"When a gentleman is disposed to swear, it is not for any
standers-by to curtail his oaths."--'_Cymbeline_,' ii. 1.
In the study of antiquity there are steep and irregular by-paths that
defy the traveller every step that he pursues them. It is in threading
these tortuous windings that many a fearless venturer has lost foot-hold
and been utterly cast away. Many a man with the passion for antiquity
deep at his heart, and with limbs well girded to attain to the summit of
his aim, has been fain to settle down, jaded and dispirited, at
mid-task. He has accomplished nothing perhaps beyond the mere reading of
an inscription or deciphering of a medallion, but the spirit of his
insight is dimmed, and stricken in the work. Thus has it been with many
generations of seekers and inquirers. The _virtuosi_ and _cognoscenti_,
the curious in gems and medals, in brasses and torsos, the commentators
and concordancers,--all these may be said to be nothing more than so
many units in the lost tribe of eager scholarship. Starting confident
of probing to the very source and mystery of things, they have rather
preferred the shelter of some attainable evening refuge than be
overtaken in their task by the chills and storms of night.
It is easier far, means not being wanting, to place in one's cabinet
some matchless group of Capo di Monti, some priceless specimen of the
fabric of Sevres or Dresden, than to tax one's strength in extracting
the lessons conveyed by form and colour. It is a simpler matter to be
the possessor of Damascus sword-blades or Aleppo prayer-rugs than to
burden one's self with reflections upon oriental chivalry or mysticism.
And so, again, it is a far readier, as it is certainly a rougher, way of
being in sympathy with antiquity, to notch off a fragment in the
Acropolis, or carve one's name among the ruins of the Forum, than to
originate such poetic passages as Byron uttered over the field of
Marathon, or Longfellow in the market-place of Nuremburg. Say what we
will, both forms of veneration arise alike from the same innate craving
to grasp some part or parcel of the tissue of the past.
To the untiring few who have overcome the drought and dust of the
up-land journey, the summit, once attained, will disclose many a point
and promontory unsuspected by the purblind dweller in the plain. The
retrospect will reveal to them a busy, thronging life underlying the
serenity of history. They will be able to range the perished multitudes
in their once motley grouping, to restore warmth and colour to
lineaments long obscured in death, and greed and alacrity to the sunk
eyes and folded hands. To those whom the spirit of the past is apt to
visit as a passionate inspiration, the mere record of consecutive events
is often wearisome. It is not altogether for this that they have
laboured to catch some murmur, however slight, of the infinite harmony
that is being sounded by all, the chords of history. Rather, it is to
tramp mistily along from generation to generation in the long, forced
march of human life. Rather, to probe to the depths of some one of the
world's stupendous follies, of some one of its golden vanities, that
they have thus cast about them with measure and lead-line. And when they
have completely searched out and written of the world's stupendous
follies, they will perhaps have written what alone would be worth
calling its history.
As some small, tentative contribution to the understanding of this
under-life, the plan of this volume has been designed. The past has come
down to us cloaked and shrouded, and attended by its decorous retinue of
mutes and bearers. We are continually seeking to revive this dead past,
just as it was, when its future was a wild, inscrutable thing, and its
life was so fragrant, so masterful, and so momentous. It wants a great
mental effort to recall events that are as indubitably past as if they
had never happened at all. The pleasure of possessing, or of even
entering, the vanished territory is a privilege so rare, that there are
permitted but a few moments for its enjoyment. It is so subtle a
perception that even seasoned historians seldom have the power of
imparting it. They may surround us with the conflict of contending
legionaries, until we seem to recognise the thud of advancing battalions
and the clash and impact of the squadron. These, however lifelike, are
impressions of a much grosser and more tangible nature, and can have but
little in common with the blended sweetness and irony that pertain to
the spontaneous realisation of the dead past.
What we are for ever craving to learn is something more of the gambols,
the humours, and the anticing of this sad army, for ever on the march.
