[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 724. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]
THE ROYAL GAME OF GOLF.
For ages golf has been pre-eminently the national game of Scotland. As
its history emerges from the mists of antiquity we find football and
it linked together as representative games, in fulminations against
'unprofitabill sportis,' unduly distracting the attention of the people
from more serious affairs. But our game far exceeds this old rival
in interest; and if it were not for the popularity of curling in its
season, no rival pastime could pretend to vie with golf in Scotland.
The mode of playing golf is so well known in these days that it may
suffice to explain that it is a game played over extensive commons, or
'links' as they are termed; that the implements used are peculiarly
constructed clubs, so weighted at the crook or 'head' of the shaft, as
to give great impetus to the small hard gutta-percha ball to be driven
along the grass; and that the object of the players--either as single
antagonists or two against two--is to endeavour to vie with each other
as to who shall drive the ball towards and into a series of small
artificially made holes, in the fewest strokes. From hole to hole the
party proceeds, sometimes one winning a hole, sometimes another, and
occasionally (by evenly contested play) halving: until the whole round
of the green has been traversed; when the party who has gained the
greatest number of holes is declared the winner. The links ought to
be of considerable extent, and the holes several hundred yards apart,
so as to give opportunity for skilful driving and other niceties of
the game. To those unfortunates who have only read of the pastime,
it may appear hard to believe in the reality of the enthusiasm shewn
by its votaries; but whenever they are privileged to come under its
influence, even as spectators, they will find it is one of the most
fascinating of pursuits. How can a man describe in fitting language
the subtle spell that brings him out in all weathers and seasons, and
makes him find perfect pleasure in 'grinding round a barren stretch of
ground, impelling a gutta-percha ball before him, striving to land it
in a succession of small holes in fewer strokes than his companion and
opponent,' as the game might be described by one of that class of men
to whom the 'primrose by the river's brink a primrose is, and nothing
more.'
The fascinations of the game have enlisted in the ranks of its votaries
men of all classes, many of them famous on other fields, who have
made their reminiscences of their beloved pursuit mediums for many a
bright word-picture in prose and verse. Hitherto no attempt has been
made to gather together what has been so said and sung in praise of
the pastime; but in Mr Robert Clark's beautiful volume now before us,
entitled _Golf--a Royal and Ancient Game_, ample amends have been made
for this neglect, by one of the most enthusiastic and best golfers
of the day. Here we have presented in a gossipy way so beloved by
golfers, wealth of material, both as regards the history and literature
of the fascinating game--a labour of love in an artistic guise. What
the author is on the links, so seems he to be among his printers and
artists and binders--_facile princeps_. The volume before us, though
unfortunately too costly to be very generally available, is a marvel
of beautiful typography and tasteful binding. Our author has gone for
his information to the most various sources--old acts of the Scots
parliament, proclamations by kings, burgh records, minutes of the more
prominent golf-clubs, books and magazines; and by judicious editing of
this medley has shewn the many-sidedness of the game in a way that none
but a devotee could.
Mr Clark wastes no space on unprofitable speculations as to the origin
of golf. All that is clear in this vexed subject is that though
Scotland is the chosen home of the game, she is not its birthplace.
It is, however, of little moment whether the game came in with the
Scandinavians who settled on the east coast of Scotland, or whether
it was brought northward over the Border as a variety of the English
'bandy-ball;' or even if we have to go back to the Campus Martius, and
look for the parent of golf in the curved club and feather ball of the
Roman _Paganica_. Games of ball seem to have existed in all ages,
and it is therefore probable that golf is a development of some older
game, or perhaps a 'selection of the fittest' from several previously
existing ball-games. It is sufficient for our purpose that early in the
fifteenth century it was at least as popular with all classes as it is
to-day.
When gunpowder made archery a thing of the past, the conflict between
love of country and love of golf ceased, and the game went on
prospering under the smiles of royal favour, surviving proclamations
of various town-councils directed against sacrilegious golfers whose
sin was held to be, not so much that they played on Sunday, as on that
part of the day called 'the tyme of the sermonnes.' This matter was
set at rest by the decree of James VI. of Scotland, who in 1618 sent
from his new kingdom of England an order that after divine service
'our good people be not discouraged from any harmless recreation,'
but prohibiting 'the said recreations to any that are not present in
the church, at the service of God, before their going to the said
recreations;' or as Charles I., when subsequently ratifying this order,
puts it, 'having first done their dutie to God.'
