Few men have pursued more honourably, more usefully, or more
successfully the career of letters than Thomas Caliban, D.D., of
Winchelthorpe-on-Sea, near Portsmouth. Inheriting, as his name
would imply, the grand old Huguenot strain, his father was a
Merchant Taylor of the City of London, and principal manager of the
Anglo-Chilian Bank; his mother the fifth daughter of K. Muller,
Esq., of Brighton, a furniture dealer and reformer of note in the
early forties.
The connection established between my own family and that of Dr.
Caliban I purposely pass over as not germane to the ensuing pages,
remarking only that the friendship, guidance, and intimacy of such
a man will ever count among my chiefest treasures. Of him it may
truly be written: “_He maketh them to shine like Sharon; the waters
are his in Ram-Shaîd, and Gilgath praiseth him._”
I could fill a volume of far greater contents than has this with
the mere record of his every-day acts during the course of his long
and active career. I must content myself, in this sketch, with a
bare summary of his habitual deportment. He would rise in the
morning, and after a simple but orderly toilet would proceed to
family prayers, terminating the same with a hymn, of which he would
himself read each verse in turn, to be subsequently chanted by the
assembled household. To this succeeded breakfast, which commonly
consisted of ham, eggs, coffee, tea, toast, jam, and whatnot--in a
word, the appurtenances of a decent table.
Breakfast over, he would light a pipe (for he did not regard
indulgence in the weed as immoral, still less as un-Christian: the
subtle word ἐπιείκεια, which he translated “sweet reasonableness,”
was painted above his study door--it might have served for the
motto of his whole life), he would light a pipe, I say, and walk
round his garden, or, if it rained, visit the plants in his
conservatory.
Before ten he would be in his study, seated at a large mahogany
bureau, formerly the property of Sir Charles Henby, of
North-chapel, and noon would still find him there, writing in
his regular and legible hand the notes and manuscripts which
have made him famous, or poring over an encyclopædia, the more
conscientiously to review some book with which he had been
entrusted.
After the hours so spent, it was his habit to take a turn in the
fresh air, sometimes speaking to the gardener, and making the
round of the beds; at others passing by the stables to visit his
pony Bluebell, or to pat upon the head his faithful dog Ponto, now
advanced in years and suffering somewhat from the mange.
To this light exercise succeeded luncheon, for him the most
cheerful meal of the day. It was then that his liveliest
conversation was heard, his closest friends entertained: the
government, the misfortunes of foreign nations, the success of
our fiscal policy, our maritime supremacy, the definition of the
word “gentleman,” occasionally even a little bout of theology--a
thousand subjects fell into the province of his genial criticism
and extensive information; to each his sound judgment and ready
apprehension added some new light; nor were the ladies of the
family incompetent to follow the gifted table talk of their father,
husband, brother, master,[1] and host.[2]
Until the last few years the hour after lunch was occupied with a
stroll upon the terrace, but latterly he would consume it before
the fire in sleep, from which the servants had orders to wake him
by three o’clock. At this hour he would take his hat and stick and
proceed into the town, where his sunny smile and friendly salute
were familiar to high and low. A visit to the L.N.C. School, a few
purchases, perhaps even a call upon the vicar (for Dr. Caliban was
without prejudice--the broadest of men), would be the occupation
of the afternoon, from which he returned to tea in the charming
drawing-room of 48, Henderson Avenue.
It was now high time to revisit his study. He was at work by
six, and would write steadily till seven. Dinner, the pleasant
conversation that succeeds it in our English homes, perhaps an
innocent round game, occupied the evening till a gong for prayers
announced the termination of the day. Dr. Caliban made it a point
to remain the last up, to bolt the front door, to pour out his
own whiskey, and to light his own candle before retiring. It was
consonant with his exact and thoughtful nature, by the way, to have
this candle of a patent sort, pierced down the middle to minimise
the danger from falling grease; it was moreover surrounded by a
detachable cylinder of glass.[3]
Such was the round of method which, day by day and week by week,
built up the years of Dr. Caliban’s life; but life is made up of
little things, and, to quote a fine phrase of his own: “It is the
hourly habits of a man that build up his character.” He also said
(in his address to the I. C. B. Y.): “Show me a man hour by hour in
his own home, from the rising of the sun to his going down, and I
will tell you what manner of man he is.” I have always remembered
the epigram, and have acted upon it in the endeavour to portray the
inner nature of its gifted author.
I should, however, be giving but an insufficient picture of Dr.
Caliban were I to leave the reader with no further impression of
his life work, or indeed of the causes which have produced this
book.
His father had left him a decent competence. He lay, therefore,
under no necessity to toil for his living. Nevertheless, that sense
of duty, “through which the eternal heavens are fresh and strong”
(Wordsworth), moved him to something more than “the consumption
of the fruits of the earth” (Horace). He preached voluntarily and
without remuneration for some years to the churches in Cheltenham,
and having married Miss Bignor, of Winchelthorpe-on-Sea, purchased
a villa in that rising southern watering-place, and received a call
to the congregation, which he accepted. He laboured there till his
recent calamity.
