Hotel du Mont Blanc, St. Martin’s,
12th October, 1874.
We have now briefly glanced at the nature of the squire’s work in
relation to the peasant; namely, making a celestial or worshipful
appearance to him; and the methods of operation, no less than of
appearance, which are generally to be defined as celestial, or
worshipful.
We have next to examine by what rules the action of the squire towards
the peasant is to be either restrained or assisted; and the function,
therefore, of the lawyer, or definer of limits and modes,—which was
above generally expressed, in its relation to the peasant, as “telling
him, in black letter, that his house is his own.” It will be necessary,
however, evidently, that his house should be his own, before any lawyer
can divinely assert the same to him.
Waiving, for the moment, examination of this primal necessity, let us
consider a little how that divine function of asserting, in perfectly
intelligible and indelible letters, the absolute claim of a man to his
own house, or castle, and all that it properly includes, is actually
discharged by the powers of British law now in operation.
We will take, if you please, in the outset, a few wise men’s opinions
on this matter, though we shall thus be obliged somewhat to generalize
the inquiry, by admitting into it some notice of criminal as well as
civil law.
My readers have probably thought me forgetful of Sir Walter all this
time. No; but all writing about him is impossible to me in the impure
gloom of modern Italy. I have had to rest awhile here, where human life
is still sacred, before I could recover the tone of heart fit to say
what I want to say in this Fors.
He was the son, you remember, of a writer to the signet, and practised
for some time at the bar himself. Have you ever chanced to ask yourself
what was his innermost opinion of the legal profession?
Or, have you even endeavoured to generalize that expressed with so much
greater violence by Dickens? The latter wrote with a definitely
reforming purpose, seemingly; and, I have heard, had real effects on
Chancery practice.
But are the Judges of England—at present I suppose the highest types of
intellectual and moral power that Christendom possesses—content to have
reform forced on them by the teazing of a caricaturist, instead of the
pleading of their own consciences?
Even if so, is there no farther reform indicated as necessary, in a
lower field, by the same teazing personage? The Court of Chancery and
Mr. Vholes were not his only legal sketches. Dodson and Fogg; Sampson
Brass; Serjeant Buzfuz; and, most of all, the examiner, for the Crown,
of Mr. Swiveller in the trial of Kit, [64]—are these deserving of no
repentant attention? You, good reader, probably have read the trial in
Pickwick, and the trial of Kit, merely to amuse yourself; and perhaps
Dickens himself meant little more than to amuse you. But did it never
strike you as quite other than a matter of amusement, that in both
cases, the force of the law of England is represented as employed
zealously to prove a crime against a person known by the accusing
counsel to be innocent; and, in both cases, as obtaining a conviction?
You might perhaps think that these were only examples of the ludicrous,
and sometimes tragic, accidents which must sometimes happen in the
working of any complex system, however excellent. They are by no means
so. Ludicrous, and tragic, mischance must indeed take place in all
human affairs of importance, however honestly conducted. But here you
have deliberate, artistic, energetic dishonesty; skilfullest and
resolutest endeavour to prove a crime against an innocent person,—a
crime of which, in the case of the boy, the reputed commission will
cost him at least the prosperity and honour of his life,—more to him
than life itself. And this you forgive, or admire, because it is not
done in malice, but for money, and in pride of art. Because the
assassin is paid,—makes his living in that line of business,—and
delivers his thrust with a bravo’s artistic finesse you think him a
respectable person; so much better in style than a passionate one who
does his murder gratis, vulgarly, with a club,—Bill Sykes, for
instance? It is all balanced fairly, as the system goes, you think. ‘It
works round, and two and two make four. He accused an innocent person
to-day:—to-morrow he will defend a rascal.’
And you truly hold this a business to which your youth should be
bred—gentlemen of England?
‘But how is it to be ordered otherwise? Every supposed criminal ought
surely to have an advocate, to say what can be said in his favour; and
an accuser, to insist on the evidence against him. Both do their best,
and can anything be fairer?’
