Produced by Michael Madden
The Life of Froude
By Herbert Paul
London: Sir Isaac Pitman & Sons, 1905.
PREFACE
Although eleven years have elapsed since Mr. Froude's death, no
biography of him has, so far as I know, appeared. This book is an
attempt to tell the public something about a man whose writings have
a permanent place in the literature of England.
It is a pleasure to acknowledge my obligation to Miss Margaret
Froude for having allowed me the use of such written material as
existed. A large number of Mr. Froude's letters were destroyed after
his death, and it was not intended by the family that any biography
of him should be written. Finding that I was engaged upon the task,
Miss Froude supplied those facts, dates, and papers which were
essential to the accuracy of the narrative. Mr. Froude's niece, Mrs.
St. Leger Harrison, known to the world as Lucas Malet, has allowed
me to use some of her uncle's letters to her mother.
Lady Margaret Cecil has, with great kindness, permitted me to make
copious extracts from Mr. Froude's letters to her mother, the late
Countess of Derby. I must also express my gratitude to Sir Thomas
Sanderson, Lord Derby's executor, to Cardinal Newman's literary
representative Mr. Edward Bellasis, and to Mr. Arthur Clough, son of
Froude's early friend the poet.
Mr. James Rye, of Balliol College, Oxford, placed at my disposal,
with singular generosity, the results of his careful examination
into the charges made against Mr. Froude by Mr. Freeman.
The Rector of Exeter was good enough to show me the entries in the
college books bearing upon Mr. Froude's resignation of his
Fellowship, and to tell me everything he knew on the subject.
My indebtedness to the late Sir John Skelton's delightful book,
The Table Talk of Shirley, will be obvious to my readers.
I have, in conclusion, to thank my old friend Mr. Birrell, for
lending me his very rare copy of the funeral sermon preached by
Mr. Froude at Torquay.
October 30, 1905.
CHAPTER I
CHILDHOOD
IN reading biographies I always skip the genealogical details. To
be born obscure and to die famous has been described as the acme of
human felicity. However that may be, whether fame has anything to do
with happiness or no, it is a man himself, and not his ancestors,
whose life deserves, if it does deserve, to be written. Such was
Froude's own opinion, and it is the opinion of most sensible people.
Few, indeed, are the families which contain more than one remarkable
figure, and this is the rock upon which the hereditary principle
always in practice breaks. For human lineage is not subject to the
scientific tests which alone could give it solid value as positive
or negative evidence. There is nothing to show from what source,
other than the ultimate source of every good and perfect gift,
Froude derived his brilliant and splendid powers. He was a gentleman,
and he did not care to find or make for himself a pedigree. He knew
that the Froudes had been settled in Devonshire time out of mind as
yeomen with small estates, and that one of them, to whom his own
father always referred with contempt, had bought from the Heralds'
College what Gibbon calls the most useless of all coats, a coat
of arms. Froude's grandfather did a more sensible thing by marrying
an heiress, a Devonshire heiress, Miss Hurrell, and thereby doubling
his possessions. Although he died before he was five-and-twenty, he
left four children behind him, and his only son was the
historian's father.
James Anthony Froude, known as Anthony to those who called him by
his Christian name, was born at Dartington, two miles from Totnes,
on St. George's Day, Shakespeare's birthday, the 23rd of April,
1818. His father, who had taken a pass degree at Oxford, and had
then taken orders, was by that time Rector of Dartington and
Archdeacon of Totnes. Archdeacon Froude belonged to a type of
clergyman now almost extinct in the Church of England, though with
strong idiosyncrasies of his own. Orthodox without being spiritual,
he was a landowner as well as a parson, a high and dry Churchman, an
active magistrate, a zealous Tory, with a solid and unclerical
income of two or three thousand a year. He was a personage in the
county, as well as a dignitary of the Church. Every one in Devonshire
knew the name of Froude, if only from "Parson Froude," no
credit to his cloth, who appears as Parson Chowne in Blackmore's
once popular novel, The Maid of Sker. But the Archdeacon was a man
of blameless life, and not in the least like Parson Froude. A hard
rider and passionately fond of hunting, he was a good judge of a
horse and usually the best mounted man in the field. One of his
exploits as an undergraduate was to jump the turnpike gate on the
Abingdon road with pennies under his seat, between his knees and the
saddle, and between his feet and the stirrups, without dropping one.