I hardly know where to begin the recital of his numerous activities
in the period of thirty-five years succeeding his marriage. With
the pen he was indefatigable. A man more ποικίλος--or, as he put
it, many-sided--perhaps never existed. There was little he would
not touch, little upon which he was not consulted, and much in
which, though anonymous, he was yet a leader.
He wrote regularly, in his earlier years, for _The Seventh
Monarchy_, _The Banner_, _The Christian_, _The Free Trader_,
_Household Words_, _Good Words_, _The Quiver_, _Chatterbox_, _The
Home Circle_, and _The Sunday Monitor_. During the last twenty
years his work has continually appeared in the _Daily Telegraph_,
the _Times_, the _Siècle_, and the _Tribuna_. In the last two his
work was translated.
His political effect was immense, and that though he never acceded
to the repeated request that he would stand upon one side or
the other as a candidate for Parliament. He remained, on the
contrary, to the end of his career, no more than president of a
local association. It was as a speaker, writer, and preacher,
that his ideas spread outwards; thousands certainly now use
political phrases which they may imagine their own, but which
undoubtedly sprang from his creative brain. He was perhaps not
the first, but one of the first, to apply the term “Anglo-Saxon”
to the English-speaking race--with which indeed he was personally
connected through his relatives in New Mexico. The word “Empire”
occurs in a sermon of his as early as 1869. He was contemporary
with Mr. Lucas, if not before him, in the phrase, “Command of the
sea”: and I find, in a letter to Mrs. Gorch, written long ago
in 1873, the judgment that Protection was “no longer,” and the
nationalization of land “not yet,” within “the sphere of practical
politics.”
If his influence upon domestic politics was in part due to his
agreement with the bulk of his fellow-citizens, his attitude in
foreign affairs at least was all his own. Events have proved it
wonderfully sound. A strenuous opponent of American slavery as a
very young man--in 1860--he might be called, even at that age,
the most prominent Abolitionist in Worcestershire, and worked
indefatigably for the cause in so far as it concerned this country.
A just and charitable man, he proved, after the victory of the
North, one of the firmest supporters in the press of what he first
termed “an Anglo-American _entente_.” Yet he was not for pressing
matters. He would leave the “gigantic daughter of the West” to
choose her hour and time, confident in the wisdom of his daughter’s
judgment, and he lived to see, before his calamity fell upon him,
Mr. Hanna, Mr. Roosevelt, Mr. Elihu Root, and Mr. Smoot occupying
the positions they still adorn.
He comprehended Europe. It was he who prophesied of the Dual
Monarchy (I believe in the _Contemporary Review_), that “the death
of Francis Joseph would be the signal for a great upheaval”; he
that applied to Italy the words “clericalism is the enemy”; and he
that publicly advised the withdrawal of our national investments
from the debt of Spain--“a nation in active decay.” He cared not
a jot when his critics pointed out that Spanish fours had risen
since his advice no less than 20 per cent., while our own consols
had fallen by an equal amount. “The kingdom I serve,” he finely
answered, “knows nothing of the price of stock.” And indeed the
greater part of his fortune was in suburban rents, saving a small
sum unfortunately adventured in Shanghai Telephones.
Russia he hated as the oppressor of Finland and Poland, for
oppression he loathed and combatted wherever it appeared; nor
had Mr. Arthur Balfour a stronger supporter than he when that
statesman, armed only in the simple manliness of an English
Christian and Freeman, combatted and destroyed the terrorism that
stalked through Ireland.
Of Scandinavia he knew singularly little, but that little was in
its favour; and as for the German Empire, his stanzas to Prince
Bismarck, and his sermon on the Emperor’s recent visit, are too
well known to need any comment here. To Holland he was, until
recently, attracted. Greece he despised.
Nowhere was this fine temper of unflinching courage and sterling
common sense more apparent than in the great crisis of the
Dreyfus case. No man stood up more boldly, or with less thought
of consequence, for Truth and Justice in this country. He was not
indeed the chairman of the great meeting in St. James’ Hall, but
his peroration was the soul of that vast assemblage. “England will
yet weather the storm....” It was a true prophecy, and in a sense a
confession of Faith.
There ran through his character a vein of something steady and
profound, which inspired all who came near him with a sense of
quiet persistent _strength_. This, with an equable, unfailing
pressure, restrained or controlled whatever company surrounded
him. It was like the regular current of a full but silent tide,
or like the consistent power of a good helmsman. It may be called
his _personal force_. To most men and women of our circle, that
force was a sustenance and a blessing; to ill-regulated or worldly
men with whom he might come in contact, it acted as a salutary
irritant, though rarely to so intense a degree as to give rise to
scenes. I must unfortunately except the case of the Rural Dean of
Bosham, whose notorious excess was the more lamentable from the
fact that the Council of the _S.P.C.A._ is strictly non-sectarian,
and whose excuse that the ink-pot was not thrown but brushed aside
is, to speak plainly, a tergiversation.