Yes; something else could be much fairer; but we will find out what Sir
Walter thinks, if we can, before going farther; though it will not be
easy—for you don’t at once get at the thoughts of a great man, upon a
great matter.
The first difference, however, which, if you know your Scott well,
strikes you, between him and Dickens, is that your task of
investigation is chiefly pleasant, though serious; not a painful
one—and still less a jesting or mocking one. The first figure that
rises before you is Pleydell; the second, Scott’s own father, Saunders
Fairford, with his son. And you think for an instant or two, perhaps,
“The question is settled, as far as Scott is concerned, at once. What a
beautiful thing is Law!”
For you forget, by the sweet emphasis of the divine art on what is
good, that there ever was such a person in the world as Mr. Glossin.
And you are left, by the grave cunning of the divine art, which reveals
to you no secret without your own labour, to discern and unveil for
yourself the meaning of the plot of Redgauntlet.
You perhaps were dissatisfied enough with the plot, when you read it
for amusement. Such a childish fuss about nothing! Solway sands,
forsooth, the only scenery; and your young hero of the story frightened
to wet his feet; and your old hero doing nothing but ride a black
horse, and make himself disagreeable; and all that about the house in
Edinburgh so dull; and no love-making, to speak of, anywhere!
Well, it doesn’t come in exactly with my subject, to-day;—but, by the
way, I beg you to observe that there is a bit of love in Redgauntlet
which is worth any quantity of modern French or English amatory novels
in a heap. Alan Fairford has been bred, and willingly bred, in the
strictest discipline of mind and conduct; he is an entirely strong,
entirely prudent, entirely pure young Scotchman,—and a lawyer. Scott,
when he wrote the book, was an old Scotchman; and had seen a good deal
of the world. And he is going to tell you how Love ought first to come
to an entirely strong, entirely prudent, entirely pure youth, of his
own grave profession.
How love ought to come, mind you. Alan Fairford is the real hero (next
to Nanty Ewart) of the novel; and he is the exemplary and happy
hero—Nanty being the suffering one, under hand of Fate.
Of course, you would say, if you didn’t know the book, and were asked
what should happen—(and with Miss Edgeworth to manage matters instead
of Scott, or Shakespeare, nothing else would have happened,)—of course
the entirely prudent young lawyer will consider what an important step
in life marriage is; and will look out for a young person of good
connections, whose qualities of mind and moral disposition he will
examine strictly before allowing his affections to be engaged; he will
then consider what income is necessary for a person in a high legal
position, etc., etc., etc.
Well, this is what does happen, according to Scott, you know;—(or more
likely, I’m afraid, know nothing about it). The old servant of the
family announces, with some dryness of manner, one day, that a ‘leddy’
wants to see Maister Alan Fairford,—for legal consultation. The prudent
young gentleman, upon this, puts his room into the most impressive
order, intending to make a first appearance reading a legal volume in
an abstracted state of mind. But, on a knock coming at the street door,
he can’t resist going to look out at the window; and—the servant
maliciously showing in the client without announcement—is discovered
peeping out of it. The client is closely veiled—little more than the
tip of her nose discernible. She is, fortunately, a little embarrassed
herself; for she did not want Mr. Alan Fairford at all, but Mr. Alan
Fairford’s father. They sit looking at each other—at least, he looking
at the veil and a green silk cloak—for half a minute. The young
lady—(for she is young; he has made out that, he admits; and something
more perhaps,)—is the first to recover her presence of mind; makes him
a pretty little apology for having mistaken him for his father; says
that, now she has done it, he will answer her purpose, perhaps, even
better; but she thinks it best to communicate the points on which she
requires his assistance, in writing,—curtsies him, on his endeavour to
remonstrate, gravely and inexorably into silence,—disappears,—“And put
the sun in her pocket, I believe,” as she turned the corner, says
prudent Mr. Alan. And keeps it in her pocket for him,—evermore. That is
the way one’s Love is sent, when she is sent from Heaven, says the aged
Scott.