Besides James VI.'s crowning act of founding the Royal Blackheath Club,
Mr Clark has recalled two other instances of royal connection with
the game in a charming way, as one of the illustrations in his book
is from Sir John Gilbert's picture of Charles I. receiving, during a
game on Leith Links, the intelligence of Sir Phelim O'Neill's rebellion
in Ireland in 1642; while another is a delicately drawn pen-and-ink
sketch by Mr James Drummond, R.S.A., of the house in the Canongate of
Edinburgh, which John Patersone, shoemaker, built for himself with half
the stake in that famous 'foursome'--the Duke of York (James VII.) and
Patersone against two English noblemen.
With the Stuarts went out for a time royal countenance of the game,
till William IV. became patron of the Royal and Ancient Club of St
Andrews, and presented to it for annual competition that coveted
golfing trophy, the gold medal.
But though there came kings who knew not golf, the game lost none of
its old popularity. Still, as before, pre-eminently the game of the
people, we find it associated with many a notable scene and character
in the history of Scotland. So fond of the game was the great Montrose,
that hardly had the minstrels ceased to serenade him and his day-old
bride 'Sweet Mistress Magdalene Carnegie,' when we find him hard at
work with clubs and ball. That fifty years later it continued to be
the favourite amusement of the aristocracy of the Scottish capital, we
can gather from the curious books of expenditure of Sir John Foulis of
Ravelstoun, who seems to have spent most of his leisure time 'losing
at golfe' on Musselburgh and Leith Links with Hamilton and Rothes and
others of the highest quality of the time. We read of Balmerino's
brother, Alexander Elphinston, and Captain Porteous, the victim of
the famous 'mob,' playing in 1724 'a solemn match at golf' for twenty
guineas on Leith Links, where, a few years later, might constantly be
seen Lord President Forbes of Culloden, who was such a keen golfer,
that when Leith Links were covered with snow he played on the sands;
though even he has to yield in all-absorbing devotion to the game to
Alexander M'Kellar, 'the Cock o' the Green,' immortalised in Kay's
_Portraits_, who played every day and all day long, and then practised
'putting' at the 'short holes' by candle-light.
It is almost superfluous to say that in our own day the noble and
ancient pastime is still the game of the Scots, and latterly of the
English, of all classes and in all parts of the world. One little
fact that incontestably proves the eminent respectability of the game
is that 'the minister' can be a golfer without the least fear of the
straitest-laced of presbyteries. It is said that when the canny Scot
abroad 'prospects' for a new settlement, while he naturally rivets one
eye on the main chance, with the other he reckons up the capabilities
of the ground for his favourite game; therefore it is that golf has
taken firm root and flourishes in many a distant colony. Across the
Border the game is so acclimatised that formidable rivals to our
native players are now trained on well-known English greens. That it
may go on and prosper is of course the wish of every true lover of the
invigorating pastime.
Mr Clark gives us some historical notes of the more prominent of the
many golfing clubs that now flourish in different parts of Scotland,
and extracts from their minute-books the leading events of their
career. Now and then we come across eccentricities, such as the feats
of Mr Sceales and Mr Smellie of the Edinburgh Burgess Club in driving
balls over the dome of St Giles's Cathedral, one hundred and sixty-one
feet high; or the even more wonderful achievement of another member
of this club, who drove a ball in forty-four strokes from _inside_
their golf-house on Bruntsfield Links over the hill of Arthur Seat. As
a rule, however, these clubs pursue the even tenor of their way, the
members finding their best happiness in playing the pure and simple
game.
While the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers is generally held to
be the oldest Scotch Club, so great has been the development of its
sister Club at St Andrews, and so great are the attractions of golfing
on the famous links of the venerable city, that the 'Royal and Ancient'
takes precedence over all, and is indisputably _the_ club of the
kingdom. What Newmarket is to racing, or Melton to hunting, St Andrews
is to golf. In St Andrews, it is not a mere pastime, but a business
and a passion. It is the one recreation of the inhabitants from the
Principal of the College to the youngest urchin; it has even invaded
the domain of croquet, and has taken captive the ladies, who now take
so keen an interest in the game, that on more links than those of St
Andrews their green is a charming feature of the place. In short, in
St Andrews 'no living thing that does not play golf, or talk golf, or
think golf, or at least thoroughly knock under to golf, can live.'