Although he had been rather extravagant and something of a dandy, he
was able to say that he could account for every sixpence he spent
after the age of twenty-one. On leaving Oxford he settled down to
the life of a country parson with conscientious thoroughness, and
was reputed the best magistrate in the South Hams. Farming his own
glebe, as he did, with skill and knowledge, perpetually occupied, as
he was, with clerical or secular business, he found the Church of
England, not then disturbed by any wave of enthusiasm, at once
necessary and sufficient to his religious sense. His horror of
Nonconformists was such that he would not have a copy of The
Pilgrim's Progress in his house. He upheld the Bishop and all
established institutions, believing that the way to heaven was to
turn to the right and go straight on. There were many such
clergymen in his day.
In appearance he was a cold, hard, stern man, despising sentiment,
reticent and self-restrained. But beneath the surface there lay deep
emotions and an aesthetic sense, of which his drawings were the only
outward sign. To these sketches he himself attached no value. "You
can buy better at the nearest shop for sixpence," he would say, if
he heard them praised. Yet good judges of art compared them with the
early sketches of Turner, and Ruskin afterwards gave them
enthusiastic praise. Mr. Froude had married, when quite a young man,
Margaret Spedding, the daughter of an old college friend, from
Armathwaite in Cumberland. Her nephew is known as the prince of
Baconian scholars and the J. S. of Tennyson's poem. She was a woman
of great beauty, deeply religious, belonging to a family more
strongly given to letters and to science than the Froudes, whose
tastes were rather for the active life of sport and adventure. One
can imagine the Froudes of the sixteenth century manning the ships
of Queen Bess and sailing with Frobisher or Drake. For many years
Mrs. Froude was the mistress of a happy home, the mother of many
handsome sons and fair daughters. The two eldest, Hurrell and
Robert, were especially striking, brilliant lads, popular at Eton,
their father's companions in the hunting-field or on the moors. But
in Dartington Rectory, with all its outward signs of prosperity and
welfare, there were the seeds of death. Before Anthony Froude, the
youngest of eight, was three years old, his mother died of a
decline, and within a few years the same illness proved fatal to
five of her children. The whole aspect of life at Dartington was
changed. The Archdeacon retired into himself and nursed his grief in
silence, melancholy, isolated, austere.
This irreparable calamity was made by circumstances doubly
calamitous. Though destined to survive all his brothers and sisters,
Anthony was a weak, sickly child, not considered never heard the
mention of his mother's name, or was the Archdeacon himself capable
of showing any tenderness whatever. In place of a mother the little
boy had an aunt, who applied to him principles of Spartan severity.
At the mature age of three he was ducked every morning at a trough,
to harden him, in the ice-cold water from a spring, and whenever he
was naughty he was whipped. It may have been from this unpleasant
discipline that he derived the contempt for self-indulgence, and the
indifference to pain, which distinguished him in after life. On the
other hand, he was allowed to read what he liked, and devoured
Grimm's Tales, The Seven Champions of Christendom, and The Arabian
Nights. He was an imaginative and reflective child, full of the
wonder in which philosophy begins.
The boy felt from the first the romantic beauty of his home.
Dartington Rectory, some two miles from Totnes, is surrounded by
woods which overhang precipitously the clear waters of the River
Dart. Dartington Hall, which stood near the rectory, is one of the
oldest houses in England, originally built before the Conquest, and
completed with great magnificence in the reign of Richard II. The
vast banqueting-room was, in the nineteenth century, a ruin, and
open to the sky. The remains of the old quadrangle were a treasure
to local antiquaries, and the whole place was full of charm for an
imaginative boy. Mr. Champernowne, the owner, was an intimate friend
of the Archdeacon, to whom he left the guardianship of his children,
so that the Froudes were as much at home in their squire's house as
in the parsonage itself. Although most of his brothers and sisters
were too old to be his companions, the group in which his first
years were passed was an unusually spirited and vivacious one.
Newman, who was one of Hurrell's visitors from Oxford, has described
the young girls "blooming and in high spirits," full of gaiety and charm.*
--
* Newman's Letters and Correspondence, ii. 73.
--
The Froudes were a remarkable family. They had strong characters
and decided tastes, but they had not their father's conventionality
and preference for the high roads of life. They were devoted to sport,
and at the same time abounded in mental vigour. All the brothers had
the gift of drawing. John, though forced into a lawyer's office,
would if left to himself have become an artist by profession. The
nearest to Anthony in age was William, afterwards widely celebrated
as a naval engineer. Then came Robert, the most attractive of the
boys. A splendid athlete, compared by Anthony with a Greek statue,
he had sweetness as well as depth of nature. His drawings of horses
were the delight of his family; and when his favourite hunter died
he wrote a graceful elegy on the afflicting event. The influence of
his genial kindness was never forgotten by his youngest brother; but
there was a stronger and more dominating personality of which the
effect was less beneficial to a sensitive and nervous child.