We yearn to know something more of the vanity and the pettiness, the
fever and the longing, of those weary men and women, the memorial of
whose lives has been trampled out. The historian will sometimes rend
away the veil that separates us from this unwritten history; but more
often it is the creation of the romancer that helps to clothe the dim
spirit of the past from the loom of its misty memories; Pascarel,
depicting the splendours of the artist-life of Florence, while
Arlecchino and the rest of the gay carnival troupe are romping in the
faded street of the stocking-makers; Slender and Shallow and the simple
folk of the Cotswold country ambling out their jests midst the turmoil
of those stirring Lancastrian times; or "sweet Anne Page," provoking and
winning, three hundred years ago, in the glades of Windsor Forest. The
honest yeoman who fought the master of fence--three veneys for a dish of
stewed prunes; the foolish justice who in the days of his youth had beat
Sampson Stockfish behind Gray's Inn, and had heard the chimes at
midnight, lying out in the windmill in St. George's Fields--these and
many kindred types represent to us so many factors in that prodigious
army of the unknown that is never permitted us more thoroughly to know.
It is indeed in the fancy of Shakespeare that this bygone sweetness and
irony seem the oftener to be kindled and awakened. Not, certainly, in
the wordy warring of Capulet and Montagu; not, perhaps, in the outspoken
chivalry of "Harry the King," or the blunt generosity of Falconbridge.
But we find it moving and thrilling in every tone caught up from the
English country-side, in the echoes wafted from the vintage-lands of
France, or the garden walks of Padua. And freshest and daintiest of all,
we find it in the poet's snatches of song and rugged bursts of
minstrelsy. This indeed is the enchantment that subdues us as the
dimpled page advances to the gay theatre lights, and pleading the woes
of three hundred years ago, and exhorting now as he exhorted then, bids
"Sigh no more, ladies; ladies, sigh no more." It is this which
captivates as the scene pauses and the drama halts, that the eye may be
carried back through a vista of three centuries to dwell upon a simple
"lover and his lass" as they wander "between the acres of the rye."
The subject of swearing the writer has come to regard as one of the many
indices by which the paths of our ancestors may be traced. Holding in
fitting estimation the monuments of their industry and their prudence,
none the less may we seek to view the departed generations in their
hours of carelessness and frolic, and may peer into their casinos and
their tiring-rooms, their spital-houses and their bridewells. What
manner of men were they? we ask. Were they sparkling and festive,
tellers of rare stories, dealers in racy jokes? Were they wholesome in
their living, manly and courageous in their lives, or were they loose
and liquorish, winking at falsehood and cajoling the truth? And if the
monumental record of their virtues be a just one, why did they heirloom
on posterity this bitter heritage of swearing?
The truth would seem to be that in every society there has existed a
certain _corps d'elite_, which, distinguished at once by its breeding
and its brusquerie, has perversely thought fit to adopt the insignia of
swearing as its own particular device. In advancing this explanation of
the fidelity with which posterity has exercised its watchfulness over
the bequest of swearing, we must not for a moment be misunderstood. It
is far from our purpose to associate good breeding with the use of
coarse vituperation, but at the same time it is impossible to overlook
the fact that swearing has mostly owed its favour and its audacity to
the practice of really cultivated men. The first contrivers of our
modern methods of swearing took pains to raise an air of mystery and
exclusiveness around their favourite art. "To be an accomplished
gentleman," says Carlo Buffone, in Ben Jonson's comedy,[30] "have two
or three peculiar oaths to swear by that no man else swears"; and it
would seem to have been one of the gravest charges brought against the
Hectors and Bobadils of the Elizabethan stage, that they dare assume
acquaintance with courtly oaths. Even Hotspur is portrayed by the
dramatist as a most precise and scrupulous swearer. It may be seen how
he reproaches Lady Percy for swearing "like a comfit-maker's wife," and
bids her "swear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art!" and not to mince her
oaths like some city madam or seller of gingerbread.[31] For upwards of
two centuries, the notion of finish and exclusiveness in oath-taking
afforded constant merriment for the stage, the creations of the
playwright seldom failing to give full scope to the illustration of this
strange humour. Every period brought its particular oath and fresh
generations of exponents. Now it was the soldier of fortune returned
from encounters with the Spaniards or the Turk. Anon it was the tavern
rake of King James' day, and after some interval, the wits and foplings
of the Restoration. By-and-by, there followed the crowd of nabobs and
parvenus, the blustering swearers of the days of East Indian
speculation, and finally came the truculent swabbers and commodores of
Adelphi melodrama. The _nouveau riche_ of the younger Colman, who fails
to enrobe himself with dignity by the aid of all ordinary resources, is
enjoined by his more practical helpmate to vent his "zounds" and
"damme," in emulation of the swearing of the great.
