Galleries only oppress me. Remembrance of hope I had cherished
(Almost more than as hope, when I passed through Florence the first time)
Lies like a sword in my soul. I am more a coward than ever,
Chicken-hearted, past thought. The _cafés_ and waiters distress me.
All is unkind, and, alas! I am ready for any one’s kindness.
Oh, I knew it of old, and knew it, I thought, to perfection,
If there is any one thing in the world to preclude all kindness,
It is the need of it,—it is this sad, self-defeating dependence.
Why is this, Eustace? Myself, were I stronger, I think I could tell you.
But it is odd when it comes. So plumb I the deeps of depression,
Daily in deeper, and find no support, no will, no purpose.
All my old strengths are gone. And yet I shall have to do something.
Ah, the key of our life, that passes all wards, opens all locks,
Is not _I will_, but _I must_. I must,—I must,—and I do it.
‘After all, do I know that I really cared so about her?
Do whatever I will, I cannot call up her image;
For when I close my eyes, I see, very likely, St. Peter’s,
Or the Pantheon façade, or Michael Angelo’s figures,
Or, at a wish, when I please, the Alban hills and the Forum,—
But that face, those eyes,—ah no, never anything like them;
Only, try as I will, a sort of featureless outline,
And a pale blank orb, which no recollection will add to.
After all, perhaps there was something factitious about it;
I have had pain, it is true: I have wept, and so have the actors.
‘At the last moment I have your letter, for which I was waiting;
I have taken my place, and see no good in inquiries.
Do nothing more, good Eustace, I pray you. It only will vex me.
Take no measures. Indeed, should we meet, I could not be certain;
All might be changed, you know. Or perhaps there was nothing to be
changed.
It is a curious history, this; and yet I foresaw it;
I could have told it before. The Fates, it is clear, are against us;
For it is certain enough I met with the people you mention;
They were at Florence the day I returned there, and spoke to me even;
Stayed a week, saw me often; departed, and whither I know not.
Great is Fate, and is best. I believe in Providence partly.
What is ordained is right, and all that happens is ordered.
Ah, no, that isn’t it. But yet I retain my conclusion.
I will go where I am led, and will not dictate to the chances.
Do nothing more, I beg. If you love me, forbear interfering.’
And the heroine, like a sensible, quiet girl, sums up:
‘You have heard nothing; of course, I know you can have heard nothing.
Ah, well, more than once I have broken my purpose, and sometimes,
Only too often, have looked for the little lake-steamer to bring him.
But it is only fancy,—I do not really expect it.
Oh, and you see I know so exactly how he would take it:
Finding the chances prevail against meeting again, he would banish
Forthwith every thought of the poor little possible hope, which
I myself could not help, perhaps, thinking only too much of;
He would resign himself, and go. I see it exactly.
So I also submit, although in a different manner.
Can you not really come? We go very shortly to England.’
And there, let us hope, she found a more satisfactory lover and husband.
The same defect which prevented Mr. Claude from obtaining his bride
will prevent this poem from obtaining universal popularity. The public
like stories which come to something; Mr. Arnold teaches that a great
poem must be founded on a great action, and this one is founded on a
long inaction. But Art has many mansions. Many poets, whose cast of
thought unfits them for very diffused popularity, have yet a concentrated
popularity which suits them and which lasts. Henry Taylor has wisely
said ‘that a poet does not deserve the name who would not rather be read
a thousand times by one man, than a single time by a thousand.’ This
repeated perusal, this testing by continual repetition and close contact,
is the very test of intellectual poetry; unless such poetry can identify
itself with our nature, and dissolve itself into our constant thought,
it is nothing, or less than nothing; it is an ineffectual attempt to
confer a rare pleasure; it teazes by reminding us of that pleasure,
and tires by the effort which it demands from us. But if a poem really
possesses this capacity of intellectual absorption—if it really is in
matter of fact accepted, apprehended, delighted in, and retained by a
large number of cultivated and thoughtful minds,—its non-recognition by
what is called the public is no more against it than its non-recognition
by the coal-heavers. The half-educated and busy crowd, whom we call the
public, have no more right to impose their limitations on highly educated
and meditative thinkers, than the uneducated and yet more numerous crowd
have to impose their still narrower limitations on the half-educated. The
coal-heaver will not read any books whatever; the mass of men will not
read an intellectual poem: it can hardly ever be otherwise. But timid
thinkers must not dread to have a secret and rare faith. But little deep
poetry is very popular, and no severe art. Such poetry as Mr. Clough’s,
especially, can never be so; its subjects would forbid it, even if its
treatment were perfect: but it may have a better fate; it may have a
tenacious hold on the solitary, the meditative, and the calm. It is this
which Mr. Clough would have wished; he did not desire to be liked by
‘inferior people’—at least he would have distrusted any poem of his own
which they did like.
