long journey from Cambridge.”
But Wilton had not our hero’s dislike of sight-seeing, and declared that it would give him great pleasure to view the ruins.
“Then,” said Clarence, “I must get you to excuse me; for, if I don’t go to town this morning, our fishing
can’t begin to-morrow, and may be put off
sine die
.”
“Never mind that,” said his father: “you go and get the fishing-tackle: Mary and May will escort Wilton, and I dare say he’ll excuse you.”
When they set out, he remained silent so long that Miss Hartle began the conversation, by asking him if he really liked sight-seeing.
“Very much,” he replied; “I have made more than one ecclesiological tour. But castles I know nothing about, and must trust to you to tell me all about this one.”
“Yes, Mr. Wilton,” burst in May, “let Mary tell you all she knows
“Well, I will try,” he answered, laughing, “some time before I leave, if your sister will give me some hints for the story.”
“O, that will be delightful,” exclaimed she, clapping her hands, “Mary will tell you anything you want to know. I often used to ask Mr. Cavalay to make tales for me, and it was a great shame that he would’nt, for he was very clever; but he was so idle.”
“I am sure, May,” answered her sister, “Mr. Cavalay was nothing of the sort. He never spent a minute of his time at our house unoccupied.”
“Mr. Cavalay,” said May softly to Wilton, “is a great favourite with Mary, and you must not say anything against him before her. But you know what I mean by his being idle; they say he didn’t work at college; and, if you wanted him to sing or read aloud to you, very likely he wouldn’t; though, if you said nothing, but only sat still at your work, he’d take up a book and read to you for hours.”
“Didn’t you like him then?” asked Wilton.
“I didn’t mean that. He was a great deal the best companion I ever had; and I was very sorry when he went away. He used to ride by me and teach me how to manage my pony; and he told me what books to read, and gave me several pieces of music. So I liked him very much, because he was so kind and so clever.”
These last words seemed to catch her attention, and, before Wilton could speak, she went on.
“Is it true that clever people are generally not good and kind?”
“I hope not: I have not found it so.”
“But so many of my books say they are not; and I’ve heard people at papa’s say the same.—I suppose you are clever.”
“O dear no,” said he, laughing.
“O! but I should think you are: and you must know a great deal, because Clarence says you are nearly always at Cambridge.—But you seem
kind.”
“I hope I am that. But you forget your brother.”
“O yes, of course he’s very good, and we all love him very much. But there’s a great difference between him and other
gentlemen; at least we find it so. He never talks much to us, at any rate to me; that is, I mean, in the way you are talking now. But some gentlemen will talk to
me for an hour together, and Mr. Cavalay used to like talking with me almost as much as with Mary.”
“Come,” said her sister, on being thus a second time mentioned in conjunction with Cavalay, “I am sure you’ve talked enough for the present, if not too much.”
They had by this arrived at the ruin. Wilton was very much interested in it, and bought a guide-book, which he diligently read, occasionally imparting his knowledge to Miss Hartle. She seemed altogether unmoved by it, the same quiet, gentle girl she had been at her father’s breakfast-table. But May was quite saddened: she wandered about by herself, every now and then coming to Wilton for information from the guide-book. At last they found her standing beneath a window, which was overgrown with ivy. She went up softly to Wilton, and said in a low voice,
“That was the window where she saw him killed.”
Mary told him the story, which, in her telling, sounded a commonplace one enough. Poor May did not recover her gaiety till they were quite out of sight of the castle; though, when they reached home, she rushed into the sitting-room, exclaiming,
“O Papa and Mamma, Mr. Wilton is going to make a legend about it, and read it to us before he goes.”
The worthy couple did not know what to make of this at first; for the castle was completely out of their heads except when they had visitors. She went on,
“It looked so beautiful this morning with the fresh ivy growing all round it. I shall get Mary to draw the window, and we shall have quite a book about it.”
Here she was interrupted by the entrance of her sister and Wilton, the latter of whom was soon engaged in talking with their father about an approaching election. Before long Clarence came in with the fishing tackle, which he and Wilton used the very next morning. Most of their mornings were thus spent, for Wilton was fond of fishing, and it was the only out-door amusement he took interest in. One morning, as they were walking home, Clarence said to him,
“Do you know Carlwood?”
“No; but I’ve heard a little of him from Cavalay. I should think he must be a good sort of fellow.”
“I don’t know much of him myself: he’s a junior man, and we only called on him last term, because his sister had been staying near our house at Christmas, and we met her several evenings. But, from what we have seen of him, we like him very much, and Cavalay and I are going a tour in North Wales with him in the Long, and we want you to join us.”
“I’m afraid I shall not be able. You know I’m in for my degree next January, and I must make good use of the Long. What time do you expect to be out?”
“A month, more or less. I think you might easily spare the time. You’d work all the better before and after it.”
“Well, we must talk about it again. I should like very much to go, especially as I should have you and Cavalay for my companions.”
