in town, was at Mr. Bagehot’s house. I sat beside Mr. Richard Hutton,
who has been ever since my good friend, and opposite us there sat a
gentleman who at once attracted my attention. He had a strong dark face,
a low forehead and hair parted in the middle, the large loose mouth of
an orator and a manner quite unique; as if he were gently looking down
on the follies of mortality from the superior altitudes of Olympos, or
perhaps of Parnassus. “Do you know who that is sitting opposite to us?”
said Mr. Hutton. I looked at him again, and replied: “I never saw him
before, and I have never seen his picture, but I feel in my inner
consciousness that it can only be Mr. Matthew Arnold;” and Mr. Arnold,
of course, it was,—with an air which made me think him (what he was not)
an intellectual coxcomb. He wrote, about that time or soon afterwards,
some dreadfully derisive things of my Theism; not on account,
apparently, of its intrinsic demerits, but because of what he conceived
to be its _upstart_ character. We are all familiar with a certain tone
of lofty superiority common to Roman Catholics and Anglicans in dealing
with Dissenters of all classes; the tone, no doubt, in which the priests
of On talked of Moses when he led the Israelitish schism in the
wilderness. It comes naturally to everybody who stands serenely on “the
old paths,” and watches those who walk below, or strive to fray new ways
through the jungle of poor human thoughts. But when Mr. Arnold had
himself slipped off the old road so far as to have liquefied the
Articles of the Apostles’ Creed into a “_Stream of Tendency_;” and
compared the doctrine of the Trinity to a story of “_Three Lord
Shaftesburys_;” and reduced the Object of Worship to the lowest possible
denomination as “_a Power not ourselves which makes for righteousness_;”
he must, I think, have come to feel that it was scarcely his affair to
treat other people’s heresies as new-fangled, and lacking in the
sanctities of tradition. As one after another of his brilliant essays
appeared, and it became manifest that his own creed grew continually
thinner, more exiguous, and less and less substantial, I was reminded of
an old sporting story which my father told of a town-bred gentleman, the
“Mr. Briggs” of those days, who for the first time shot a cock-pheasant,
and after greatly admiring it laid it down on the grass. A keeper took
up the bird and stroked it, pretending to wonder at its size, and
presently shifted it aside and substituted a partridge, which he
likewise stroked and admired, till he had an opportunity of again
changing it for a snipe. At this crisis “Mr. Briggs” broke in furiously,
bidding the keeper to stop stroking his bird: “Be hanged to you! If you
go on like that, you’ll rub it down to a wren!” The creed of many
persons in these days seems to be undergoing the process of being patted
and praised, while all the time it is being rubbed down to a wren!
But whatever hard things Mr. Arnold said of me, I liked and admired him,
and he was always personally most kind to me. He had of all men I have
ever known the truest insight,—the true _Poet’s_ insight,—into the
feelings and characters of animals, especially of dogs. His poem,
_Geist’s Grave_, is to me the most affecting description of the death of
an animal in the range of literature. Indeed, the subject of Death
itself, whether of beasts or of men, viewed from the same standpoint of
hopelessness, has never, I think, been more tenderly touched. How deeply
true to every heart is the thought expressed in the stanzas, which
remind us that in all the vastness of the universe and of endless time
there is not, and never will be, another being like the one who is dead!
_That_ being (some of us believe) may revive and live for ever, but
_another_ who will “restore its little self” will never be.
“... Not the course
Of all the centuries to come,
And not the infinite resource
Of Nature, with her countless sum
“Of figures, with her fulness vast
Of new creation evermore,
Can ever quite repeat the past,
Or just thy little self restore.
“Stern law of every mortal lot!
Which man, proud man, finds hard to bear
And builds himself, I know not what
Of second life, I know not where.”
We knew dear _Geist_, I am glad to say. When Miss Lloyd and I came to
live at Byfleet Mr. Arnold and his most charming wife,—then living three
miles off at Cobham,—kindly permitted us to see a good deal of them, and
we were deeply interested in poor Geist’s last illness. He was a black
dachshund, not a handsome dog, but possessed of something which in
certain dogs and (those dogs only) seems to be the canine analogue of a
human soul. As to Mr. Arnold’s poem on his other dog, _Kaiser_, who is
there that enjoys a gleam of humour and dog-love can fail to be
enchanted with such a perfect picture of a dog,—not a dog of the
sentimental kind, but one—
“Teeming with plans, alert and glad
In work or play,
Like sunshine went and came, and bade
Live out the day!”
