with great pleasure. I think her writing is always good and able. I
have never seen Theodore Parker’s works: he was, I imagine, a sort of
hero and prophet; but I think I would rather have the Church of
England large enough for us all with old memories and feelings,
notwithstanding many difficulties and some iniquities, than new
systems of Theism.”...
“March 10th, 1864.
“Miss Cobbe has also kindly sent me a little book called _Broken
Lights_, which appears to me to be extremely good. (I think the title
is rather a mistake.) I dare say that you have read the book. The
style is excellent, and the moderation and calmness with which the
different parties are treated is beyond praise. The only adverse
criticism that I should venture to make is that the latter part is too
much narrowed to Theodore Parker’s point of view, who was a great man,
but too confident, I think, that the world could be held together by
spiritual instincts.”
And here are three charming letters from Mr. Jowett to me, one of them
in reply to a letter from me from Rome, the others of a later date.
“Dear Miss Cobbe,
“I write to thank you for the Fraser which I received this morning and
have read with great amusement and interest. I think that I should
really feel happier living to see the end of the Pope, at least in his
present mode of existence.
“I did indeed receive a most capital letter from you with a kind note
from Miss Elliot. And ‘I do remember me of my faults this day.’ The
truth is that being very busy with Plato (do you know the intolerable
burden of writing a fat book in two vols.?) I put off answering the
letters until I was not quite certain whether the kind writers of them
were still at Rome. I thought the Plato would have been out by this
time, but this was only one of the numerous delusions in which authors
indulge. The notes, however, are really finished, and the Essays will
be done in a few months. I suspect you can read Greek, and shall
therefore hope to send you a copy.
“I was always inclined to think well of the Romans from their defence
of Rome in 1848, and their greatness and strength really does seem to
show that they mean to be the centre of a great nation.
“Will you give my very kind regards to the Elliots? I should write to
them if I knew exactly where: I hear that the Dean is transformed into
a worshipper of the Virgin and of other pictures of the Saints.[17]
“Believe me, dear Miss Cobbe,
“Yours very truly,
“B. JOWETT.
“Bal. Coll., May 19th.
“Coll. de Bal., Oxon.
“Dear Miss Cobbe,
“I shall certainly read your paper on Political Economy. Political
Economy seems to me in this imperfect world to be Humanity on a large
scale (though not the whole of humanity). And I am always afraid of it
being partially supplanted by humanity on the small scale, which
relieves one-sixth of the poor whom we see, and pauperizes the mind of
five-sixths whom we don’t see.
“I won’t trouble you with any more reflections on such an old subject.
Remember me most kindly to the Dean and his daughters. I was going to
send him a copy of the Articles against Dr. Williams. But upon second
thoughts, I won’t. It is such an ungracious, unsavoury matter. I hope
that he won’t give up the Prolocutorship, or that, if he does, he will
state boldly his reasons for doing so. It is true that neither he nor
anyone can do much good there. But the mere fact of a great position
in the Church of England being held by a liberal clergyman is of great
importance.
“I should have much liked to go to Rome this winter. But I am so
entangled, first, with Plato, and, second, with the necessity of
getting rid of Plato and writing something on Theology, that I do not
feel justified in leaving my work. The vote of last Tuesday deferring
indefinitely the endowment of my Professorship makes me feel that life
is becoming a serious business to me. Not that I complain; the amount
of sympathy and support which I have received has been enough to
sustain anyone, if they needed it, (you should have seen an excellent
squib written by a young undergraduate). But my friends are sanguine
in imagining they will succeed hereafter. Next year it is true that
they probably will get a small majority in Congregation. This,
however, is of no use, as the other party will always bring up the
country clergy in Convocation. I have, therefore, requested Dr.
Stanley to take no further steps in the Council on the subject; it
seems to me undignified to keep the University squabbling about my
income.
“Excuse this long story which is partly suggested by your kind letter.
I hope you will enjoy Rome. With sincere regard,
“Believe me, yours truly,
“B. JOWETT.”
“Rev. Benjamin Jowett to Miss Cobbe.
“Coll. de Ball., Oxon,
“February 24th, 1865.
“My Dear Miss Cobbe,
“I write to thank you for your very kind note. I am much more pleased
at the rejoicings of my friends than at the result which has been so
long delayed as to be almost indifferent to me. I used to be annoyed
at feeling that I was such a bad example to young men, because they
saw, as they were intended to see, that unless they concealed their
opinions they would suffer. I hope they will have more cheerful
prospects now.