Wilton’s visit lasted for three weeks. He spent the time much more with the family than Cavalay had done; for, besides that the
latter’s visit had been paid at Christmas, the Hartles soon perceived that their present visitor was of a much quieter disposition than their former
one, and would feel far more at his ease with themselves alone than with political, sporting country gentlemen, or even their party-going daughters. It was a very
pleasant relief to him from his hard, dry reading at Cambridge, to be thrown with people so simple and openhearted as Mr. and Mrs. Hartle, and especially with
girls so fresh and unaffected as their daughters. He felt at home with them almost as soon as Cavalay had done, though by a different process. The latter had done
so by virtue of the universal power which would have put him at his ease equally in the palace of a king or the cave of a bandit; but the Hartles were among the
comparatively few people, sincere and unpretentious—
The next term at Oxford, Cavalay not being up, and Hartle reading for his examination, was of a very different character to its
predecessors. Much less smoking and sitting over the fire, talking for amusement; much less walking in the country and strolling about the gardens, though it was
the lovely summer time, and summer in beautiful Oxford is indeed lovely; scarcely a single hour’s reading of novels and poetry.
Marlowe had always been a reading man, and now, when Cavalay was away, I cannot say read more than ever,
Carlwood was one of that large number who read moderately the whole of their course, with the view of merely passing, or taking a low class; and now gave his
mornings to reading, and the rest of the day to boating and visiting, with considerable regularity. And thus the time was spent more profitably, perhaps, by all
three, and others beside them, for Cavalay’s influence extended to a large circle; but I should be afraid to say that it passed as agreeably as before. Certainly
The walking tour was to be commenced as soon as possible. Wilton had been persuaded to join it; and the four met at Chester early in July. I shall narrate
only one incident, which happened when they had been out about a fortnight, and were settled for a few days at Abergyle. During their stay there, one of the chief
amusements of Cavalay and Carlwood (the former being one of the best oarsmen of his college, and the latter having boated a good deal at Eton,) was to row on the
sea in the evenings, which for several days together were so fine and serene that the waters were almost as still as a pool. This was the most pleasant part of
the day to these two, who usually went alone, their companions
“We must row with all our might, Harry,” said the other, “or we shall be in for a heavy storm.”
Each grasped his oar firmly, Carlwood giving the stroke, and for a couple of miles the boat flew along rapidly. By that time Carlwood began to tire, but
still he pulled away manfully. The storm had greatly increased; the waves ran high, and their progress began to slacken. The wind blew from the land steadily, but
not very strongly, and they continued to make head slowly, till they were within about a quarter of a mile of land, when suddenly the wind veered and made the
boat lurch so violently that Carlwood was carried off his seat and rolled into the sea. In another moment Cavalay leapt in after him. Carlwood was a sufficiently
good swimmer in smooth water, but in the high waves of the sea he would have stood small chance of saving himself. He was struggling already somewhat feebly when
Cavalay reached him. As is common with drowning persons, his first impulse was to grasp at the other; but Cavalay was prepared for this, and, when the movement
was made, swam away so as to avoid it. Carlwood appeared to recognize him, and to feel
This misadventure put an end to the pleasure of their tour, and they resolved to return home as soon as Cavalay and Carlwood had gained sufficient strength,
and accordingly on the third day they were on their road back. Our hero’s demeanour was greatly changed, he was much kinder, and warmer, and more
sociable than had been his wont; and the attachment which Carlwood had conceived for him during their excursions on the water ripened at once into strong and
lasting affection.
When they reached England, Carlwood insisted on Cavalay’s accompanying him to his father’s. It will readily be
believed that, though he hesitated to accept the invitation, yet in his heart he was nothing loth, if only from remembering his meetings with Isabel at Mr.
Hartle’s. When they arrived, Harry, in the presence of the whole family, related the adventure in which Cavalay had saved his life, with all the
enthusiastic praise of a generous and ardent mind.
“Mr. Cavalay,” said his father, when he had finished, “I am really at a loss how to thank you. If there is anything in the whole world I can do to serve you I shall be only too happy to do it.”
“O Harry, to think how near I was losing you!” was all his mother could say for some time after the first shock had passed away.
Presently she thanked Cavalay in many words, and for a long time was divided between expressing her gratitude and caressing her son, who seemed to her as if newly restored from the dead.
And Isabel too thanked him, very warmly, though in much fewer words than her mother; but her gratitude then took a shape far sweeter to him than words; for, when she spoke, it was with such softness, almost tenderness, and sometimes she looked at him so kindly and admiringly, that his head was dizzy with delight. They pressed him to stay so heartily that he could not decline: indeed his own inclination so urged him to remain, that he made a very faint show of refusing.
His visit lasted three weeks, during
As she sang it without notes, he suspected that she had written both the air and the words; but he forbore to ask her, thinking that it might have some
history, and the question might pain her.
Once, after he had been reading Keats to her, she said,
“I wonder, Mr. Cavalay, you do not write yourself. One who appreciates poetry so thoroughly, and reads it so correctly and beautifully, must surely be able to write it.”