The chief prize of the 'Royal and Ancient'--the gold challenge
medal played for every autumn, presented in 1837 by King William
IV.--is termed the 'Blue Ribbon of Golf.' To win it is the dream
of every member of the Club. Other clubs, such as North Berwick,
Musselburgh, Montrose, Perth, Prestwick, Burgess, &c. have each its
own time-honoured challenge trophy, that of the Royal Musselburgh
being laden with more than a century of medals commemorating each
winner. That English clubs too are following fast the fashion set by
their older brethren north of the Tweed, is attested by the prizes
now competed for at Westward Ho! in Devonshire, Hoylake in Cheshire,
and at Wimbledon, &c.; though it is but fair to state that Blackheath
claims with good reason to be father of all English golf-clubs, and has
for long been celebrated for the keenness of its players and the prizes
offered for competition.
So much for the history of the game; let us now glance at its
literature. In the interesting collection of prose papers Mr Clark has
gathered from various quarters, we can study the peculiar features
of the game and the effect it has, for the time, on the tempers of
its votaries. As we have seen at St Andrews, the ardent golfer has
little time for thought or conversation unconnected with the game.
For the time being the be-all and end-all of his life lies within the
pot-hook-shaped course he has to traverse; and not a little of his
happiness or his misery for the day depends on the nature of the match
he succeeds in getting. Though the game is as a rule an exceedingly
social one, and admits of quiet chat and occasional good-natured
banter, the _true_ golfer at work is essentially a man of silence;
chattering during the crises of the game is as abhorrent to him as
conversation during whist; one thing only is as obnoxious as the human
voice to him then--that is, any movement of the human body near him.
'Stand still while I'm putting,' and 'Don't speak on the stroke,'
are two postulates he would fain enforce. This over-sensitiveness
to external influences may explain the seeming ungallantry of the
'Colonel' in H. J. M.'s amusing account of _The Golfer at Home_, which
appeared in the _Cornhill Magazine_ a few years ago. After a charming
little picture of the 'Colonel' resenting, though he does not openly
object to Browne being accompanied over the course by 'his women,'
as he ungallantly terms Mrs Browne and her sister, he says to his
partner: 'The Links is not the place for women; they talk incessantly,
they never stand still, and if they do, the wind won't allow their
dresses to stand still.' However, as they settle down to their game,
the 'Colonel's' good temper returns under the healthy influence of an
invigorating 'round,' and gives H. J. M. an opportunity of pointing out
how all ill-humours of body and mind give way before the equable and
bracing exercise of a round or two of the Links of St Rule. That the
reader may see the amount of walking exercise taken in a round of St
Andrews Links, it may be interesting to note that the exact distance,
as the crow flies, is three miles eleven hundred and fifty-four
yards; so that the golfer who takes his daily three rounds walks _at
least_ eleven miles. It is no wonder, then, that in addition to its
own attractions, golf is esteemed as a capital preparation for the
moors or the stubbles, hardening as it does the muscles both of arms
and legs. What hunting does for the cavalry soldier as a training for
more important bursts in the battle-field, the like does golf for the
infantry soldier in bracing him to encounter forced marching with ease.
The Links have formed the training-ground of many a brilliant officer.
Space will not allow us to dwell on the genial gossip about St Andrews
and St Andrews players--amateur and professional--that we find in Mr
Clark's book, further than to mention three names. First, that of
the great champion of the professionals, Allan Robertson, who was
'never beaten in a match;' of the brilliant but short-lived career
of poor 'young Tom Morris,' the champion player of his day--son of a
worthy sire who still survives; of Mr Sutherland, an old gentleman
who made golf the chief business of his life, whose interest in his
fellow-men, not as men but as golfers, is well shewn in this anecdote.
His antagonist was about to strike off for the finishing hole at
St Andrews, when a boy appeared on the bridge over the burn. Old
Sutherland shouted out: 'Stop, stop! Don't play upon _him_; he's a fine
young golfer!'
It is in verse, however, that the votary of golf finds the field
congenial to his subject.