Richard Hurrell Froude is regarded by High Churchmen as an
originator of the Oxford Movement, and he impressed all his
contemporaries by the brilliancy of his gifts. Dean Church went so
far as to compare him with Pascal. But his ideas of bringing up
children were naturally crude, and his treatment of Anthony was more
harsh than wise. His early character as seen at home is described by
his mother in a letter written a year before her death, when he was
seventeen. Fond as she was of him and proud of his brilliant
promise, she did not know what to make of him, so wayward was he and
inconsiderately selfish. "I am in a wretched state of health," the
poor lady explained, "and quiet is important to my recovery and
quite essential to my comfort, yet he disturbs it for what he calls
'funny tormenting,' without the slightest feeling, twenty times a
day. At one time he kept one of his brothers screaming, from a sort
of teasing play, for near an hour under my window. At another he
acted a wolf to his baby brother, whom he had promised never to
frighten again."*
--
* Guiney's Hurrell Froude, p. 8.
--
Anthony was the baby brother, and though this form of teasing was
soon given up, the temper which dictated it remained. Hurrell, it
should be said, inflicted severe discipline upon himself to curb his
own refractory nature. In applying the same to his little brother he
showed that he did not understand the difference between Anthony's
character and his own. But lack of insight and want of sympathy were
among Hurrell's acknowledged defects.
Conceiving that the child wanted spirit, Hurrell once took him up by
the heels, and stirred with his head the mud at the bottom of a
stream. Another time he threw him into deep water out of a boat to
make him manly. But he was not satisfied by inspiring physical
terror. Invoking the aid of the preternatural, he taught his brother
that the hollow behind the house was haunted by a monstrous and
malevolent phantom, to which, in the plenitude of his imagination,
he gave the name of Peningre. Gradually the child discovered that
Peningre was an illusion, and began to suspect that other ideas of
Hurrell's might be illusions too. Superstition is the parent of
scepticism from the cradle to the gave. At the same time his own
faculty of invention was rather stimulated than repressed. He was
encouraged in telling, as children will, imaginative stories of
things which never occurred.
In spite of ghosts and muddy water Anthony worshipped Hurrell, a
born leader of men, who had a fascination for his brothers and
sisters, though not perhaps of the most wholesome kind. The
Archdeacon himself had no crotchets. He was a religious man, to whom
religion meant duty rather than dogma, a light to the feet, and a
lantern for the path. A Tory and a Churchman, he was yet a moderate
Tory and a moderate Churchman; prudent, sensible, a man of the
world. To Hurrell Dissenters were rogues and idiots, a Liberal was
half an infidel, a Radical was, at least in intention, a thief. From
the effect of this nonsense Anthony was saved for a time by his
first school. At the age of nine he was sent to Buckfastleigh, five
miles up the River Dart, where Mr. Lowndes, the rector and patron of
the living, took boarders and taught them, mostly Devonshire boys.
Buckfastleigh was not a bad school for the period. There was plenty
of caning, but no bullying, and Latin was well taught. Froude was a
gentle, amiable child, "such a very good-tempered little fellow
that, in spite of his sawneyness, he is sure to be liked," as his
eldest brother wrote in 1828. He suffered at this time from an
internal weakness, which made games impossible. His passion, which
he never lost, was for Greek, and especially for Homer. With a
precocity which Mill or Macaulay might have envied, he had read both
the Iliad and the Odyssey twice before he was eleven. The standard
of accuracy at Buckfastleigh was not high, and Froude's scholarship
was inexact. What he learnt there was to enjoy Homer, to feel on
friendly terms with the Greeks and Trojans, at ease with the
everlasting wanderer in the best story-book composed by man.
Anthony's holidays were not altogether happy. He was made to work
instead of amusing himself, and forced into an unwholesome
precocity. Then at eleven he was sent to Westminster.
In 1830 the reputation of Westminster stood high. The boarding-
houses were well managed, the lagging in them was light, and their
tone was good. Unhappily, in spite of the head master's
remonstrances, Froude's father, who had spent a great deal of money
on his other sons' education, insisted on placing him in college,
which was then far too rough for a boy of his age and strength. On
account of what he had read, rather than what he had learnt, at
Buckfastleigh, he took a very high place, and was put with boys far
older than himself. The lagging was excessively severe. The bullying
was gross and unchecked. The sanitary accommodation was abominable.