“No, no, Miss Carlwood,” he replied, in a manner very common with him, with a smile not more than half serious; “to interpret is one thing, to create is another, and a very different thing. I should have thought you would have known the difference between the artist and the dilettante. Thousands can appreciate and judge of poetry as well as I can, of whom only one can write it.”
“That may be true, and yet you
He received the poem from her hands, and, after a slight attempt at declining, read as follows:
When he finished, the pause which always follows the reading of manuscript, ensued: it was broken by Cavalay, who asked his listener what she thought of
it?Presentiments.
“I must be careful what I say, for I am sure the author is before me. Let me have a copy, and let that be sufficient criticism.”
He already regarded her very differently from other women. He had great admiration for her, no little veneration; for she was by far the most intellectual
woman he had ever met: not merely the cleverest; mere cleverness is not intellectuality; but she had an understanding and appreciation of greatness and beauty
such as he had never found in woman before. Yet, still more was he struck by her quiet strength and depth of feeling, and, what few of her acquaintances would
have given her credit for, docility. For her mind had recognized in his a greater than itself, and had joyfully yielded itself up to its guidance. To many, if not
most others, out of her own family, she had seemed, nay, was, proud, cold, sarcastic. What was there in them that she could honour? at the best she could but
stoop to them; and so she may, and that kindly and gracefully, in later life; but youth is proud and headstrong, and she is very young, showing her love and
hatred, her admiration and contempt, with the openness of a mind accustomed to look upon itself as containing little that needs concealment, and not yet mastered
by self-control. But Cavalay had already entirely won her reverence; to him she was all gentleness and docility. He shone upon her as a knight in full
burst into tears, the first he had ever shed since boyhood. She looked at him, at first utterly astonished; then a new feeling sprang up in her heart,
and she had almost wept herself, tears of sympathy, of pity, of love, of happiness. She felt that his inmost and truest nature had been unveiled to her. She felt,
too, that only to one whom he loved could he show such emotion. The darker clouds rapidly rolled away in vast masses of gorgeous gloom, and clouds of fiery red
gathered round the sun, and, when he set, spread over the heavens, before long fading away, except from the west, where the fire grew paler and paler, until it
became faint gold, which lingered long after the first stars had come out on the dim blue. And Cavalay and Isabel kept silent for a while, till he said, in a
voice scarcely audible,
“There is no time in all the year—not even the autumn afternoons, with their dappled skies and yellow leaves—like the long evenings of summer. They have a calm, softening beauty that is all their own. One fancies that it must always have been summer evening in Eden. And at this time Paradise receives us again for a little while even now. How sad it is to turn from the west to the east! ‘All good things are in the west!’ ”
From that day, which was at the end of the second week of his visit, confidence rapidly grew up between them; and not an evening passed without their
walking out together,—sometimes with little Emily, Isabel’s younger sister; sometimes alone,—when, after walking for a short
time, until they had
( To be continued.)
I had thought when I fell that I should never wake again; but I woke at last: for a long time I was quite dizzied and could see nothing at
all: horrible doubts came creeping over me; I half expected to see presently great half-formed shapes come rolling up to me to crush me; some thing fiery, not
strange, too utterly horrible to be strange, but utterly vile and ugly, the sight of which would have killed me when I was upon the earth, come rolling up to torment
me. In fact I doubted if I were in hell.
I knew I deserved to be, but I prayed, and then it came into my mind that I could not pray if I were in hell.
Also there seemed to be a cool green light all about me, which was sweet.
Then presently I heard a glorious voice ring out clear, close to me—
Thereat my eyes were slowly unsealed, and I saw the blessedest sight I have ever seen before or since: for I saw my Love.
She sat about five yards from me on a great grey stone that had much moss on it, one of the many scattered along the side of the stream by which I lay; she was
clad in loose white raiment close to her hands and throat; her feet were bare, her hair hung loose a long way down, but some of it lay on
I was lying with my head resting on soft moss that some one had gathered and placed under me. She, when she saw me moving and awake, came and stood over me with a gracious smile.—She was so lovely and tender to look at, and so kind, yet withal no one, man or woman, had ever frightened me half so much.
She was not fair in white and red, like many beautiful women are, being rather pale, but like ivory for smoothness, and her hair was quite golden, not light yellow, but dusky golden.
I tried to get up on my feet, but was too weak, and sunk back again. She said:
“No, not just yet, do not trouble yourself or try to remember anything just at present.”
There withal she kneeled down, and hung over me closer.
“Tomorrow you may, perhaps, have something hard to do or bear, I know, but now you must be as happy as you can be, quietly happy. Why did you start and turn pale when I came to you? Do you not know who I am? Nay, but you do, I see; and I have been waiting here so long for you; so you must have expected to see me.—You cannot be frightened of me, are you?”
But I could not answer a word, but
“You are tired; rest, and dream happily.”
So she sat by me, and sung to lull me to sleep, while I turned on my elbow, and watched the waving of her throat: and the singing of all the poets I had ever heard, and of many others too, not born till years long after I was dead, floated all about me as she sung, and I did indeed dream happily.