Does not every one feel how true is the likeness of a happy loving dog
to sunshine in a house?
I met Mr. Arnold one day in William and Norgate’s bookshop, and he
inquired after my dog, and when I told him the poor beast had “gone
where the good dogs go,” he said, with real feeling, “And you have not
replaced her? No! of course you could not.” I asked his leave to give a
copy of “Geist’s Grave” for a collection of poems on animals made for
the purpose of humane propaganda, and he gave it very cordially. I was,
however, deeply disappointed when he returned the following reply to my
application for his signature to our first Memorial inviting the
R.S.P.C.A. to undertake legislation for the restriction of vivisection.
I do not clearly understand what he meant by disliking “the English way
of employing for public ends private Societies and Memorials to them.”
The R.S.P.C.A. is scarcely a “private society;” and, if it were so, I
see no harm in “employing it for public ends,” instead of leaving
everything to Government to do; or to _leave undone_.
“Cobham, Surrey,
“January 8th, 1875.
“Dear Miss Cobbe,
“Your letter was directed to Oxford, a place with which I have now no
connection, and it reaches me too late for signing your Memorial, but
I should in any case have declined signing it, strongly as your cause
speaks to my feelings; because, first, I greatly dislike the English
way of employing, for public ends, private societies and Memorials to
them; secondly, the signatures you will profit by, in this case, are
not those of literary people, who will at once be disposed of as a set
of unpractical sentimentalists. To yourself this objection does not
apply, because you are distinguished not in letters only, but also as
a lover and student of animals. I hope if you read my paper in the
_Contemporary_, you observe how I apologise for calling them the
_lower_ animals, and how thoroughly I admit that they _think and
love_.
“Sincerely yours,
“MATTHEW ARNOLD.”
In my first journey to Italy on my way to Palestine I made acquaintance
with R. W. Mackay, the author of that enormously learned, but, perhaps,
not very well digested book, the _Progress of the Intellect_. I
afterwards renewed acquaintance with him and his nice wife in their
house in Hamilton Terrace. Mr. Mackay was somewhat of an invalid and a
nervous man, much absorbed in his studies. I have heard it said that he
was the original of George Elliot’s _Mr. Casaubon_. At all events Mrs.
Lewes had met him, and taken a strong prejudice against him. That
prejudice I think was unjust. He was a very honest and _real_ student,
and a modest one, not a pretender like Mr. Casaubon. His books contain
an amazing mass of knowledge, (presented, perhaps, in rather a crude
state) respecting all the great religious doctrines of the world. I had
once felt that both his books and talk were hard and steel-cold, and
that his religion, though dogmatically the same as mine, was all lodged
in his intellect. One day, however, when he called on me and we took a
drive and walk in the Park together, I learned to my surprise that he
entirely felt with me that the one _direct_ way of reaching truth about
religion was Prayer, and all the rest mere corroboration of what may so
be learned. To have _come round_ to this seemed to me a great evidence
of intellectual sincerity.
I forget now what particular point we had been discussing when he wrote
me the following curious bit of erudition:—
“Dear Miss Cobbe,
“Dixit Rabbi Simeon Ben Lakis,—Nomina angelorum et mensium ascenderunt
in domum Israelis ex Babylone.”
“This occurs in the treatise _Rosh Haschanah_, which is part of the
Mischna.
“The Mischna (the earliest part of the Talmud) is said to have been
completed in the 3rd century, under the auspices of Rabbi Judah the
Holy, and his disciples.