The artistic skill of these poems, especially of the poem from which we
have extracted so much, and of a long vacation pastoral published in the
Highlands, is often excellent, and occasionally fails when you least
expect it. There was an odd peculiarity in Mr. Clough’s mind; you never
could tell whether it was that he would not show himself to the best
advantage, or whether he _could_ not; it is certain that he very often
did not, whether in life or in books. His intellect moved with a great
difficulty, and it had a larger inertia than any other which we have ever
known. Probably there was an awkwardness born with him, and his shyness
and pride prevented him from curing that awkwardness as most men would
have done. He felt he might fail, and he knew that he hated to fail. He
neglected, therefore, many of the thousand petty trials which fashion
and form the accomplished man of the world. Accordingly, when at last
he wanted to do something, or was obliged to attempt something, he had
occasionally a singular difficulty. He could not get his matter out of
him.
In poetry he had a further difficulty, arising from perhaps an
over-cultivated taste. He was so good a disciple of Wordsworth, he hated
so thoroughly the common sing-song metres of Moore and Byron, that he
was apt to try to write what will seem to many persons to have scarcely
a metre at all. It is quite true that the metre of intellectual poetry
should not be so pretty as that of songs, or so plain and impressive
as that of vigorous passion. The rhythm should pervade it and animate
it, but should not protrude itself upon the surface, or intrude itself
upon the attention. It should be a latent charm, though a real one. Yet,
though this doctrine is true, it is nevertheless a dangerous doctrine.
Most writers need the strict fetters of familiar metre; as soon as they
are emancipated from this, they fancy that _any_ words of theirs are
metrical. If a man will read any expressive and favourite words of his
own often enough, he will come to believe that they are rhythmical;
probably they have a rhythm as he reads them; but no notation of pauses
and accents could tell the reader how to read them in that manner;
and when read in any other mode they may be prose itself. Some of Mr.
Clough’s early poems, which are placed at the beginning of this volume,
are perhaps examples, more or less, of this natural self-delusion. Their
writer could read them as verse, but that was scarcely his business; and
the common reader fails.
Of one metre, however, the hexameter, we believe the most accomplished
judges, and also common readers, agree that Mr. Clough possessed a very
peculiar mastery. Perhaps he first showed in English its _flexibility_.
Whether any consummate poem of great length and sustained dignity can
be written in this metre, and in our language, we do not know. Until a
great poet has written his poem, there are commonly no lack of plausible
arguments that seem to prove he cannot write it; but Mr. Clough has
certainly shown that, in the hands of a skilful and animated artist, it
is capable of adapting itself to varied descriptions of life and manners,
to noble sentiments, and to changing thoughts. It is perhaps the most
flexible of English metres. Better than any others, it changes from grave
to gay without desecrating what should be solemn, or disenchanting that
which should be graceful. And Mr. Clough was the first to prove this, by
writing a noble poem, in which it was done.
In one principal respect Mr. Clough’s two poems in hexameters, and
especially the Roman one, from which we made so many extracts, are very
excellent. Somehow or other he makes you understand what the people of
whom he is writing precisely were. You may object to the means, but
you cannot deny the result. By fate he was thrown into a vortex of
theological and metaphysical speculation, but his genius was better
suited to be the spectator of a more active and moving scene. The play of
mind upon mind; the contrasted view which contrasted minds take of great
subjects; the odd irony of life which so often thrusts into conspicuous
places exactly what no one would expect to find in those places,—these
were his subjects. Under happy circumstances, he might have produced on
such themes something which the mass of readers would have greatly liked;
as it is, he has produced a little which meditative readers will much
value, and which they will long remember.