“I trust that some day I shall be able to write something more on
Theology. But the Plato has proved an enormous work, having expanded
into a sort of translation of the whole of the Dialogues. I believe
this will be finished and printed about Christmas, but not before.
“I have been sorry to hear of your continued illness. When I come to
London I shall hope to look in upon you in Hereford Square.
“In haste, believe me,
“Yours very truly,
“B. JOWETT.”
“I read a book of Theodore Parker’s the other day—‘Discourses on
Religion.’ He was a friend of yours, I believe? I admire his
character—a sort of religious Titan. But I thought his philosophy
seemed to rest too much on instincts.”
How much Mr. Jowett had to bear from the animosity of his orthodox
contemporaries in the Sixties at Oxford was illustrated by the following
incident. I was, one day about this time, showing his photograph to a
lady, when her son, late from Oxford, came into the room with a dog at
his heels. Seeing the photograph, he remarked, “Ah, yes! very like.
_This dog_ pinned him in quod one day, and was made so much of
afterwards! The Dean of —— especially invited him” (the dog) “to lunch.
Jowett complained of me, and I had to send all my dogs out of Oxford!”
The following is a Note which I made of two of his visits to me on
Durdham Down:
“Two visits from Mr. Jowett, who each time drank tea with me. He said
he felt writing to be a great labour; but regularly wrote one page
every day. The liberal, benevolent way he spoke of all creeds was
delightful. In particular he spoke of the temptation to Pantheism and
praised Hegel, whom, he said, he had studied deeply. Advising me
kindly to go on writing books, he maintained against me the vast power
of books in the world.”
Mr. Jowett was, of course, at all times a most interesting personality,
and one whose intercourse was delightful and highly exciting to the
intellect. But his excessive shyness, combined with his faculty for
saying exceedingly sharp things, must have precluded, I should think,
much ease of conversation between him and the majority of his friends.
As usually happens in the case of shy people, he exhibited rather less
of the characteristic with an acquaintance like myself who was never shy
(my mother’s training saved me from that affliction!) and who was not at
all afraid of him.
In later years Mr. Jowett obtained for me (in 1876) the signatures of
the Heads of every College in Oxford to a Petition which I had myself
written, to the House of Lords in favour of Lord Carnarvon’s original
Bill for the restriction of Vivisection. At a later date the Master of
Balliol declined to support me further in the agitation for the
prohibition of the practice; referring me to the assurances of a certain
eminent Boanerges of Science as guarantee for the necessity of the
practice and the humanity of vivisectors. It is very surprising to me
how good and strong men, who would disdain to accept a _religious_
principle or dogma from pope or Council, will take a _moral_ one without
hesitation from any doctor or professor of science who may lay down the
law for them, and present the facts so as to make the scale turn his
way. Where would Protestant divines be, if they squared their theologies
with all the historical statements and legends of Romanism? If we
construct our ethical judgments upon the statements and representations
of persons interested in maintaining a practice, what chance is there
that they should be sound?
I find, in a letter to a friend (dated May, 1868) the following
_souvenir_ of a sermon by Mr. Jowett, delivered in a church near Soho:—
“We went to that sermon on Sunday. It was really very fine and very
bold; much better than the report in the _Pall Mall Gazette_ made it.
Mr. Albert D—— was there, but few else who looked as if they could
understand him. He has a good voice and delivery, and the “cherubic”
countenance and appealing eyes suit the pulpit; but he _looks at one_
as I never knew any preacher do. We sat close to him, and it was as if
we were in a drawing-room. M. says that all the first part was taken
from my _Broken Lights_; that is,—it was a sketch of existing opinions
on the same plan. It was good when he said:
“The High church watchword is: _The Church; always and ever the same_.
“The Low church watchword is: _The Bible only the Religion of
Protestants_.
“The party of Knowledge has for its principle: ‘_The Truth ever and
always, and wherever it be found_.’
“He gave each their share of praise and blame, saying: ‘the fault of
the last party’ (his own, of course) was—that ‘sometimes in the
pursuit of _Knowledge_ they forgot _Goodness_.’”