‘But how ridiculous,—how entirely unreasonable,—how unjustifiable, on
any grounds of propriety or common sense!’
Certainly, my good sir,—certainly: Shakespeare and Scott can’t help
that;—all they know is,—that is the way God and Nature manage it. Of
course, Rosalind ought to have been much more particular in her
inquiries about Orlando;—Juliet about the person masqued as a
pilgrim;—and there is really no excuse whatever for Desdemona’s
conduct; and we all know what came of it;—but, again I say, Shakespeare
and Scott can’t help that.
Nevertheless, Love is not the subject of this novel of Redgauntlet; but
Law: on which matter we will endeavour now to gather its evidence.
Two youths are brought up together—one, the son of a Cavalier, or
Ghibelline, of the old school, whose Law is in the sword, and the
heart; and the other of a Roundhead, or Guelph, of the modern school,
whose Law is in form and precept. Scott’s own prejudices lean to the
Cavalier; but his domestic affections, personal experience, and sense
of equity, lead him to give utmost finish to the adverse character. The
son of the Cavalier—in moral courage, in nervous power, in general
sense and self-command,—is entirely inferior to the son of the Puritan;
nay, in many respects quite weak and effeminate; one slight and
scarcely noticeable touch, (about the unproved pistol,) gives the true
relation of the characters, and makes their portraiture complete, as by
Velasquez.
The Cavalier’s father is dead; his uncle asserts the Cavalier’s law of
the Sword over him: its effects upon him are the first clause of the
book.
The Puritan’s father—living—asserts the law of Precept over him: its
effects upon him are the second clause of the book.
Together with these studies of the two laws in their influence on the
relation of guardian and ward—or of father and child, their influence
on society is examined in the opposition of the soldier and hunter to
the friend of man and animals,—Scott putting his whole power into the
working out of this third clause of the book.
Having given his verdict in these three clauses, wholly in favour of
the law of precept,—he has to mark the effects of its
misapplication,—first moral, then civil.
The story of Nanty Ewart, the fourth clause, is the most instructive
and pathetic piece of Scott’s judgment on the abuse of the moral law,
by pride, in Scotland, which you can find in all his works.
Finally, the effects of the abuse of the civil law by sale, or simony,
have to be examined; which is done in the story of Peter Peebles.
The involution of this fifth clause with that of Nanty Ewart is one of
the subtlest pieces of heraldic quartering which you can find in all
the Waverley novels; and no others have any pretence to range with them
in this point of art at all. The best, by other masters, are a mere
play of kaleidoscope colour compared to the severe heraldic delineation
of the Waverleys.
We will first examine the statement of the abuse of Civil Law.
There is not, if you have any true sympathy with humanity, extant for
you a more exquisite study of the relations which must exist, even
under circumstances of great difficulty and misunderstanding, between a
good father and good son, than the scenes of Redgauntlet laid in
Edinburgh. The father’s intense devotion, pride, and joy, mingled with
fear, in the son; the son’s direct, unflinching, unaffected obedience,
hallowed by pure affection, tempered by youthful sense, guided by high
personal power. And all this force of noble passion and effort, in
both, is directed to a single object—the son’s success at the bar. That
success, as usually in the legal profession, must, if it be not wholly
involved, at least give security for itself, in the impression made by
the young counsel’s opening speech. All the interests of the reader (if
he has any interest in him) are concentrated upon this crisis in the
story; and the chapter which gives account of the fluctuating event is
one of the supreme masterpieces of European literature.
The interests of the reader, I say, are concentrated on the success of
the young counsel: that of his client is of no importance whatever to
any one. You perhaps forget even who the client is—or recollect him
only as a poor drunkard, who must be kept out of the way for fear he
should interrupt his own counsel, or make the jury laugh at him. His
cause has been—no one knows how long—in the courts; it is good for
practising on, by any young hand.