Of Mr. Clough’s character it would be out of place to say anything,
except in so far as it elucidates his poems. The sort of conversation for
which he was most remarkable rises again in the _Amours de Voyage_, and
gives them to those who knew him in life a very peculiar charm. It would
not be exact to call the best lines a pleasant cynicism; for cynicism
has a bad name, and the ill-nature and other offensive qualities which
have given it that name were utterly out of Mr. Clough’s way. Though
without much fame, he had no envy. But he had a strong realism. He saw
what it is considered cynical to see—the absurdities of many persons, the
pomposities of many creeds, the splendid zeal with which missionaries
rush on to teach what they do not know, the wonderful earnestness with
which most incomplete solutions of the universe are thrust upon us as
complete and satisfying. ‘_Le fond de la Providence_,’ says the French
novelist, ‘_c’est l’ironie_.’ Mr. Clough would not have said that; but he
knew what it meant, and what was the portion of truth contained in it.
Undeniably this _is_ an _odd_ world, whether it should have been so or
no; and all our speculations upon it should begin with some admission of
its strangeness and singularity. The habit of dwelling on such thoughts
as these will not of itself make a man happy, and may make unhappy one
who is inclined to be so. Mr. Clough in his time felt more than most
men the weight of the unintelligible world; but such thoughts make
an instructive man. Several survivors may think they owe much to Mr.
Clough’s quiet question, ‘Ah, then, you think—?’ Many pretending creeds,
and many wonderful demonstrations, passed away before that calm inquiry.
He had a habit of putting your own doctrine concisely before you, so that
you might see what it came to, and that you did not like it. Even now
that he is gone, some may feel the recollection of his society a check on
unreal theories and half-mastered thoughts. Let us part from him in his
own words:—
‘Some future day, when what is now is not,
When all old faults and follies are forgot,
And thoughts of difference passed like dreams away,
We’ll meet again, upon some future day.
When all that hindered, all that vexed our love,
As tall rank weeds will climb the blade above,
When all but it has yielded to decay,
We’ll meet again, upon some future day.
When we have proved, each on his course alone,
The wider world, and learnt what’s now unknown,
Have made life clear, and worked out each a way,
We’ll meet again,—we shall have much to say.
With happier mood, and feelings born anew,
Our boyhood’s bygone fancies we’ll review,
Talk o’er old talks, play as we used to play,
And meet again, on many a future day.
Some day, which oft our hearts shall yearn to see,
In some far year, though distant yet to be,
Shall we indeed,—ye winds and waters, say!—
Meet yet again, upon some future day?’
_HENRY CRABB ROBINSON._[16]
(1869.)
Perhaps I should be ashamed to confess it, but I own I opened the three
large volumes of Mr. Robinson’s memoirs with much anxiety. Their bulk,
in the first place, appalled me; but that was by no means my greatest
apprehension. I knew I had a hundred times heard Mr. Robinson say, that
he hoped something he would leave behind would ‘be published and be worth
publishing.’ I was aware too—for it was no deep secret—that for half a
century or more he had kept a diary, and that he had been preserving
correspondence besides; and I was dubious what sort of things these
would be, and what—to use Carlyle’s words—any human editor could make of
them. Even when Mr. Robinson used to talk so, I used to shudder; for the
men who have tried to be memoir-writers and failed, are as numerous, or
nearly so, as those who have tried to be poets and failed. A specific
talent is as necessary for the one as for the other. But as soon as I
had read a little of the volumes, all these doubts passed away. I saw at
once that Mr. Robinson had an excellent power of narrative-writing, and
that the editor of his remains had made a most judicious use of excellent
materials.
Perhaps more than anything it was the modesty of my old friend (I think
I may call Mr. Robinson my old friend, for though he _thought_ me a
modern youth, I _did_ know him twenty years)—perhaps, I say, it was his
modesty which made me nervous about his memoirs more than anything else.