I heard him preach more than once afterwards in the same gloomy old
church. His aspect in his surplice was exceedingly quaint. His face,
even in old age, was like that of an innocent, round-faced child; and
his short, slender figure, wrapped in the long white garment,
irresistibly suggested to me the idea of “an elderly cherub prepared for
bed”! Altogether, taking into account his entire career, the Master of
Balliol was an unique figure in English life, whom I much rejoice to
have known; a modern Melchisedek.
Here is another memorandum about the same date, respecting another
eminent man, interesting in another way:—
“Sept. 25th, 1860. A pleasant evening at Canon Guthrie’s. Introduced
to old Lord Lansdowne; a gentle, courteous old man with deep-set,
faded grey eyes, and heavy eyebrows; a blue coat and _brass buttons_!
In the course of the evening I was carrying on war in a corner of the
room against the Dean of Bristol, Mr. C—— and Margaret Elliot, about
Toryism. I argued that if _Justice to all_ were the chief end of
Government, the power should be lodged in the hands of the class who
_best understood Justice_; and that the consequence of the opposite
course was manifest in America, where the freest government which had
ever existed, supported also the most gigantic of all wrongs—Slavery.
On this Countess Rothkirch who sat by, clapped her hands with joy; and
the Dean came down on me saying, ‘That if power should only be given
to those who would use it justly, then the Tories should never have
any power at all; for they _never_ used it justly.’ Hearing the
laughter at my discomfiture, Lord Lansdowne toddled across the room
and sat down beside me saying: ‘What is it all about?’ I cried: ‘Oh
Lord Lansdowne! you are the very person in the whole world to help
me—_I am defending Tory principles!_’ He laughed heartily, and said ‘I
am afraid I can hardly do that.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ I said, ‘you may be
converted at the eleventh hour!’ ‘Don’t you know,’ he said, ‘what a
child asked her mother: “Are Tories _born_ wicked, mother, or do they
only become so?”’ Margaret said this was really asked by a cousin of
her own, one of the Adam family. It ended in much laughter and talking
about ‘_Transformation_,’ and the ‘_Semi-attached Couple_‘—which Lord
Lansdowne said he was just reading. ‘I like novels very much,’ he
said, ‘only I take a little time between each of them.’ When I got up
to go away the kind old man rose in the most courtly way to shake
hands, and paid me a little old-world compliment.”
This was the eloquent statesman and patron of literature, Henry, third
Marquis of Lansdowne, in whose time his house, (Bowood,) was the resort
of the finest intellectual society of England. I have a droll letter in
my possession referring to this Bowood society, by Sydney Smith, written
to Mrs. Kemble, then Mrs. Butler. It has come to me with all her other
papers and with seven letters from Lord Lansdowne pressing her to pay
him visits. Sydney Smith writes on his invitation to her to come to
Combe Fleury; after minute directions about the route:—
“The interval between breakfast and dinner brings you to Combe Fleury.
We are the next stage (to Bowood). Lord Lansdowne’s guests commonly
come here _dilated and disordered_ with high living.”
In another letter conveying a similar invitation he says, with his usual
bitterness and injustice as regards America:
“Be brave my dear lady. Hoist the American flag. Barbarise your
manners. _Dissyntax_ your language. Fling a thick mantle over your
lively spirits, and become the fust of American women. You will always
remain a bright vision in my recollection. Do not forget me. Call me
Butler’s Hudibras. Any appellation provided I am not forgotten.”
Among the residents in Clifton and at Stoke Bishop over the Downs I had
many kind friends, some of whom helped me essentially in my work by
placing tickets for hospitals and money in my hands for the poor. One of
these whom I specially recall with gratitude was that ever zealous moral
reformer, Mrs. Woolcott Browne, who is still working bravely with her
daughter for many good causes in London. I must not write here without
permission of the many others whose names have not come before the
public, but whose affectionate consideration made my life very pleasant,
and whom I ever remember with tender regard. Of one excellent couple I
may venture to speak,—Dr. and Mrs. Goodeve of Cook’s Folly. Mrs. Goodeve
herself told me their singular and beautiful story, and since she and
her husband are now both dead, I think I may allow myself to repeat it.