When I awoke it was the time of the cold dawn, and the colours were gathering themselves together, whereat in fatherly approving fashion the sun sent all across the east long bars of scarlet and orange that after faded through yellow to green and blue.
And she sat by me still; I think she had been sitting there and singing all the time; all through hot yesterday, for I had been sleeping day-long and night-long, all through the falling evening under moonlight and starlight the night through.
And now it was dawn, and I think too that neither of us had moved at all; for the last thing I remembered before I went to sleep was the tips of her fingers brushing my cheek, as she knelt over me with down-drooping arm, and still now I felt them there. Moreover she was just finishing some fainting measure that died before it had time to get painful in its passion.
Dear Lord! how I loved her! yet did I not dare to touch her, or even speak to her. She smiled with delight when she saw I was awake again, and slid down her hand on to mine, but some shuddering dread made me draw it away again hurriedly; then I saw the smile leave her face: what would I not have given for courage to hold her body quite tight to mine? but I was so weak. She said:
“Have you been very happy?”
“Yea,” I said.
It was the first word I had spoken there, and my voice sounded strange.
“Ah!” she said, “you will talk more when you get used to the air of the Hollow Land. Have you been thinking of your past life at all? if not, try to think of it. What thing in Heaven or Earth do you wish for most?”
Still I said no word; but she said in a wearied way:
“Well now, I think you will be strong enough to get to your feet and walk; take my hand and try.”
Therewith she held it out: I strove hard to be brave enough to take it, but could not; I only turned away shuddering, sick, and grieved to the heart’s core of me; then struggling hard with hand and knee and elbow, I scarce rose, and stood up totteringly; while she watched me sadly, still holding out her hand.
But as I rose, in my swinging to and fro the steel sheath of my sword struck her on the hand so that the blood flowed from it, which she stood looking at for a while, then dropped it downwards, and turned to look at me, for I was going.
Then as I walked she followed me, so I stopped and turned and said almost fiercely:
“I am going alone to look for my brother.”
The vehemence with which I spoke, or something else, burst some bloodvessel within my throat, and we both stood there with the blood running from us on to the grass and summer flowers.
She said: “If you find him, wait with him till I come.”
“Yea,” and I turned and left her, following the course of the stream upwards, and as I went I heard her low singing that almost broke my heart for its sadness.
And I went painfully because of my weakness, and because also of the great stones; and sometimes I went along a spot of earth where the river had been used to
flow in flood-time, and which was now bare of everything but stones; and the sun, now risen high, poured
But about noontide I entered a wood close by the stream, a beech-wood, intending to rest myself; the herbage was thin and scattered there, sprouting up from amid the leaf-sheaths and nuts of the beeches, which had fallen year after year on that same spot; the outside boughs swept low down, the air itself seemed green when you entered within the shadow of the branches, they over-roofed the place so with tender green, only here and there showing spots of blue.
But what lay at the foot of a great beech tree but some dead knight in armour, only the helmet off? A wolf was prowling round about it, who ran away snarling when he saw me coming.
So I went up to that dead knight, and fell on my knees before him, laying my head on his breast, for it was Arnald.
He was quite cold but had not been dead for very long; I would not believe him dead, but went down to the stream and brought him water, tried to make him drink—what would you? he was as dead as Swanhilda: neither came there any answer to my cries that afternoon but the moaning of the wood-doves in the beeches.
So then I sat down and took his head on my knees, and closed the eyes, and wept quietly while the sun sunk lower.
But a little after sunset I heard a rustle through the leaves, that was not the wind, and looking up my eyes met the pitying eyes of that maiden.
Something stirred rebelliously within me; I ceased weeping, and said:
“It is unjust, unfair: What right had Swanhilda to live? did not God give her up to us? How much better was he than ten Swanhildas? and look
you—See!—he is dead.”
Now this I shrieked out, being mad; and though I trembled when I saw
But when growing hoarse and breathless I ceased; she said, with straightened brow and scornful mouth:
“So! bravely done! must I then, though I am a woman, call you a liar, for saying God is unjust? You to punish her, had not God then punished her already? How many times when she woke in the dead night do you suppose she missed seeing King Urrayne’s pale face and hacked head lying on the pillow by her side? Whether by night or day, what things but screams did she hear when the wind blew loud round about the Palace corners? and did not that face too, often come before her, pale and bleeding as it was long ago, and gaze at her from unhappy eyes! poor eyes! with changed purpose in them—no more hope of converting the world when that blow was once struck, truly it was very wicked—no more dreams, but only fierce struggles with the Devil for very life, no more dreams but failure at last, and death, happier so in the Hollow Land.”
She grew so pitying as she gazed at his dead face that I began to weep again unreasonably, while she saw not that I was weeping, but looked only on Arnald’s face, but after turned on me frowning.
“Unjust! yes truly unjust enough to take away life and all hope from her; you have done a base cowardly act, you and your brother here, disguise it as you may; you deserve all God’s judgments—you—”
But I turned my eyes and wet face to her, and said:
“Do not curse me—there—do not look like Swanhilda: for see now, you said at first that you had been waiting long for me, give me your hand now, for I love you so.”