“I send the above as promised, The professed aversion of the Jews for
foreign customs seems strangely at variance with their practice, as
seen, _e.g._, in their names for the divisions of the heavenly hosts;
the words ‘Legion and Sistra (castra) are evidently taken from the
Roman army. Four Chief Spirits or Archangels are occasionally
mentioned, as in _Pirke Eliezer_ and _Henoch_, cf. 48, 1. Others make
their number seven, as Tobit 12, 5; Revel. 2, 4–3, 1–4, 5. The angelic
doings are partly copied from the usages of the Jewish Temple, hence
the Jerusalem Targum renders Exod. 14, 24. ‘It happened in the morning
watch, the hour when the heavenly host sing praises before God’—comp.:
Luke 2, 13,—and the same reason is applied by the Targumist for the
sudden exit of the angel in Genes. 32, 26. One may perhaps, however,
be induced to ask whether (as in the case of Euthyphron in the
Platonic dialogue) a better cause for departure might not be found in
the inconvenience of remaining!
“Though I have Haug’s version of the Gathas, I am far from able to
decipher the grounds of difference between him and Spiegel. _Non
nostrum est tantas componere lites_, a volume entitled _Erân_ by Dr.
Spiegel contains, among other Essays, one entitled _Avesta and Veda_,
or the relation of Iran and India, and another _Avesta and Genesis_,
or the relation of Iran to the Semites. Weber’s _Morische Skizzen_
also contains interesting matter on similar subjects. We were speaking
about the magical significance of names. See as to this Origen against
Celsus, 1–24; Diod. Sicul, 1–22; Iamblicus de Myst, 2, 4, 5.
“Socrates himself appears superstitiously apprehensive about the use
of divine names in the Philebus 1, 2 and the Cratylus 400e. The
suppression of it among the Jews, (for instance in the Septuagint,
where Κυριος is substituted for Jehovah, and Sirach, Ch. 23, 9)
express the same feeling.
“We were talking of the original religion of Persia. You, of course,
recollect the passage on this subject in the first book of Herodotus,
Ch. 131, and Strabo 15, see 13, p. 732 Casaub. The practice of
prohibiting selfish prayer mentioned in the next following chapter in
Herodotus, is remarkable.
“I hope that in the above rigmarole a grain of useful matter may be
found. Mrs. Mackay is, I am glad to say, better to-day.
“I remain, sincerely yours,
“R. W. MACKAY.
“20th February, 1865,
“41, Hamilton Terrace, N.W.”
Another early acquaintance of mine in London was Lady Byron, the widow
of the poet. I called on her one day, having received from her a kind
note begging me to do so as she was unable to leave her house to come to
me. She had been exceedingly kind in procuring for me valuable letters
of introduction from Sir Moses Montefiore and others, which had been
very useful to me in my long wanderings.
Lady Byron was short in stature and, when I saw her, deadly pale; but
with a dignity which some of our friends called “royal,” albeit without
the smallest affectation or assumption. She talked to me eagerly about
all manner of good works wherein she was interested; notably concerning
Miss Carpenter’s Reformatory, to which she had practically subscribed
£1,000 by buying Red Lodge and making it over for such use. During the
larger part of the time of my visit she stood on the rug with her back
to the fire and the power and will revealed in her attitude and
conversation were very impressive. I bore in mind all the odious things
Byron had said of her:
“There was Miss Mill-pond, smooth as summer sea
That usual paragon, an only daughter,
Who seemed the cream of equanimity
Till skimmed, and then there was some milk and water.”
Also the sneers at her (very genuine) humour:
“Her wit, for she had wit, was Attic-all
Her favourite science was the mathematical” &c., &c.
I thought that for a man to hold up such a woman as _this_, and that
woman his wife, on the prongs of ridicule for public laughter was enough
to make him detestable.
A lady whom I met long afterwards told me, (I made a note of it Nov.
13th, 1869) that she had been stopping, at the time of Lady Byron’s
separation, at a very small seaside place in Norfolk. Lady Byron came
there on a visit to Mrs. Francis Cunningham, _née_ Gurney, as more
retired than Kirkby Mallory. She had then been separated about six weeks
or two months. She was (Mrs. B. said) singularly pleasing and healthful
looking, rather than pretty. She was grave and reticent rather than
depressed in spirits; and gave her friends to understand that there was
something she could not explain to them about her separation. Mrs. B.
_heard her say_ that Lord Byron always slept with pistols under his
pillow, and on one occasion had threatened to shoot her in the middle of
the night. There was much singing of duets going on in the two families,
but Lady Byron refused to take any part in it.