In 1842 appeared a clever collection of poems, entitled _Golfiana_, by
George Fullerton Carnegie of Pittarrow, which delighted the golfers
of that day by the humorous way in which it hit off the playing
characteristics of the men he introduced into it. He begins by throwing
down the gauntlet to those students of Scottish history who sigh over
the musty memories and deplore the decayed glories of the city of their
patron saint:
St Andrews! they say that thy glories are gone,
That thy streets are deserted, thy castles o'er-thrown:
If thy glories _be_ gone, they are only, methinks,
As it were by enchantment transferred to thy Links.
Though thy streets be not now, as of yore, full of prelates,
Of abbots and monks, and of hot-headed zealots,
Let none judge us rashly, or blame us as scoffers,
When we say that instead there are Links full of golfers,
With more of good heart and good feeling among them
Than the abbots, the monks, and the zealots who sung them!
We have many capital songs in honour of the game; amongst others a
parody of Lord Houghton's well-known song, _Strangers yet_, from which
it will be seen that something more is necessary to make a good golfer
than a set of clubs and an anxious 'cady' to carry them:
DUFFERS YET.--BY TWO 'LONG SPOONS.'
After years of play together,
After fair and stormy weather,
After rounds of every green
From Westward Ho! to Aberdeen;
Why did e'er we buy a set
If we must be duffers yet!
Duffers yet! Duffers yet!
After singles, foursomes--all,
Fractured club and cloven ball;
After grief in sand and whin,
Foozled drives and 'putts' not in--
Ev'n our cadies scarce regret
When we part as duffers yet,
Duffers yet! Duffers yet!
After days of frugal fare,
Still we spend our force in air;
After nips to give us nerve,
Not the less our drivers swerve;
Friends may back and foes may bet,
And ourselves be duffers yet,
Duffers yet! Duffers yet!
Must it ever then be thus?
Failure most mysterious!
Shall we never fairly stand
Eye on ball as club in hand?
Are the bounds eternal set
To retain us duffers yet?
Duffers yet! Duffers yet!
In conclusion, we may remark that though golf, to the uninitiated, may
appear to be a game requiring considerable strength of muscle for its
achievement, it is not so; for the easier it is played, the better are
the results. To apply much force to the stroke is to imperil the chance
of driving a far ball; whereas by a moderate swing of the club, the
ball is not only driven far and sure, but goes from no effort apparent
to the striker.
A notion also prevails that golf is a game suited for young and
middle-aged folks only. This is a delusion, for no outdoor pastime is
more fitted for elderly people. To attain _great_ excellence in the
game, the player must commence early in life; but to become enamoured
of its joys requires but a beginning, and that beginning may be made
by men who have long passed the meridian of life. We could point
to many elderly gentlemen whose lives are being lengthened by the
vigour-inspiring game, and who, when their daily round or rounds are
finished, can fight their battles o'er again in the cheery club-house,
with all the zest of youth. When games such as cricket have been found
too much, or perhaps the exertion of tramping the moors too severe,
the sexagenarian may safely take to the easy but invigorating pursuit
of golf, and 'bless the chiel who invented it.' If he misgives his
ability to cope with the exertion, or fancied exertion, of pacing a few
miles of green turf and wielding a club, our advice to him is to place
himself in the hands of a professional golf-player--plenty of whom are
to be found wherever there are links--and try; and in a wonderfully
short time our veteran may find himself interested, perhaps absorbed,
in a game the delights of which he has lived all these years without
having been able till now to realise!
FROM DAWN TO SUNSET.
PART III.
CHAPTER THE SECOND.
Deborah waited and watched--a gloom unutterable weighed on her
spirits--and no Mistress Fleming came. At last old Jordan Dinnage
arrived at the castle alone, looking scared and sorrow-stricken.
'The master is very ill,' said Mistress Marjory, as she waited on
Jordan. 'These be bad days, Master Dinnage. I doubt if he lives till
morning. Doctor says he won't; but doctors know naught. In general, if
doctors say "He'll be dead by mornin'," it means he'll live to a good
old age; I've seed it often. But mark my words, Jordan Dinnage: there's
not much life in our dear Master; _he's goin'_. This comes o' leavin'
Enderby. I felt it; I knew'd 'twould be so. _This comes o' Master
Sinclair's leavin's._ O Jordan Dinnage, it's wrong, it's grievous
wrong, this leavin' Enderby, for this grand blowed-out old place, an'
these flaunting livery-men an' maids. Master Sinclair's curse is on us!'