The language of the dormitory was indecent and profane. Froude,
whose health prevented him from the effective use of nature's
weapons, was woke by the hot points of cigars burning holes in his
face, made drunk by being forced to swallow brandy punch, and
repeatedly thrashed. He was also more than half starved, because the
big fellows had the pick of the joints at dinner, and left the small
fellows little besides the bone. Ox-tail soup at the pastrycook's
took the place of a meal which the authorities were bound to
provide. Scandalous as all this may have been, it was not peculiar
to Westminster. The state of college at Winchester, and at Eton, was
in many respects as bad. Public schools had not yet felt the
influence of Arnold and of the reforming spirit. Head masters
considered domestic details beneath them, and parents, if they felt
any responsibility at all, persuaded themselves that boys were all
the better for roughing it as a preparation for the discipline of
the world. The case of Froude, however, was a peculiarly bad one. He
was suffering from hernia, and the treatment might well have killed
him. Although his lagging only lasted for a year, he was
persistently bullied and tormented, until he forgot what he had
learned, instead of adding to it. When the body is starved and ill-
treated, the mind will not work. The head master, Dr. Williamson,
was disappointed in a boy of whom he had expected so much, and wrote
unfavourable reports. After enduring undeserved and disabling
hardships for three years and a half, Froude was taken away from
Westminster at the age of fifteen.
To escape from such a den of horrors was at first a relief. But he
soon found that his miseries were not over. He came home in
disgrace. His misfortunes were regarded as his faults, and the worst
construction was put upon everything he said or did. His clothes and
books had been freely stolen in the big, unregulated dormitory. He
was accused of having pawned them, and his denials were not
believed. If he had had a mother, all might have been well, for no
woman with a heart would assume that her child was lying. The
Archdeacon, without a particle of evidence, assumed it at once, and
beat the wretched boy severely in the presence of the approving
Hurrell. Hurrell would have made an excellent inquisitor. His
brother always spoke of him as peculiarly gifted in mind and in
character; but he knew little of human nature, and he doubtless
fancied that in torturing Anthony's body he was helping Anthony's
soul. To alter two words in the fierce couplet of the satirist,
He said his duty, both to man and God,
Required such conduct, which seemed very odd.
Anthony was threatened, in the true inquisitorial spirit, with a
series of floggings, until he should confess what he had not done.
At last, however, he was set down as incorrigibly stupid, and given
up as a bad job. The Archdeacon arrived at the conclusion that his
youngest son was a fool, and might as well be apprenticed to a
tanner. Having hoped that he would be off his hands as a student of
Christ Church at sixteen, he was bitterly disappointed, and took no
pains to conceal his disappointment.
To Anthony himself it seemed a matter of indifference what became of
him, and a hopeless mystery why he had been brought into the world.
He had no friend. The consumption in the family was the boy's only
hope. His mother had died of it, and his brother Robert, who had
been kind to him, and taught him to ride. It was already showing
itself in Hurrell. His own time could not, he thought, be long.
Meanwhile, he was subjected to petty humiliations, in which the
inventive genius of Hurrell may be traced. He was not, for instance,
permitted to have clothes from a tailor. Old garments were found in
the house, and made up for him in uncouth shapes by a woman in the
village. His father seldom spoke to him, and never said a kind word
to him. By way of keeping him quiet, he was set to copy out Barrow's
sermons. It is difficult to understand how the sternest
disciplinarian, being human, could have treated his own motherless
boy with such severity. The Archdeacon acted, no doubt, upon a
theory, the theory that sternness to children is the truest kindness
in the long run.
Well might Macaulay say that he would rather a boy should learn to
lisp all the bad words in the language than grow up without a
mother. Froude's interrupted studies were nothing compared to a
childhood without love, and there was nobody to make him feel the
meaning of the word. Fortunately, though his father was always at
home, his brother was much away, and he was a good deal left to
himself after Robert's death. Hurrell did not disdain to employ him
in translating John of Salisbury's letters for his own Life of Becket.
No more was heard of the tanner, who had perhaps been only a threat.
While he wandered in solitude through the woods, or by the river,
his health improved, he acquired a passion for nature, and in his
father's library, which was excellent, he began eagerly to read. He
devoured Sharon Turner's History of England, and the great work of
Gibbon. Shakespeare and Spenser introduced him to the region of the
spirit in its highest and deepest, its purest and noblest forms.