Miss Carpenter, who was entirely captivated by her, received from her
some charge amounting to literary executorship; but after one or two
furtive delvings into the trunks full of papers (since, I believe,
stored in Hoare’s bank), she gave up in despair. She told me that the
papers were in the most extraordinary confusion; letters both of the
most trivial and of the most serious and compromising kind, household
accounts, poems, and tradesmen’s bills, were all mixed together in
hopeless disorder and dust. As is well known, Byron’s famous verses:
“Fare thee well! and if for ever!”
were written on the back of a butcher’s bill—_unpaid_ like most of the
rest. Miss Carpenter vouched for this fact.
Lady Byron was at one time greatly attracted by Fanny Kemble. Among Mrs.
Kemble’s papers in my possession are seven letters from Lady Byron to
her. Here is one of them worth presenting:
“Dear Mrs. Kemble,
“The note you wrote to me before you left Brighton made me revert to a
train of thought which had been for some time in my mind. I alluded
once to “your Future.” I submit to be considered a Visionary, yet some
of my decided visions have come to pass in the course of years let me
tell you my Vision about _you_—That you are to be something _to the
People_; that your strong sympathy with them (though you will not let
them touch the hem of your garment) will bring your talents to bear
upon their welfare; that the way is open to you, after your personal
objects are fulfilled. My mind is so full of this, that though the
time has not arrived for putting it in practice, I cannot help telling
you of it. I am neither Democratic nor Aristocratic. I do not _see_
those distinctions in looking at Humanity, but I feel most strongly
that for every advantage we have received we are bound to offer
something to those who do not possess it. Happy they who have gifts to
place at the feet of their less favoured fellow-Christians!
“I cannot believe that a relation so truthful as yours and mine will
be merely casual. Time will show. I might not have an opportunity of
saying this in a visit.
“Yours most truly,
A. NOEL BYRON.”
“March 19th.
It is an unsolved mystery to me why such a woman did not definitely
adopt one of either of two courses. The first (and far the best) would,
of course, have been to bury her husband’s misdeeds in absolute silence
and oblivion, carefully destroying all papers relating to the tragedy of
their joint lives. Or, if she had not strength for this, to write
exactly what she thought ought to be known by posterity concerning him,
and put her account in safe hands with all the needful _pièces
justificatives_ before she died. That she did not adopt either one
course or the other must be a source of permanent regret to all who
recognized her great merits and honoured them as they deserved.
Among our neighbours in South Kensington, whom we were privileged to
know were many delightful people, who are still, I am happy to say,
living and taking active part in the world. Among them were Mr. Froude,
Mr. and Mrs. W. E. H. Lecky, Mr. Leslie Stephen, Mrs. Brookfield, Mrs.
Simpson, and Mrs. Richmond Ritchie. But of several others, alas! “the
place that knew them knows them no more.” Of these last were Mr. and
Mrs. Herman Merivale, Sir Henry Maine, Mrs. Dicey, Lady Monteagle (who
had written some of Wordsworth’s poems to his dictation as his
amanuensis), and my dear old friend Mrs. de Morgan.
Sir Henry Maine’s interest in the claims of women and his strong
statements on the subject, made me regard him with much gratitude. I
asked him once a question about St. Paul’s citizenship, to which he was
good enough to write so full and interesting a reply that I quote it
here _in extenso_:—
“Athenæum Club, Pall Mall, S.W.,
“April 6th, 1874.
“My dear Miss Cobbe,
“There is no question that for a considerable time before the
concession of the Roman citizenship to the whole empire, quite at all
events, B.C. 89 or 90,—it could be obtained in various ways by
individuals who possessed a lower franchise in virtue of their place
of birth or who were even foreigners. The legal writer, Ulpian,
mentions several of these modes of acquiring it; and Pliny, more than
once solicits the citizenship for protégés of his own. There is no
authority for supposing that it could be directly purchased (at least
_legally_), but it could be obtained by various processes which came
to the same thing as paying directly, _e.g._, building a ship of a
certain burden to carry corn to Rome.