Then she came and knelt by where
“O, Florian! I have indeed waited long for you, and when I saw you my heart was filled with joy, but you would neither touch me or speak to me, so that I became almost mad,—forgive me, we will be so happy now. O! do you know this is what I have been waiting for all these years; it made me glad I know, when I was a little baby in my mother’s arms to think I was born for this; and afterwards, as I grew up, I used to watch every breath of wind through the beech-boughs, every turn of the silver poplar leaves, thinking it might be you or some news of you.”
Then I rose and drew her up with me; but she knelt again by my brother’s side, and kissed him, and said:
“O brother! the Hollow Land is only second best of the places God has made, for Heaven also is the work of His hand.”
Afterwards we dug a deep grave among the beech-roots and there we buried Arnald de Liliis.
And I have never seen him since, scarcely even in dreams; surely God has had mercy on him, for he was very leal and true and brave; he loved many men, and was kind and gentle to his friends, neither did he hate any but Swanhilda.
But as for us two, Margaret and me, I cannot tell you concerning our happiness, such things cannot be told; only this I know, that we abode continually in the Hollow Land until I lost it.
Moreover this I can tell you. Margaret was walking with me, as she often walked near the place where I had first seen her; presently we came upon a woman sitting, dressed in scarlet and gold raiment, with her head laid down on her knees; likewise we heard her sobbing.
“Margaret, who is she?” I said: “I knew not that any dwelt in the Hollow Land but us two only.”
She said, “I know not who she is, only sometimes, these many years, I have seen her scarlet robe flaming from far away, amid the quiet green grass:
but I was never so near her as this. Florian, I am afraid: let us come away.”
Fytte the Second.
Such a horrible grey November day it was, the fog-smell all about, the fog creeping into our very bones.
And I sat there, trying to recollect, at any rate something, under those fir-trees that I ought to have known so well.
Just think now; I had lost my best years somewhere; for I was past the prime of life, my hair and beard were scattered with white, my body was growing weaker, my memory of all things was very faint.
My raiment, purple and scarlet and blue once, was so stained that you could scarce call it any colour, was so tattered that it scarce covered my body, though it seemed once to have fallen in heavy folds to my feet, and still, when I rose to walk, though the miserable November mist lay in great drops upon my bare breast, yet was I obliged to wind my raiment over my arm, it draggled so (wretched, slimy, textureless thing!) in the brown mud.
On my head was a light morion, which pressed on my brow and pained me; so I put my hand up to take it off; but when I touched it I stood still in my walk
shuddering; I nearly fell to the earth with shame and sick horror; for I laid my hand on a lump of slimy earth with worms coiled up in it. I could scarce forbear from
shrieking, but breathing such a prayer as I could think of, I raised my hand again and seized it firmly. Worse horror still! the rust had eaten it into holes, and I
gripped my own hair as well as the rotting steel, the sharp edge of which cut into my fingers; but setting my teeth, gave a great
I was girt with a sword too, the leathern belt of which had shrunk and squeezed my waist: dead leaves had gathered in knots about the buckles of it, the gilded handle was encrusted with clay in many parts, the velvet sheath miserably worn.
But, verily, when I took hold of the hilt, and dreaded lest instead of a sword I should find a serpent in my hand; lo! then, I drew out my own true blade and shook it flawless from hilt to point, gleaming white in that mist.
Therefore it sent a thrill of joy to my heart, to know that there was one friend left me yet: I sheathed it again carefully, and undoing it from my waist, hung it about my neck.
Then catching up my rags in my arms, I drew them up till my legs and feet were altogether clear from them, afterwards folded my arms over my breast, gave a long leap and ran, looking downward, but not giving heed to my way.
Once or twice I fell over stumps of trees, and such-like, for it was a cut-down wood that I was in, but I rose always, though bleeding and confused, and went on still; sometimes tearing madly through briars and forse bushes, so that my blood dropped on the dead leaves as I went.
I ran in this way for about an hour; then I heard a gurgling and splashing of waters; I gave a great shout and leapt strongly, with shut eyes, and the black water closed over me.
When I rose again, I saw near me a boat with a man in it; but the shore was far off; I struck out toward the boat, but my clothes which I had knotted and folded about me, weighed me down terribly.
The man looked at me, and began to paddle toward me with the oar he held in his left hand, having in his right a long, slender spear, barbed like a fish hook; perhaps, I thought, it is some fishing spear; moreover his raiment was of scarlet, with upright stripes of yellow and black all over it.
When my eye caught his, a smile widened bis mouth as if some one had made a joke; but I was beginning to sink, and indeed my head was almost under water just as
he came and stood above me, but before it went quite under, I saw his spear gleam, then felt it in my shoulder, and for the present, felt nothing
else.
When I woke I was on the bank of that river; the flooded waters went hurrying past me; no boat on them now; from the river the ground went up in gentle slopes till it grew a great hill, and there, on that hill top,—Yes, I might forget many things, almost everything, but not that, not the old castle of my fathers up among the hills, its towers blackened now and shattered, yet still no enemy’s banner waved from it.