For this _corps d'elite_ of which we have spoken have drawn to
themselves men the most worthless, and men the most admirable. It has
found disciples in every capital--the easy, the affluent, the
voluptuous, cheery and sunny of speech, bold and swarthy of countenance.
There are numbered among them free livers and free lances innumerable.
There are men remarkable for their stores of boisterous animalism, no
less than delicate scholars remarkable only for the brightness of their
fancy and the vividness of their dreams. They have ever been a composite
and a cosmopolitan crew, some shouldering into the ranks by the weight
of their purses or the length of their rent-rolls, others by skill
evinced at high midnight, when taper-lights throw pale vertical rays
upon a refreshing margent of green cloth. Among them, too, are stout
soldiers, bold fearless riders, the wild and fevered blood of many
countries, the fervour of Italy, and the craft of the Levant. To the
precincts of this gilded and splendid society come many sorts and
conditions of aspirants. The boy-parson lays down the sanctity of the
priesthood and rapturously sues for admission. Elders of threescore
demand an entrance upon the strength of _risque_ stories sprung from
garrison-towns and college common-rooms. Skilled physicians feign
indifference to their calling that they may smack of the kennel and the
hunting-field. Staid, contemplative men, men with a prayer and a tune in
them, press into this joyous throng, eager to clasp the bruised fruit of
human desire and to claim kindred with these cheery fellowships. But,
however varied the elements of the order, the members are constituted
alike in this: they are hearty and laughter-loving; they are jolly and
courageous.
With outposts so widely distributed, it is the more necessary that there
should be some unmistakable uniform, that whether it be in a Paris
ordinary, or on the steppes of Tartary, one may easily recognise the
scion of the order. Such a uniform, so at least we are constrained to
understand it, has, for the most part, been supplied by a subdued and
discriminate use of the materials of swearing. A Sandwich Islander
appreciates this when he salutes a British crew in terms compounded of
oaths and ribaldry.[32] He is really intending to denote his sense of
the distinction of the exalted visitors, when he exclaims: "Very glad
see you! Damn your eyes! Me like English very much. Devilish hot, sir!
Goddam!" It is to claim kindred with the brotherhood that swell surgeons
vent their "blasted!" and "damnation!" as they tender to the ailments of
rackety young patients. It is to bridge over the gulf between
carelessness and propriety that even mild college tutors will sometimes
venture upon a modest "botheration!" or "confounded!" The most fertile
and most voluminous swearer, we have been given to understand, exists in
the person of one of the leading _litterateurs_ of the century when
desiring to curry favour with a company of fast men.
Not that it can be altogether denied that there are other contrivances
whereby the members of the fraternity succeed in courting mutual
recognition. The topic of sporting is, perhaps, the most effectual of
these, and it must be understood that a man's convivial condition is
often undergoing a crucial investigation when he is questioned as to his
views upon such subjects as the Cesarewitch or the Cambridgeshire. The
several processes of swearing would seem however to supply the readiest
hall-mark, and are rather of an easier manipulation. This theory of
indulgence might go far to explain the leniency of men like Jonathan
Swift towards a custom which, had they wished it, they might have
deposed from its high places by their ridicule. Swearing was far from
being a rock of offence to the society of Harley and St. John. Why else,
again, has it been permitted from commanders of the stamp of Picton in
the field, and from lawyers of the pattern of Thurlow on the woolsack?
"I will now proceed to my seventh point," pursued Sir Ilay Campbell,
arguing an interminable Scotch appeal in the House of Lords. "I'm damned
if you do," shrieked Lord Thurlow, and the House adjourned neither angry
or scandalised. And again, how else explain the exuberance of the
Duchess of Marlborough's language when calling at Lord Mansfield's
lodgings? His lordship, as we know, was away, and on his return
questioned the doorkeeper as to the name of his visitor. "I do not know
who she was," replied the man, "but she swore like a lady of quality."