“I suspect that St. Paul’s ancestor obtained the citizenship by
serving in some petty magistracy. The coins of Tarsus are said to show
that its citizens in the reign of Augustus, enjoyed one or other of
the lower Roman franchises; and this would facilitate the acquisition
by individuals of the full Roman citizenship.
“The Roman citizenship was necessarily hereditary. The children of the
person who became a Roman citizen came at once under his _Patria
Potestas_, and each of them acquired the capacity for becoming some
day a Roman _Paterfamilias_.
“St. Paul, as a Roman citizen, lived under the Roman Law of _Persons_,
but he remained under the local Law of _Property_. His allusions to
the _Patria Potestas_ and to the Roman Law of Wills and guardianship
(which was like the _Patria Potestas_), are quite unmistakeable, and
more numerous than is commonly supposed. In the obscure passage, for
example, about women having power over the head, “Power” and “Head”
are technical terms from the Roman Law.
“Believe me, very sincerely yours,
“H. S. MAINE.”
George Borrow who, if he were not a gipsy by blood _ought_ to have been
one, was, for some years, our near neighbour in Hereford Square. My
friend was amused by his quaint stories and his (real or sham)
enthusiasm for Wales, and cultivated his acquaintance. I never liked
him, thinking him more or less of a hypocrite. His missions, recorded in
the “_Bible in Spain_,” and his translations of the scriptures into the
out-of-the-way tongues, for which he had a gift, were by no means
consonant with his real opinions concerning the veracity of the said
Bible. Dr. Martineau once told me that he and Borrow had been
schoolfellows at Norwich some sixty years before. Borrow had persuaded
several of his other companions to rob their fathers’ tills, and then
the party set forth to join some smugglers on the coast. By degrees the
truants all fell out of line and were picked up, tired and hungry along
the road, and brought back to Norwich school where condign chastisement
awaited them. George Borrow it seems received his large share _horsed_
on James Martineau’s back! The early connection between the two old men
as I knew them, was irresistibly comic to my mind. Somehow when I asked
Mr. Borrow once to come and meet some friends at our house he accepted
our invitation as usual, but, on finding that Dr. Martineau was to be of
the party, hastily withdrew his acceptance on a transparent excuse; nor
did he ever after attend our little assemblies without first
ascertaining that Dr. Martineau would not be present!
I take the following from some old letters to my friend referring to
him:
“Mr. Borrow says his wife is very ill and anxious to keep the peace
with C. (a litigious neighbour). Poor old B. was very sad at first,
but I cheered him and sent him off quite brisk last night. He talked
all about the Fathers again, arguing that their quotations went to
prove that it was _not_ our gospels they had in their hands. I knew
most of it before, but it was admirably done. I talked a little
theology to him in a serious way (finding him talk of his ‘horrors’)
and he abounded in my sense of the non-existence of Hell, and of the
presence and action on the soul of _a_ Spirit, rewarding and
punishing. He would not say ‘God;’ but repeated over and over that he
spoke not from books but from his own personal experience.”
Some time later—after his wife’s death:
“Poor old Borrow is in a sad state. I hope he is starting in a day or
two for Scotland. I sent C. with a note begging him to come and eat
the Welsh mutton you sent me to-day, and he sent back word, ‘Yes.’
Then, an hour afterwards, he arrived, and in a most agitated manner
said he had come to say ‘he would rather not. He would not trouble
anyone with his sorrows.’ I made him sit down, and talked as gently to
him as possible, saying: ‘It won’t be a trouble Mr. Borrow, it will be
a pleasure to me’. But it was all of no use. He was so cross, so
_rude_, I had the greatest difficulty in talking to him. I asked about
his servant, and he said I could not help him. I asked him about
Bowring, and he said: ‘Don’t speak of it.’ [It was some dispute with
Sir John Bowring, who was an acquaintance of mine, and with whom I
offered to mediate.] ‘I asked him would he look at the photos of the
Siamese,’ and he said: ‘Don’t show them to me!’ So, in despair, as he
sat silent, I told him I had been at a pleasant dinner-party the night
before, and had met Mr. L——, who told me of certain curious books of
mediæval history. ‘Did he know them?’ ‘No, and he _dare said_ Mr. L——
did not, either! Who was Mr. L——?’ I described that _obscure_
individual, [one of the foremost writers of the day], and added that
he was immensely liked by everybody. Whereupon Borrow repeated at
least 12 times, ‘Immensely liked! As if a man could be immensely
liked!’ quite insultingly. To make a diversion (I was very patient
with him as he was in trouble) ‘I said I had just come home from the
Lyell’s and had heard—.’... But there was no time to say what I had
heard! Mr. Borrow asked: ‘Is that old Lyle I met here once, the man
who stands at the door (of some den or other) and _bets_?’ I explained
who Sir Charles was, (of course he knew very well), but he went on and
on, till I said gravely: ‘I don’t think you will meet those sort of
people here, Mr. Borrow. We don’t associate with blacklegs, exactly.’”