You forget Peter Peebles, perhaps: you don’t forget Miss Flite, in the
Dickens’ court? Better done, therefore,—Miss Flite,—think you?
No; not so well done; or anything like so well done. The very primal
condition in Scott’s type of the ruined creature is, that he should be
forgotten! Worse;—that he should deserve to be forgotten. Miss Flite
interests you—takes your affections—deserves them. Is mad, indeed, but
not a destroyed creature, morally, at all. A very sweet, kind
creature,—not even altogether unhappy,—enjoying her lawsuit, and her
bag, and her papers. She is a picturesque, quite unnatural and unlikely
figure,—therefore wholly ineffective except for story-telling purposes.
But Peter Peebles is a natural ruin, and a total one. An accurate type
of what is to be seen every day, and carried to the last stage of its
misery. He is degraded alike in body and heart;—mad, but with every
vile sagacity unquenched,—while every hope in earth and heaven is taken
away. And in this desolation, you can only hate, not pity him.
That, says Scott, is the beautiful operation of the Civil Law of Great
Britain, on a man whose affairs it has spent its best intelligence on,
for an unknown number of years. His affairs being very obscure, and his
cause doubtful, you suppose? No. His affairs being so simple that the
young honest counsel can explain them entirely in an hour;—and his
cause absolutely and unquestionably just.
What is Dickens’ entire Court of Chancery to that? With all its dusty
delay,—with all its diabolical ensnaring;—its pathetic death of
Richard—widowhood of Ada, etc., etc.? All mere blue fire of the stage,
and dropped footlights; no real tragedy.—A villain cheats a foolish
youth, who would be wiser than his elders, who dies repentant, and
immediately begins a new life,—so says, at least, (not the least
believing,) the pious Mr. Dickens. All that might happen among the
knaves of any profession.
But with Scott, the best honour—soul—intellect in Scotland take in hand
the cause of a man who comes to them justly, necessarily, for plain,
instantly possible, absolutely deserved, decision of a manifest cause.
They are endless years talking of it,—to amuse, and pay, themselves.
And they drive him into the foulest death—eternal—if there be, for such
souls, any Eternity. On which Scott does not feel it his duty, as
Dickens does, to offer you an opinion. He tells you, as Shakespeare,
the facts he knows,—no more.
There, then, you have Sir Walter’s opinion of the existing method and
function of British Civil Law.
What the difference may be, and what the consequences of such
difference, between this lucrative function, and the true duty of Civil
Law,—namely, to fulfil and continue in all the world the first mission
of the mightiest Lawgiver, and declare that on such and such
conditions, written in eternal letters by the finger of God, every
man’s house, or piece of Holy land, is his own,—there does not, it
appears, exist at present wit enough under all the weight of curled and
powdered horsehair in England, either to reflect, or to define.
In the meantime, we have to note another question beyond, and greater
than this,—answered by Scott in his story.
So far as human laws have dealt with the man, this their ruined client
has been destroyed in his innocence. But there is yet a Divine Law,
controlling the injustice of men.
And the historian—revealing to us the full relation of private and
public act—shows us that the wretch’s destruction was in his refusal of
the laws of God, while he trusted in the laws of man.
Such is the entire plan of the story of Redgauntlet,—only in part
conscious,—partly guided by the Fors which has rule over the heart of
the noble king in his word, and of the noble scribe in his scripture,
as over the rivers of water. We will trace the detail of this story
farther in next Fors; meantime, here is your own immediate lesson,
reader, whoever you may be, from our to-day’s work.
The first—not the chief, but the first—piece of good work a man has to
do is to find rest for himself,—a place for the sole of his foot; his
house, or piece of Holy land; and to make it so holy and happy, that if
by any chance he receive order to leave it, there may be bitter pain in
obedience; and also that to his daughter there may yet one sorrowful
sentence be spoken in her day of mirth, “Forget also thy people, and
thy father’s house.”
‘But I mean to make money, and have a better and better house, every
ten years.’
Yes, I know you do.