'Nay, nay, Mistress Marjory; these be women's superstitions. Mistress
Deborah did rightly. A goose she would ha' been to fling all this
grandery and gold guineas in the ditch, for fear o' bad luck, 'sooth!
It's no more that, than thou'rt a wise woman! The Master'll pull
through; an' if he don't, better die a prince than a beggar.'
Marjory shook her head. 'Give me honest beggary. An' where's Mistress
Dinnage? Be sure Lady Deb 'ud be glad o' her company now. Why didst not
bring her along, Jordan? It speaks not much for her love.'
Jordan reddened. 'Not a word agen Meg, Mistress Marjory! She'll be
comin' soon. I must see Mistress Deborah.'
'Well, come now. An' heaven send Master Kingston soon.'
Deborah met the dear old man with outstretched hands. 'Jordan, I am so
glad to see ye! Where is Margaret?'
Jordan shuffled from one foot to the other, and twisted his hat round
in his hands. 'Well, Lady Deb--Mistress Deborah--I've not brought Meg
along.'
'I see ye have not!' cried Deborah impetuously. 'But where is she?'
The old gray eyes, growing dim with age, looked straight and honestly
on their young Mistress, yet humbly too, as he answered in a low voice:
'Where she ought to be, Mistress Deborah--off to her young husband,
Master Charlie Fleming.'
'Jordan, Jordan! Is this true? Her husband? Ye bewilder me. Are they
wedded then? Is she gone to Ireland?'
'Sure enow! O Mistress Deborah, I come to ask forgiveness! It isn't
for the like o' Jordan Dinnage to have his daughter Mistress Fleming;
but dear heaven knows I know'd naught, an' never sought it out, nor
had high notions. Mistress Deborah, I ask forgiveness, an' I hope the
master'll forgive me.'
Deborah took the old trembling hand. 'The master is in no state to
blame or to forgive. But, Jordan, thou may'st give me joy o' this. It
gladdens mine heart in my sore troubles like a sunbeam on a dark, dark
cloud. Forgive thee? Ay, I am proud to be Margaret Fleming's sister;
an' well believe my father would bid her welcome too--faithful honest
Jordan. Now come, Jordan, come, and see how he lies. He knows me not,
and he calls ever upon Charlie. Hast sent my letter to Ireland? Hast
the address?'
'Ay, ay; it's gone.'
'Then I will write again to-night. Heaven send he may come in time.
Sometimes, Jordan, he lieth in a stupor; again he calls for Charlie or
for me.'
Reverently pulling his white forelock, with his old habit of respect,
to his fiery but beloved master, Jordan stood at the foot of the bed,
and saw the shadow of death on the face of Vincent Fleming.
'My boy,' murmured the dying man, with his eyes upon Jordan--'my boy
Charlie!'
Old Jordan gazed helplessly and sorrowfully from him to the doctor who
stood by, and Marjory, who entered. 'What's to be done?' he muttered.
'It kills him!'
'Patience, patience!' whispered the solemn doctor; 'he may see his son
yet. There is great hope for him, Mistress Fleming; keep good heart.'
'Not hope of his recovery, Master Allan,' said Deborah, with stern and
still despair. 'I know death when I see it. You have held out hope
before; yet make him live till my brother comes. Ye hear me, Master
Allan?'
'Ay, Mistress Fleming; I will use my poor skill to the utmost. Bear up.
I will return to-night, Mistress Fleming;' and with a courtly bow, he
left her.
But for Deborah, she kneeled beside her father, and with old days and
old memories her heart was like to break. Jordan was weeping bitterly;
she heard the old man's sobs; but on her own heart a still Hand was
laid, enforcing strength and calmness. For two things she prayed: that
Charlie might come in time; and that her father might be himself before
he died, to hear that Charlie had ever been true to him. And so through
the long night she watched; and old Marjory oft slept and nodded, as
age and dulled senses will; and though Sir Vincent at times called
plaintively for his Deb, his 'Rose of Enderby,' his more frequent
plaint was for his boy.
CHAPTER THE THIRD.
In those days there were wild doings in Ireland. 'Liberty and Reform'
were the watch-words which did then, and ever will, electrify the
fiery, rebellious, ardent spirits that flocked under one banner to
struggle and to die. Irish and French met and fought together against
the iron hand of England; thousands perished; the fated isle ran blood.