So I said I would go and die there; and at this thought I drew my sword, which yet hung about my neck, and shook it in the air till the true steel quivered; then began to pace toward the castle. I was quite naked, no rag about me; I took no heed of that, only thanking God that my sword was left, and so toiled up the hill. I entered the castle soon by the outer court; I knew the way so well, that I did not lift my eyes from the ground, but walked on over the lowered drawbridge through the unguarded gates, and stood in the great hall at last—my father’s hall—as bare of everything but my sword as when I came into the world fifty years before: I had as little clothes, as little wealth, less memory and thought, I verily believe, than then.
So I lifted up my eyes and gazed; no glass in the windows, no hangings
No hangings on the walls—no; yet, strange to say, instead of them, the walls blazed from end to end with scarlet paintings, only striped across with green damp-marks in many places, some falling bodily from the wall, the plaster hanging down with the fading colour on it.
In all of them, except for the shadows and the faces of the figures, there was scarce any colour but scarlet and yellow; here and there it seemed the painter, whoever it was, had tried to make his trees or his grass green, but it would not do; some ghastly thoughts must have filled his head, for all the green went presently into yellow, out-sweeping through the picture dismally. But the faces were painted to the very life, or it seemed so;—there were only five of them, however, that were very marked or came much in the foreground; and four of these I knew well, though I did not then remember the names of those that had borne them. They were Red Harald, Swanhilda, Arnold, and myself. The fifth I did not know; it was a woman’s, and very beautiful.
Then I saw that in some parts a small penthouse roof had been built over the paintings, to keep them from the weather. Near one of these stood a man painting, clothed in red, with stripes of yellow and black: then I knew that it was the same man who had saved me from drowning by spearing me through the shoulder; so I went up to him, and saw furthermore that he was girt with a heavy sword.
He turned round when he saw me coming, and asked me fiercely what I did there.
I asked why he was painting in my castle.
Thereupon, with that same grim smile widening his mouth as heretofore, he said, “I paint God’s judgments.”
And as he spoke, he rattled the sword in his scabbard; but I said,
“Well, then, you paint them very badly. Listen; I know God’s judgments much better than you do. See now; I will teach you God’s judgments, and you shall teach me painting.”
While I spoke he still rattled his sword, and when I had done, shut his right eye tight, screwing his nose on one side; then said,
“You have got no clothes on, and may go to the devil! what do you know about God’s judgments?”
“Well, they are not all yellow and red, at all events; you ought to know better.”
He screamed out, “O you fool! yellow and red! Gold and blood, what do they make?”
“Well,” I said; “what?”
“HELL!” And, coming close up to me, he struck me with his open hand in the face, so that the colour with which his hand was smeared was dabbed about my face. The blow almost threw me down; and, while I staggered, he rushed at me furiously with his sword. Perhaps it was good for me that I had got no clothes on; for, being utterly unencumbered, I leapt this way and that, and avoided his fierce, eager strokes till I could collect myself somewhat; while he had a heavy scarlet cloak on that trailed on the ground, and which he often trod on, so that he stumbled.
He very nearly slew me during the first few minutes, for it was not strange that, together with other matters, I should have forgotten the art of fence: but
yet, as I went on, and sometimes bounded about the hall under the whizzing of his sword, as he rested sometimes, leaning on it, as the point sometimes touched my bare
flesh, nay, once as the whole sword fell flatlings onswy, swy, of
the sharp edge, as one gazed between one’s horse’s ears; moreover, at last, one fierce swift stroke, just touching me below the throat, tore up
the skin all down my body, and fell heavy on my thigh, so that I drew my breath in and turned white; then first, as I swung my sword round my head, our blades met,
oh! to hear that tchink again! and I felt the notch my sword made in his, and swung out at him; but he guarded it and returned on me; I guarded
right and left, and grew warm, and opened my mouth to shout, but knew not what to say; and our sword points fell on the floor together: then, when we had panted
awhile, I wiped from my face the blood that had been dashed over it, shook my sword and cut at him, then we spun round and round in a mad waltz to the measured music
of our meeting swords, and sometimes either wounded the other somewhat, but not much, till I beat down his sword on to his head, that he fell grovelling, but not cut
through. Verily, thereupon my lips opened mightily with “Mary rings.”
Then, when he had gotten to his feet, I went at him again, he staggering back, guarding wildly; I cut at his head; he put his sword up confusedly, so I fitted both hands to my hilt, and smote him mightily under the arm: then his shriek mingled with my shout, made a strange sound together; he rolled over and over, dead, as I thought.
I walked about the hall in great exultation at first, striking my sword point on the floor every now and then, till I grew faint with loss of blood; then I went to my enemy and stripped off some of his clothes to bind up my wounds withal; afterwards I found in a corner bread and wine, and I eat and drank thereof.
Then I went back to him, and looked, and a thought struck me, and I took some of his paints and brushes, and,
So I stood back as painters use, folded my arms, and admired my own handiwork. Yet there struck me as being something so utterly doleful in the man’s white face, and the blood running all about him, and washing off the stains of paint from his face and hands, and splashed clothes, that my heart misgave me, and I hoped that he was not dead; I took some water from a vessel he had been using for his painting, and, kneeling, washed his face.