I have so often heard him say (and say it with a vigour of emphasis
which is rarer in our generation even than in his),—‘Sir, I have no
literary talent. I cannot write. I never _could_ write anything, and I
never _would_ write anything,’—that being so taught, and so vehemently,
I came to believe. And there was this to justify my creed. The notes Mr.
Robinson used to scatter about him—and he was fond of writing rather
elaborate ones—were not always very good. At least they were too long
for the busy race of the present generation, and introduced Schiller
and Goethe where they need not have appeared. But in these memoirs
(especially in the Reminiscences and the Diary; for the moment he gets
to a letter the style is worse) the words flow with such an effectual
simplicity, that even Southey, the great master of such prose, could
hardly have written better. Possibly it was his real interest in his
old stories which preserved Mr. Robinson; in his letters he was not
so interested and he fell into words and amplifications; but in those
ancient anecdotes, which for years were his life and being, the style,
as it seems to me, could scarcely be mended even in a word. And though,
undoubtedly, the book is much too long in the latter half, I do not blame
Dr. Sadler, the editor and biographer, for it, or indeed blame anyone.
Mr. Robinson had led a very long and very varied life, and some of his
old friends had an interest in one part of his reminiscences and some
in another. An unhappy editor entrusted with ‘a deceased’s papers,’
cannot really and in practice omit much that any surviving friends much
want to have put in. One man calls with a letter ‘in which my dear and
honoured friend gave me advice that was of such inestimable value, I
hope, I cannot but think you will find room for it.’ And another calls
with memoranda of a dinner—a most ‘superior occasion,’ as they say in the
North—at which, he reports, ‘there was conversation to which I never, or
scarcely ever, heard anything equal. There were A. B. and C. D. and E.
F., all masters, as you remember, of the purest conversational eloquence;
surely I need not hesitate to believe that you will say something of
that dinner.’ And so an oppressed biographer has to serve up the
crumbs of ancient feasts, though well knowing in his heart that they
are crumbs, and though he feels, too, that the critics will attack him,
and cruelly say it is his fault. But remembering this, and considering
that Mr. Robinson wrote a diary beginning in 1811, going down to 1867,
and occupying thirty-five closely written volumes, and that there were
‘Reminiscences’ and vast unsorted papers, I think Dr. Sadler has managed
admirably well. His book is brief to what it might have been, and all his
own part is written with delicacy, feeling, and knowledge. He quotes,
too, from Wordsworth by way of motto—
‘A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays
And confident to-morrows; with a face
Not worldly minded, for it bears too much
A nation’s impress,—gaiety and health,
Freedom and hope;—but keen withal and shrewd:
His gestures note,—and, hark, his tones of voice
Are all vivacious as his mien and looks.’
It was a happy feeling for Mr. Robinson’s character that selected these
lines to stand at the beginning of his memoirs.
And yet in one material respect—in this case perhaps the most material
respect—Dr. Sadler has failed, and not in the least from any fault of
his. Sydney Smith used to complain that ‘no one had ever made him his
trustee or executor;’ being really a very sound and sensible man of
business, he felt that it was a kind of imputation on him, and that he
was not appreciated. But some one more justly replied, ‘But how could
_you_, Sydney Smith, expect to be made an executor? Is there any one
who wants their “remains” to be made fun of?’ Now every trustee of
biographical papers is exactly in this difficulty, that he cannot make
fun. The melancholy friends who left the papers would not at all like
it. And, besides, there grows upon every such biographer an ‘official’
feeling—a confused sense of vague responsibilities—a wish not to impair
the gravity of the occasion or to offend anyone by levity. But there
are some men who cannot be justly described quite gravely; and Crabb
Robinson is one of them. A certain grotesqueness was a part of him,
and, unless you liked it, you lost the very best of him. He is called,
and properly called, in these memoirs Mr. Robinson; but no well-judging
person ever called him so in life. He was always called ‘old Crabb,’
and that is the only name which will ever bring up his curious image to
me. He was, in the true old English sense of the word, a ‘character;’
one whom a very peculiar life, certainly, and perhaps also a rather
peculiar nature to begin with, had formed and moulded into something so
exceptional and singular that it did not seem to belong to ordinary life,
and almost caused a smile when you saw it moving there. ‘An aberrant
form,’ I believe, the naturalists call the seal and such things in
natural history; odd shapes that can only be explained by a long past,
and which swim with a certain incongruity in their present _milieu_.