Dr. Goodeve was a young medical man who had just married, and was going
out to seek his fortune in India, having no prospects in England. As
part of their honeymoon holiday the young couple went to visit Cook’s
Folly; then a small, half-ruinous, castellated building, standing in a
spot of extraordinary beauty over the Avon, looking down the Bristol
Channel. As they were descending the turret-stair and taking, as they
thought, a last look on the loveliness of England, the young wife
perceived that her husband’s head was bent down in deep depression. She
laid her hand on his shoulder and whispered “Never mind, Harry? You
shall make a fortune in India and we will come back and buy Cook’s
Folly.”
They went to Calcutta and were there most kindly received by a gentleman
named Hurry, who edited a newspaper and whose own history had been
strange and tragic. Started in his profession by his interest, Dr.
Goodeve soon fell into good practice, and by degrees became a very
successful physician, the founder (I believe) of the existing Medical
College of Calcutta. Going on a shooting party, his face was most
terribly shattered by a chance shot which threatened to prove mortal,
but Mrs. Goodeve, without help or appliances, alone with him in a tent
in a wild district, pulled him back to life. At last they returned to
England, wealthy and respected by all, and bringing a splendid
collection of Indian furniture and _curios_. The very week they landed,
Cook’s Folly was advertised to be sold! They remembered it well,—went to
see it,—bought it—and rebuilded it; making it a most charming and
beautiful house. A peculiarity of its structure as remodelled by them
was, that there was an entire suite of rooms,—a large library
overlooking the river Avon, bedroom, bathroom and servant’s room,—all
capable of being shut off from the rest of the house, by double doors,
so that the occupant might be quite undisturbed. When everything was
finished, and splendidly furnished, the Goodeves wrote to Mr. Hurry: “It
is time for you to give up your paper and come home. You acted a
father’s part to us when we went out first to India. Now come to us, and
live as with your son and daughter.”
Mr. Hurry accepted the invitation and found waiting for him and his
Indian servant the beautiful suite of rooms built for him, and the
tenderest welcome. I saw him often seated by their fireside just as a
father might have been. When the time came for him to die, Mrs. Goodeve
nursed him with such devoted care, and strained herself so much in
lifting and helping him, that her own health was irretrievably injured,
and she died not long afterwards.
I could write more of Bristol and Clifton friends, high and low, but
must draw this chapter of my life to a close. I went to Bristol an utter
stranger, knowing no human being there. I left it after a few years all
peopled, as it seemed to me, with kind souls; and without one single
remembrance of anything else but kindness received there either from
gentle or simple.
CHAPTER
XIV.
_ITALY. 1857–1879._
I visited Italy six times between the above dates. The reader need not
be wearied by reminiscences of such familiar journeyings, which, in my
case, were always made quickly through France, (a country which I
intensely dislike) and extended pretty evenly over the most beautiful
cities of Italy. I spent several seasons in Rome and Florence, and a
winter in Pisa; and I visited once, twice or three times, Venice,
Bologna, Naples, Perugia, Assisi, Verona, Padua, Genoa, Milan and Turin.
The only interest which these wanderings can claim belongs to the people
with whom they brought me into contact, and these include a somewhat
remarkable list: Mr. and Mrs. Browning, Mrs. Somerville, Theodore
Parker, Walter Savage Landor, Massimo d’ Azeglio, John Gibson, Charlotte
Cushman, Count Guido Usedom, Adolphus Trollope and his first wife, Mr.
W. W. Story, and Mrs. Beecher Stowe. Of many of these I gave slight
sketches in my book, _Italics_; and must refer to them very briefly
here. That book, I may mention, was written principally at Villa Gnecco,
a beautiful villa at Nervi on the Riviera di Levante, then rented by my
kind friend Count Usedom, the Prussian Ambassador and his English wife.
Count Guido Usedom,—now alas! gone over to the majority,—was an
extremely cultivated man, who had been at one time Secretary to Bunsen’s
Embassy in Rome. He was so good as to undertake what I may call my
(Italian) Political Education; instructing me not only of the facts of
recent history, but of the _dessous des cartes_ of each event as they
were known to the initiated. He placed all his despatches for many years
in my hands, and explained the policy of each nation concerned; and even
taught me the cryptographs then in diplomatic use. His own letters to
his King, the late Emperor Wilhelm I., were lively and delightful
sketches of Italian affairs; for, as he said, he had discovered that to
induce the King to read them they must be both amusing and beautifully
transcribed. From him and the Prefects and other influential men who
came to visit him at Villa Gnecco, I gained some views of politics not
perhaps unworthy of record.