Was it some resemblance to my father’s dead face, which I had seen when I was young, that made me pity him? I laid my hand upon his heart, and felt it beating feebly; so I lifted him up gently, and carried him towards a heap of straw that he seemed used to lie upon; there I stripped him and looked to his wounds, and used leech-craft, the memory of which God gave me for this purpose, I suppose, and within seven days I found that he would not die.
Afterwards, as I wandered about the castle, I came to a room in one of the upper stories, that had still the roof on, and windows in it with painted glass, and there I found green raiment and swords and armour, and I clothed myself.
So when he got well I asked him what his name was, and he me, and we both of us said, “truly I know not.” Then said I, “but we must call each other some name, even as men call days.”
“Call me Swerker,” he said, “some priest I knew once had that name.”
“And me Wulf,” said I, “though wherefore I know not.”
Then he said:
“Wulf, I will teach you painting now, come and learn.”
Then I tried to learn painting till I thought I should die, but at last learned it through very much pain and grief.
And, as the years went on and we grew old and grey, we painted purple pictures and green ones instead of the scarlet and yellow, so that the walls looked altered, and always we painted God’s judgments.
And we would sit in the sunset and watch them with the golden light changing them, as we yet hoped God would change both us and our works.
Often too we would sit outside the walls and look at the trees and sky, and the ways of the few men and women we saw; therefrom sometimes befell adventures.
Once there went past a great funeral of some king going to his own country, not as he had hoped to go, but stiff and colourless, spices filling up the place of his heart.
And first went by very many knights, with long bright hauberks on, that fell down before their knees as they rode, and they all had tilting-helms on with the same crest, so that their faces were quite hidden: and this crest was two hands clasped together tightly as though they were the hands of one praying forgiveness from the one he loves best; and the crest was wrought in gold.
Moreover, they had on over their hauberks surcoats which were half scarlet and half purple, strewn about with golden stars.
Also long lances, that had forked knights’-pennons, half purple and half scarlet, strewn with golden stars.
And these went by with no sound but the fall of their horse-hoofs.
And they went slowly, so slowly that we counted them all, five thousand five hundred and fifty-five.
There went by many fair maidens whose hair was loose and yellow, and who were all clad in green raiment ungirded, and shod with golden shoes.
These also we counted, being five hundred; moreover some of the outermost of them, viz. one maiden to every twenty, had long silver trumpets, which they swung out to right and left, blowing them, and their sound was very sad.
Then many priests, and bishops, and abbots, who wore white albes and golden copes over them; and they all sung together mournfully, “
Propter amnem Babylonis
;” and these were three hundred.
After that came a great knot of the Lords, who wore tilting helmets and surcoats emblazoned with each one his own device; only each had in his hand a small staff two feet long whereon was a pennon of scarlet and purple. These also were three hundred.
And in the midst of these was a great car hung down to the ground with purple, drawn by grey horses whose trappings were half scarlet, half purple.
And on this car lay the King, whose head and hands were bare; and he had on him a surcoat, half purple and half scarlet, strewn with golden stars.
And his head rested on a tilting helmet, whose crest was the hands of one praying passionately for forgiveness.
But his own hands lay by his side as if he had just fallen asleep.
And all about the car were little banners, half purple and half scarlet, strewn with golden stars.
Then the King, who counted but as one, went by also.
And after him came again many maidens clad in ungirt white raiment strewn with scarlet flowers, and their hair was loose and yellow and their feet bare: and, except for the falling of their feet and the rustle of the wind through their raiment, they went past quite silently. These also were five hundred.
Then lastly came many young knights with long bright hauberks falling over their knees as they rode,
Then they all went by winding up and up the hill roads, and, when the last of them had departed out of our sight, we put down our heads and wept, and I said, “Sing us one of the songs of the Hollow Land.”
Then he whom I had called Swerker put his hand into his bosom, and slowly drew out a long, long tress of black hair, and laid on his knee and smoothed it, weeping on it: So then I left him there and went and armed myself, and brought armour for him.
And then came back to him and threw the armour down so that it clanged, and said:
“O! Harald, let us go!”
He did not seem surprised that I called him by the right name, but rose and armed himself, and then he looked a good knight; so we set forth.
And in a turn of the long road we came suddenly upon a most fair woman, clothed in scarlet, who sat and sobbed, holding her face between her hands, and her hair was very black.
And when Harald saw her, he stood and gazed at her for long through the bars of his helmet, then suddenly turned, and said:
“Florian, I must stop here; do you go on to the Hollow Land. Farewell.”
“Farewell.” And then I went on, never turning back, and him I never saw more.
And so I went on, quite lonely, but happy, till I had reached the Hollow Land.
Into which I let myself down most
Fytte the Third.