Unhappily he also fell in with Byron, the worst poet that can come
into the hands of a boy, and always retained for him an admiration
which would now be thought excessive. By these means he gained much.
He discovered what poetry was, what history was, and he learned also
the lesson that no one can teach, the hard lesson of self-reliance.
This was the period, as everybody knows, of the Oxford Movement, in
which Hurrell Froude acted as a pioneer. Hurrell's ideal was the
Church of the Middle Ages represented by Thomas Becket. In the
vacations he brought some of his Tractarian friends home with him,
and Anthony listened to their talk. Strange talk it seemed. They
found out, these young men, that Dr. Arnold, one of the most
devoutly religious men who ever lived, was not a Christian. The
Reformation was an infamous rebellion against authority. Liberalism,
not the Pope, was antichrist. The Church was above the State, and
the supreme ruler of the world. Transubstantiation, which the
Archdeacon abhorred, was probably true. Hurrell Froude was a
brilliant talker, a consummate dialectician, and an ardent
proselytising controversialist. But his young listener knew a little
history, and perceived that, to put it mildly, there were gaps in
Hurrell's knowledge.
When he heard that the Huguenots were despicable, that Charles I.
was a saint, that the Old Pretender was James III., that the
Revolution of 1688 was a crime, and that the Non-jurors were the
true confessors of the English Church, it did not seem to square
with his reading, or his reflections. Perhaps, after all, the
infallible Hurrell might be wrong. One fear he had never been able
to instil into his brother, and that was the fear of death. When
asked what would happen if he were suddenly called to appear in the
presence of God, Anthony replied that he was in the presence of God
from morning to night and from night to morning. That abiding
consciousness he never lost, and when his speculations went furthest
they invariably stopped there.
Left with his father and one sister, the boy drank in the air of
Dartmoor, and grew to love Devonshire with an unalterable affection.
He also continued his reading, and invaded theology. Newton on the
Prophecies remarked that "if the Pope was not Antichrist, he had bad
luck to be so like him," and Renan had not yet explained that
Antichrist was neither the Pope nor the French Revolution, but the
Emperor Nero. From Pearson on the Creed he learned the distinction
between "believing" and "believing in." When we believe in a person,
we trust him. When we believe a thing, we are not sure of it. This
is one of the few theological distinctions which are also
differences. Meanwhile, the Archdeacon had been watching his
youngest son, and had observed that he had at least a taste for
books. Perhaps he might not be the absolute dolt that Hurrell
pronounced him. He had lost five years, so far as classical training
was concerned, by the mismanagement of the Archdeacon himself.
Still, he was only seventeen, and there was time to repair the
waste. He was sent to a private tutor's in preparation for Oxford.
His tutor, a dreamy, poetical High Churchman, devoted to Wordsworth
and Keble, failed to understand his character or to give him an
interest in his work, and a sixth year was added to the lost five.
During this year his brother Hurrell died, and the tragic extinction
of that commanding spirit seemed a presage of his own early doom.
Two of his sisters, both lately married, died within a few months of
Hurrell, and of each other. The Archdeacon, incapable of expressing
emotion, became more reserved than ever, and scarcely spoke at all.
Sadly was he disappointed in his children. Most of them went out of
the world long before him. Not one of them distinguished himself in
those regular professional courses which alone he understood as
success. Hurrell joined ardently, while his life was spared, in the
effort to counteract the Reformation and Romanise the Church of
England. William, though he became a naval architect of the highest
possible distinction, and performed invaluable services for his
country, worked on his own account, and made his own experiments in
his own fashion. Anthony, too, took his line, and went his way,
whither his genius led him, indifferent to the opinion of the world.
His had been a strange childhood, not without its redeeming
features. Left to himself, seeing his brothers and sisters die
around him, expecting soon to follow them, the boy grew up stern,
hardy, and self-reliant. He was by no means a bookworm. He had
learned to ride in the best mode, by falling off, and had acquired a
passion for fishing which lasted as long as his life. There were few
better yachtsmen in England than Froude, and he could manage a boat
as well as any sailor in his native county. His religious education,
as he always said himself, was thoroughly wholesome and sound,
consisting of morality and the Bible. Sympathy no doubt he missed,
and he used to regard the early death of his brother Robert as the
loss of his best friend. For his father's character he had a
profound admiration as an embodiment of all the manly virtues,
stoical rather than Christian, never mawkish nor effeminate.