Here is an extract from another letter:
“Borrow also came, and I said something about the imperfect education
of women, and he said it was _right_ they should be ignorant, and that
no man could endure a clever wife. I laughed at him openly, and told
him some men knew better. What did he think of the Brownings? ‘Oh, he
had heard the name; he did not know anything of them. Since Scott, he
read no modern writer; Scott _was greater than Homer_! What he liked
were curious, old, erudite books about mediæval and northern things.’
I said I knew little of such literature, and preferred the writers of
our own age, but indeed I was no great student at all. Thereupon he
evidently wanted to astonish me; and, talking of Ireland, said, ‘Ah,
yes; a most curious, mixed race. First there were the Firbolgs,—the
old enchanters, who raised mists.’... ‘Don’t you think, Mr. Borrow,’ I
asked, ‘it was the Tuatha-de-Danaan who did that? Keatinge expressly
says that they conquered the Firbolgs by that means.’ (Mr. B.,
somewhat out of countenance), ‘Oh! Aye! Keatinge is _the_ authority; a
most extraordinary writer.’ ‘Well, I should call him the Geoffrey of
Monmouth of Ireland.’ (Mr. B., changing the _venue_), ‘I delight in
Norse-stories; they are far grander than the Greek. There is the story
of Olaf the Saint of Norway. Can anything be grander? What a noble
character!’ ‘But,’ I said, ‘what do you think of his putting all those
poor Druids on the Skerry of Shrieks and leaving them to be drowned by
the tide?’ (Thereupon Mr. B. looked at me askant out of his gipsy
eyes, as if he thought me an example of the evils of female
education!) ‘Well! well! I forgot about the Skerry of Shrieks. Then
there is the story of Beowulf the Saxon going out to sea in his
burning ship to die.’ ‘Oh, Mr. Borrow! that isn’t a Saxon story at
all. It is in the Heimskringla! It is told of Hakon of Norway.’ Then,
I asked him about the gipsies and their language, and if they were
certainly Aryans? He didn’t know (or pretended not to know) what
Aryans were; and altogether displayed a miraculous mixture of odd
knowledge and more odd ignorance. Whether the latter were real or
assumed, I know not!”
With the leading men of Science in the Sixties we had the honour of a
good deal of intercourse. Through Dr. W. B. Carpenter (who, as Miss
Carpenter’s brother, I had met often) and the two ever hospitable
families of Lyell, we came to know many of them. Sir William Grove was
also a particular friend of my friend Mrs. Grey. He and Lady Grove and
their daughter, Mrs. Hall, (Imogen), were all charming people, and we
had many pleasant dinners with them. Professor Tyndall was, of course,
one of the principal members of that scientific coterie, and in those
days we saw a good deal of him. He was very friendly as were also Mr.
and Mrs. Francis Galton. Mr. Galton’s speculations seemed always to me
exceedingly original and interesting, and I delighted in reviewing them.
The beginning of the Anti-vivisection controversy, however, put an end
to all these relations, so that since 1876, I have seen few of the
circle. It is curious to recall how nearly we joined hands on some
theological questions before this gulf of a great ethical difference
opened before us. Some readers may recall a curious controversy raised
by Prof. Tyndall on the subject of the efficacy of prayer for _physical_
benefits. Having read what he wrote on it, I sent him my own little
book, _Dawning Lights_, which vindicates the efficacy of prayer, for
spiritual benefits only. The following was his reply, to which I will
append another kindly note referring to a request I had proffered on
behalf of Mrs. Somerville.