One day I asked him, “Whether it were exactly true that Cavour had told
a distinct falsehood in the Chambers about Garibaldi’s invasion of
Naples?” Count Usedom replied, “He _did_; and I do not believe there is
a statesman in Europe who would not have done the same when a kingdom
was in question.” He obviously thought, (scrupulously conscientious as
he was himself) that, to diplomatists in general and their sovereigns,
the laws of morality and honour were like ladies’ bracelets, highly
ornamental and to be worn habitually, but to be slipped off when any
serious work was to be done which required free hands. He said: “People
(especially women) often asked me is such a King a _good man_? Is
Napoleon III. a _good man_? This is nonsense. They are all good men, in
so far that they will not do a cruel, or treacherous, or unjust thing
_without strong reasons_ for it. That would be not only a crime but a
blunder. But when great dynastic interests are concerned, Kings and
Emperors and their ministers are neither guided by moral considerations
or deterred from following their interests because a life, or many
lives, stand in the way.” He adduced Napoleon III.’s _Coup d’état_ as an
example. Napoleon was not a man to indulge in any cruel or vindictive
sentiment; but neither was he one to forego a step needed for his
policy.
The year following these studies under Count Usedom I was living in
London, and met Mazzini one evening by special invitation alone at the
house of Mr. and Mrs. James Stansfeld (I speak of Mr. Stansfeld’s first
wife, sister of Madame Venturi). After dinner our hosts left us alone,
and Mazzini, whom I had often met before and who was always very good to
me, asked me if I would listen to his version of the recent history of
Italy, since he thought I had been much misinformed on the subject? Of
course I could only express my sense of the honour he did me by the
proposal; and then, somewhat to my amazement and amusement, Mazzini
descended from his armchair, seated himself opposite me cross-legged on
the magnificent white rug before Mrs. Stansfeld’s blazing fire, and
proceeded to pour out,—I believe for quite two hours,—the entire story
of all that went before and after the siege of Rome, his Triumvirate,
and the subsequent risings, plots and battles. If any one could have
taken down that wonderful story in shorthand it would possess immense
value, and I regret profoundly that I did not at least attempt, when I
went home, to write my recollections of it. But I was merely bewildered.
Each event which Mazzini named,—sitting so coolly there on the rug at my
feet:—“I sent an army here, I ordered a rising there,” appeared under an
aspect so entirely different from that which it had borne as represented
to me by my political friends in Italy, that I was continually
mystified, and asked: “But Signor Mazzini, are you talking of such and
such an event?”—“_Ma sì, Signora_”—and off he would go again with vivid
and eloquent explanations and descriptions, which fairly took my breath
away. At last (I believe it was near midnight), Mrs. Stansfeld, who had,
of course, arranged this effort for my conversion to Italian
Republicanism, returned to the drawing-room; and I fear that the truly
noble-hearted man who had done me so high a favour, rose disappointed
from his lowly rug! He said to me at another time: “You English, who are
blessed with loyal sovereigns, cannot understand that one of our reasons
for being Republicans is, that we cannot trust our Kings and Grand Dukes
an inch. They are each one of them a _Rè Traditore_!” One could quite
concede that a constitutional government under a traitor-prince would
not hold out any prospect of success; but at all events Victor Emanuel
and Umberto have completely exonerated themselves from such suspicions.
To return to Italy and the men I know there. Count Usedom’s reference to
Napoleon’s _Coup d’état_ reminds me of the clever saying which I have
quoted elsewhere, of a greater diplomatist than he; Cavaliere Massimo d’
Azeglio. Talking with him, as I had the privilege of doing every day for
many months at the table d’hôte in the hotel where we both spent a
winter in Pisa, I made some remark about the mistake of founding
Religion on histories of Miracles. “Ah, les miracles!” exclaimed D’
Azeglio; “je n’en crois rien! _Ce sont des coups d’état célestes!_”
Could the strongest argument against them have been more neatly packed
in one simile? A _coup d’état_ is a practical confession that the
regular and orderly methods of Government _have failed_ in the hands of
the Governor, and that he is driven to have recourse to irregular and
lawless methods to compass his ends and vindicate his sovereignty. A
_coup d’état_ is like the act of an impatient chess player who, finding
himself losing the game while playing fairly, sweeps some pieces from
the board to recover his advantage. Is this to be believed of Divine
rule of the universe?