And I was waked by some one singing: I felt very happy; I felt young again; I had fair delicate raiment on, my sword was gone, and my armour; I tried to think
where I was, and could not for my happiness; I tried to listen to the words of the song. Nothing, only an old echo in my ears, only all manner of strange scenes from
my wretched past life before my eyes in a dim, far-off manner: then at last, slowly, without effort, I heard what she sang.
“Then,” she said, “come now and look for it, love, a hollow city in the Hollow Land.”
I kissed Margaret, and we went.
Through the golden streets under the purple shadows of the houses we went, and the slow fanning backward and forward of the many-coloured banners cooled us: we two alone; there was no one with us, no soul will ever be able to tell what we said, how we looked.
At last we came to a fair palace, cloistered off in the old time, before the city grew golden from the din and hubbub of traffic; those who dwelt there in the
old ungolden times had had their own joys, their own sorrows, apart from the joys and sorrows of the multitude: so, in like manner, was it now cloistered off from the
eager leaning and brotherhood of the golden dwellings: so now it had its own
gaiety, its own solemnity, apart from
We stopped before the gates and trembled, and clasped each other closer; for there among the marble leafage and tendrils that were round and under and over the
archway that held the golden valves, were wrought two figures of a man and woman, winged and garlanded, whose raiment flashed with stars; and their faces were like
faces we had seen or half seen in some dream long and long and long
And then we walked together toward the golden gates, and opened them, and no man gainsaid us.
And before us lay a great space of flowers.
There is an unappeasable desire in the hearts of men to know concerning their fellow-men, what they have done and said, and thought; not
content to be informed merely of their principal actions, which, as they are commonly related, are the veriest phenomena of the whole life, but, by a record of their
minutest actions, a transcript of their actual words, and, if possible, an interpretation of their inmost thoughts, penetrating into the depths of the spirit, to
learn truly what the men themselves really were. Hence compilation of biographies innumerable, not only of great men, but also of mediocre, and even positively small
men; all of which, nevertheless, if composed with any truthfulness (I do not mean with a mere attention to truth in the narrative of events, &c., but rather
with a true comprehension and interpretation of those outward signs) severally possess, and cannot but possess, an interest always fresh, for no small circle of
readers. But the sympathetic curiosity of men is not satisfied with the comparative minuteness of biography; we long to look more closely, to learn what the man wrote
The reporter of “has produced would edify, even the youngest reader in any particular,
is too improbable an idea to be entertained for a moment. That he could have imagined that he was doing anything to aid the general public to understand the real self
of the poet (whom he knew, and saw closely, as a friend), is more absurd still: nobody could possibly pretend that in these “not warmed with wine. Was it not enough for such talk to have been uttered once, to amuse, if it could, fellow diners once for all, and then pass
away from earth for ever? Save me from my friends indeed, and from men “of the best intentions!” Everybody knows the story of Johnson, when he
heard of Boswell’s intention to write his life, how the irascible, but not imprudent, “great man” promptly announced his intention to forestall his would-be biographer, by taking his life. Too violent a measure that, doubtless; but if Rogers, by any less
violent method, could have prevented this report of his Table Talk, it would have been better for him, for Mr. Dyce, and for the public. Strangely enough, however,
Mr. Dyce, in his preface, informs us that Rogers was pleased with the undertaking when it was first made known to him. How blind are men sometimes! how little careful
of their own fame!
And yet what a book might we not have looked for! A poet’s conversation! For Rogers, though a mindwritten words of such a man are far from representing the whole wealth of his mind, are indeed but
a somewhat poor earnest of it; wealth, which lies, it may be, scarcely known, only at times partially divined, even by himself. Thoughts flash across his spirit,
which are gone almost as soon as they come, which will not wait to be completed and elaborated into exact writing; which are, perhaps—who
knows?—too subtle for language altogether. Yet, at the very moment of their birth, they might be seized, partially enough, doubtless, by word of mouth, and
thus some portion at least of them secured. And so a poet’s conversation may be more spontaneous, more full of insight, in a word more inspired, than even
his poems. With these expectations, conceive my disappointment in this Table Talk, almost the best part of which is mere inanity; while no small portion exhibits
Rogers as one of the ignoblest and unkindest of men—talking petty scandal to his own guests. Of the many illustrious names introduced there are few that he
does not sully, not with the greater crimes, but with that meanness
In conclusion, are we to regard these “letter; I am quite ready to grant that; but
have we in them the true spirit of the man rendered? At what period of life these scattered conversational fragments were severally uttered, I do
not know, no dates being given: in the preface we are told that they reach down to within a few years of the poet’s death. Much allowance may therefore be
made for the failing powers of extreme old age, and this alone ought to put us on our guard against receiving the Table Talk as a true delineation of the whole man.
But, setting aside this consideration, I do not, for I cannot, believe that we have here a faithful representation of one who has made good some right to the name of
a poet: in the absence of evidence far more unmistakeable than this, I would still cling to my faith in the general
For the book itself it will be easily understood I have but one wish, that it may be consigned as speedily as possible to the oblivion which it so fully merits, and to which it is irreversibly doomed; the publication of it was an evil, and this is the only remedy.