The recent unhappy war in South Africa afforded an excellent
opportunity for the exercise of the qualities I mean. He was still
active and alert; still guiding men and maidens during its worse
days. His tact was admirable. He suffered from the acute divisions
of his congregation, but he suffered in powerful silence; and
throughout those dark-days his sober _necquid nimis_[4] was like a
keel and ballast for us all.
A young radical of sorts was declaiming at his table one evening
against the Concentration Camp. Dr. Caliban listened patiently, and
at the end of the harangue said gently, “Shall we join the ladies?”
The rebuke was not lost.[5]
On another occasion, when some foreigner was reported in the papers
as having doubted Mr. Brodrick’s figures relative to the numbers
of the enemy remaining in the field, Dr. Caliban said with quiet
dignity, “It is the first time I have heard the word of an English
gentleman doubted.”
It must not be imagined from these lines that he defended the gross
excesses of the London mob--especially in the matter of strong
waters--or that he wholly approved of our policy. “Peace in our
time, _Oh, Lord_!” was his constant cry, and against militarism he
thundered fearlessly. I have heard him apply to it a word that
never passed his lips in any other connection--the word DAMNABLE.
On the details of the war, the policy of annexation, the
advisability of frequent surrenders, the high salaries of
irregulars, and the employment of national scouts, he was silent.
In fine, one might have applied to him the strong and simple words
of Lord Jacobs, in his Guildhall speech.[6] One main fact stood
out--he hated warfare. He was a man of peace.
The tall, broad figure, inclining slightly to obesity, the clear
blue northern eyes, ever roaming from point to point as though
seeking for grace, the familiar soft wideawake, the long full white
beard, the veined complexion and dark-gloved hands, are now, alas,
removed from the sphere they so long adorned.
Dr. Caliban’s affliction was first noticed by his family at dinner
on the first of last September--a date which fell by a strange
and unhappy coincidence on a Sunday. For some days past Miss
Goucher had remarked his increasing volubility; but on this fatal
evening, in spite of all the efforts of his wife and daughters,
he continued to speak, without interruption, from half-past
seven to a quarter-past nine; and again, after a short interval,
till midnight, when he fell into an uneasy sleep, itself full of
mutterings. His talk had seemed now a sermon, now the reminiscence
of some leading article, now a monologue, but the whole quite
incoherent, though delivered with passionate energy; nor was it the
least distressing feature of his malady that he would tolerate no
reply, nay, even the gentlest assent drove him into paroxysms of
fury.
Next day he began again in the manner of a debate at the local
Liberal Club, soon lapsing again into a sermon, and anon admitting
snatches of strange songs into the flow of his words. Towards
eleven he was apparently arguing with imaginary foreigners, and
shortly afterwards the terrible scene was ended by the arrival of a
medical man of his own persuasion.
It is doubtful whether Dr. Caliban will ever be able to leave Dr.
Charlbury’s establishment, but all that can be done for him in his
present condition is lovingly and ungrudgingly afforded. There has
even been provided for him at considerable expense, and after an
exhaustive search, a companion whose persistent hallucination it
is that he is acting as private secretary to some leader of the
Opposition, and the poor wild soul is at rest.
Such was the man who continually urged upon me the necessity of
compiling some such work as that which now lies before the reader.
He had himself intended to produce a similar volume, and had he
done so I should never have dared to enter the same field; but I
feel that in his present incapacity I am, as it were, fulfilling
a duty when I trace in these few pages the plan which he so
constantly counselled, and with such a man counsels were commands.
If I may be permitted to dwell upon the feature more especially
his own in this Guide, I will point to the section “On Vivid
Historical Literature in its Application to Modern Problems,”
and furthermore, to the section “On the Criticism and Distinction
of Works Attributed to Classical Authors.” In the latter case the
examples chosen were taken from his own large collection; for
it was a hobby of his to purchase as bargains manuscripts and
anonymous pamphlets which seemed to him to betray the hand of some
master. Though I have been compelled to differ from my friend, and
cannot conscientiously attribute the specimens I have chosen to
William Shakespeare or to Dean Swift, yet I am sure the reader will
agree with me that the error into which Dr. Caliban fell was that
of no ordinary mind.
Finally, let me offer to his family, and to his numerous circle,
such apologies as may be necessary for the differences in style,
and, alas, I fear, sometimes in mode of thought, between the
examples which I have chosen as models for the student and those
which perhaps would have more powerfully attracted the sympathies
of my preceptor himself. I am well aware that such a difference is
occasionally to be discovered. I can only plead in excuse that men
are made in very different ways, and that the disciple cannot, even
if he would, forbid himself a certain measure of self-development.
Dr. Caliban’s own sound and broad ethics would surely have demanded
it of no one, and I trust that this solemn reference to his charity
and genial toleration will put an end to the covert attacks which
some of those who should have been the strongest links between us
have seen fit to make in the provincial and religious press.
_DIVISION I._