Now ‘old Crabb’ was (to me at least) just like that. You watched with
interest and pleasure his singular gestures, and his odd way of saying
things, and muttered, as if to keep up the recollection, ‘And _this_ is
the man who was the friend of Goethe, and is the friend of Wordsworth!’
There was a certain animal oddity about ‘old Crabb,’ which made it a kind
of mental joke to couple him with such great names, and yet he was to
his heart’s core thoroughly coupled with them. If you leave out all his
strange ways (I do not say Dr. Sadler has quite left them out, but to
some extent he has been obliged, by place and decorum, to omit them), you
lose the life of the man. You cut from the Ethiopian his skin, and from
the leopard his spots. I well remember poor Clough, who was then fresh
from Oxford, and was much puzzled by the corner of London to which he had
drifted, looking at ‘old Crabb’ in a kind of terror for a whole breakfast
time, and muttering in mute wonder, almost to himself, as he came away,
‘Not at all the regular patriarch.’ And certainly no one could accuse Mr.
Robinson of an insipid regularity either in face or nature.
Mr. Robinson was one of the original founders of University College,
and was for many years both on its senate and council; and as he lived
near the college he was fond of collecting at breakfast all the elder
students—especially those who had any sort of interest in literature.
Probably he never appeared to so much advantage, or showed all the best
of his nature, so well as in those parties. Like most very cheerful
old people, he at heart preferred the company of the very young; and
a set of young students, even after he was seventy, suited him better
as society than a set of grave old men. Sometimes, indeed, he would
invite—I do not say some of his contemporaries, few of them even in
1847 were up to breakfast parties, but persons of fifty and sixty—those
whom young students call old gentlemen. And it was amusing to watch the
consternation of some of them at the surprising youth and levity of
their host. They shuddered at the freedom with which we treated him.
Middle-aged men, of feeble heads and half-made reputations, have a nice
dislike to the sharp arguments and the unsparing jests of ‘boys at
college;’ they cannot bear the rough society of those who, never having
tried their own strength, have not yet acquired a fellow-feeling for
weakness. Many such persons, I am sure, were half hurt with Mr. Robinson
for not keeping those ‘impertinent boys’ more at a just distance; but Mr.
Robinson liked fun and movement, and disliked the sort of dignity which
shelters stupidity. There was little to gratify the unintellectual part
of man at these breakfasts, and what there was was not easy to be got
at. Your host, just as you were sitting down to breakfast, found he had
forgotten to make the tea, then he could not find his keys, then he rang
the bell to have them searched for; but long before the servant came he
had gone off into ‘Schiller-Goethe,’ and could not the least remember
what he had wanted. The more astute of his guests used to breakfast
before they came, and then there was much interest in seeing a steady
literary man, who did not understand the region, in agonies at having to
hear three stories before he got his tea, one again between his milk
and his sugar, another between his butter and his toast, and additional
zest in making a stealthy inquiry that was sure to intercept the coming
delicacies by bringing on Schiller and Goethe.
It is said in these memoirs that Mr. Robinson’s parents were very
good-looking, and that when married they were called the handsome couple.
But in his old age very little regular beauty adhered to him, if he ever
had any. His face was pleasing from its animation, its kindness, and
its shrewdness, but the nose was one of the most slovenly which nature
had ever turned out, and the chin of excessive length, with portentous
power of extension. But, perhaps, for the purpose of a social narrator
(and in later years this was Mr. Robinson’s position), this oddity of
feature was a gift. It was said, and justly said, that Lord Brougham
used to punctuate his sentences with his nose; just at the end of a
long parenthesis he _could_, and did, turn up his nose, which served to
note the change of subject as well, or better, than a printed mark. Mr.
Robinson was not so skilful as this, but he made a very able use of the
chin at a conversational crisis, and just at the point of a story pushed
it out, and then very slowly drew it in again, so that you always knew
when to laugh, and the oddity of the gesture helped you in laughing.