Of Thurlow it has been said that he was renowned as a swearer even in a
swearing age. "He took it as a lad who wishes to show that he has
arrived at man's estate. He could not have got on without it."[33] At
one time a dispute was pending as to the right to present to a vacant
benefice. A certain bishop who claimed the right sent his secretary to
argue with Lord Thurlow, who, for his part, obstinately maintained the
counter-claim of the Crown. The envoy no sooner opened his case and made
known his message, than Thurlow cut short all further argument. "Give my
compliments to his lordship, and tell him I will see him damned before
he present." "That," remonstrated the secretary, "is a very unpleasant
message to deliver to a bishop." "You are right," replied Thurlow, "so
it is. Tell him I will see myself damned before he present."
Another professor in the same uncompromising school of hard swearers
would seem to have been Sir Thomas Maitland, His Majesty's Lord High
Commissioner administering the government of the Ionian Islands, at that
time and long afterwards under the British dominion. Sir Charles Napier
relates that on arriving at Corfu to enter upon a military appointment,
and being ushered into his Excellency's presence, he was received with a
sullen "Who the devil are you?" and on explaining his business, Sir
Thomas rejoined, "Then I hope you are not such a damned scoundrel as
your predecessor." Sir Thomas seems to have been in the habit of dealing
out abuse the most flagrant towards those with whom he was brought into
contact. "On one occasion,"--we may follow Sir Charles Napier's
words,--"the senate having been assembled in the saloon of the palace
waiting in all form for his Excellency's appearance, the door slowly
opened and Sir Thomas walked in with the following articles of clothing
upon him:
"One shirt, which like Tam o' Shanter's friend, the cutty-sark,
"In longitude was sorely scanty."
"One red night-cap,
"One pair of slippers.
"The rest of his Excellency's person was perfectly divested of garments.
In this state he walked into the middle of the saloon, looked round at
the assembled senators and then said, addressing the secretary, "Damn
them, tell them all to go to hell."[34]
What reception this outburst provoked from the assembled notables we are
not informed. When Thurlow once at a dinner-party administered a similar
admonition to a blundering man-servant, telling him he wished he was in
hell, the terrified man wearily replied, "I wish I was, my lord! I wish
I was."
There can be little doubt that the practice of gentlemen "damning
themselves as black as butter-milk" was intended to overawe, and on the
whole it has answered the intention. It is however but a cheap
substitute for authority, and belongs of right to a rampant jingoism of
a past age. We are here reminded of a kind of oath which, having
conferred a nick-name upon a political party, seems likely to pass into
the language in some altered form. The "Jingos," as will be remembered,
were the faction in the country who favoured an aggressive policy during
the recent Russian war. The name came to be given them from a
circumstance of quite an insignificant kind. At a certain London
singing-room a patriotic song happened to be nightly delivered, in which
the vocalist emphasised his warlike utterances with a constant
recurrence of this oath. The Radicals seized the moment, and in a short
space of time the term "by Jingo" was pinned to the backs of the Tory
party like a tin kettle tied to a dog's tail. Men soon began to ask
themselves where first they could have met with this undignified
expression? The 'Ingoldsby Legends' seemed the most likely ground, only
that readers of Goldsmith referred to the example of the town-bred lady
who, when introduced into the Vicar's family, swore "by the living
Jingo!"
Moreover, the term is to be observed in the earliest translation of Don
Quixote (iii. vi.): "by the living jingo, I did but jest," and in
Rabelais (v. xxviii.): "by jingo, I believe he would make three bites of
a cherry." To seek for the origin of the oath, we should have to turn to
a somewhat singular source. We should find it as far away as the slopes
of the Pyrenees, where Basque peasants have long sworn by _Jincoa_, that
in fact being the Basque name for God.
We have made mention of Swift in a way that might favour the presumption
that his ridicule was not at any time directed against the subject of
oath-taking. That such is hardly the case will be seen from his
prospectus of the Bank of Swearing, where this overgrown distempered
plant is singled out as a fair butt for his sallies. The nature of the
business proposed to be transacted at this fanciful banking-house may be
more aptly considered in another chapter.