If you intend to keep that notion, I have no word more to say to you.
Fare you—not well, for you cannot; but as you may.
But if you have sense, and feeling, determine what sort of a house will
be fit for you;—determine to work for it—to get it—and to die in it, if
the Lord will.
‘What sort of house will be fit for me?—but of course the biggest and
finest I can get will be fittest!’
Again, so says the Devil to you: and if you believe him, he will find
you fine lodgings enough,—for rent. But if you don’t believe him,
consider, I repeat, what sort of house will be fit for you.
‘Fit!—but what do you mean by fit?’
I mean, one that you can entirely enjoy and manage; but which you will
not be proud of, except as you make it charming in its modesty. If you
are proud of it, it is unfit for you,—better than a man in your station
of life can by simple and sustained exertion obtain; and it should be
rather under such quiet level than above. Ashesteil was entirely fit
for Walter Scott, and Walter Scott was entirely happy there. Abbotsford
was fit also for Sir Walter Scott; and had he been content with it, his
had been a model life. But he would fain still add field to field,—and
died homeless. Perhaps Gadshill was fit for Dickens; I do not know
enough of him to judge; and he knew scarcely anything of himself. But
the story of the boy on Rochester Hill is lovely.
And assuredly, my aunt’s house at Croydon was fit for her; and my
father’s at Herne Hill,—in which I correct the press of this Fors,
sitting in what was once my nursery,—was exactly fit for him, and me.
He left it for the larger one—Denmark Hill; and never had a quite happy
day afterwards. It was not his fault, the house at Herne Hill was built
on clay, and the doctors said he was not well there; also, I was his
pride, and he wanted to leave me in a better house,—a good father’s
cruellest, subtlest temptation.
But you are a poor man, you say, and have no hope of a grand home?
Well, here is the simplest ideal of operation, then. You dig a hole,
like Robinson Crusoe; you gather sticks for fire, and bake the earth
you get out of your hole,—partly into bricks, partly into tiles, partly
into pots. If there are any stones in the neighbourhood, you drag them
together, and build a defensive dyke round your hole or cave. If there
are no stones, but only timber, you drive in a palisade. And you are
already exercising the arts of the Greeks, Etruscans, Normans, and
Lombards, in their purest form, on the wholesome and true threshold of
all their art; and on your own wholesome threshold.
You don’t know, you answer, how to make a brick, a tile, or a pot; or
how to build a dyke, or drive a stake that will stand. No more do I.
Our education has to begin;—mine as much as yours. I have indeed, the
newspapers say, a power of expression; but as they also say I cannot
think at all, you see I have nothing to express; so that peculiar
power, according to them, is of no use to me whatever.
But you don’t want to make your bricks yourself; you want to have them
made for you by the United Grand Junction Limited Liability
Brick-without-Straw Company, paying twenty-five per cent. to its idle
shareholders? Well, what will you do, yourself, then? Nothing? Or do
you mean to play on the fiddle to the Company making your bricks? What
will you do—of this first work necessary for your life? There’s nothing
but digging and cooking now remains to be done. Will you dig, or cook?
Dig, by all means; but your house should be ready for you first.
Your wife should cook. What else can you do? Preach?—and give us your
precious opinions of God and His ways! Yes, and in the meanwhile I am
to build your house, am I? and find you a barrel-organ, or a harmonium,
to twangle psalm-tunes on, I suppose? Fight—will you?—and pull other
people’s houses down; while I am to be set to build your barracks, that
you may go smoking and spitting about all day, with a cockscomb on your
head, and spurs to your heels?—(I observe, by the way, the Italian
soldiers have now got cocks’ tails on their heads, instead of cocks’
combs.)—Lay down the law to me in a wig,—will you? and tell me the
house I have built is—NOT mine? and take my dinner from me, as a fee
for that opinion? Build, my man,—build, or dig,—one of the two; and
then eat your honestly-earned meat, thankfully, and let other people
alone, if you can’t help them.