* * * * *
It is the eve of a battle. Gray dawn is slowly breaking over forest
and mountain, where strange and wonderful echoes are wont to be heard
amongst the rocks and caves; but in the gray of this dread dawn, on
the eve of battle and blood, all seems silent as the grave, saving the
thunderous roar of the waterfall in its descent into the lake, that
seems to make the silence the more intense.
But hark! through the mist of morning a bugle suddenly sounds loud and
clear; and when it ceases--far away, a spirit-bugle answers. A soldier,
driven to frenzy, they say, by an insulting taunt from a superior
officer, had struck him down in the heat of the instant. Short shrift
in those days; the man has been tried, condemned, and is about to be
led out to execution. So, loud and clear the bugle calls: 'Come forth
to thy death,' as plain as a human voice could speak; and he whom
it summons cannot mistake that voice, and comes forth guarded, but
with steady step, and head erect and soldierly; while in front of him
bristles a long line of musketry, and behind yawns an open grave. The
condemned soldier is Charles Fleming. Have his ungovernable passions
and his strong uncurbed will brought him to this? Ay; and the stubborn
pride which has ever been his bane, leads him now to die without that
word of extenuation or appeal which even yet might save him.
Yet who may tell how that proud heart swells well-nigh to breaking
beneath the broad breast, as he thinks on the old white-haired father
and his son's death of shame! He sees too the shadows on the woods
of Enderby. He hears the voice of a little sister, calling 'Charlie,
Charlie!' at play. And the trees are waving their long arms round
the old, old home; and his little playmate Margaret--his _young wife
Margaret_--stands beneath and smiles. And then his bold eyes ask for
death, merciful death, which shall put him out of his anguish. Yet
hold! Even as the muskets are raised, but ere the triggers are pressed,
there is a wild shriek of 'Rescue! rescue! Pardon! pardon for Charles
Fleming!'
And there, headlong down the way--while all reel back before
him--rides one spurring for life or death, his horse in a lather of
foam, his head bare, and his long hair flying in the wind. In one hand
he clenches a packet, and waves it above his head--the Royal pardon! He
reaches them; he stays the deadly fire with his wild outstretched arms
raised to heaven, with white face and blazing eyes, and lips which fail
to speak. But _one_ could have undertaken and accomplished that famous
ride; but _one_ could have saved him in this strait. In male disguise,
that _one_ proves to be Margaret Dinning! ''Tis my wife!' cried Charles
Fleming in piercing accents; ''tis my wife Margaret!' And with that,
the king's messenger sways in the saddle, and is supported to the
ground by the commanding officer....
* * * * *
And thus it came to pass that Deborah, watching at her father's
bedside, heard rumours of that battle by which the name of Charles
Fleming became famous. It was early morning. The great wild clouds of
dawn were parted, and rolled asunder. The glorious sun rose on the
watcher's weary eyes, and steeped the land in splendour. Deborah threw
up the windows wide, and returned to the dying man. O heaven, tender
mercy, cannot the light of summer sunrise rob that dear face of aught
of its wintry wanness?
'Father, sweet father!' she said in thrilling tones of grief, 'art thou
not better? See the glorious sun, father!'
'Nay, Deb,' he answered plaintively; 'I see no sun; mine eyes are dark.
How little thou dost look to me! Thou'rt grown so small! My child, my
darling, I am very ill.'
Then Deborah raised his head upon her shoulder; she knew that he was
himself again, himself but to die; her brave heart sank, yet she
answered calmly: 'Yes, thou hast been very ill. Dost thou remember all
that happed?'
'Ay, ay. My boy, my boy!' And he sobbed.
'Hush, father; that was wrong; that was false! That was a wicked
forgery. Charlie never wronged thee by thought or deed. Charlie hath
ever been loyal to thee and thine. Art thou content now, dear?'
A brilliant smile stole over the fading face of Vincent Fleming. 'Ay,'
said he, 'content to _die_!' He lay musing, his eyes closed. 'Deb,'
said he at last, 'whisper me. My boy is true to me--is't not so?'
'Yes, father; true as steel: he loves thee dearly. And for _thee_,' she
went on, with heaving breast, 'he hath done brave things! Charlie is a
soldier, and men are all saying he hath won great honour and renown.'
'Ah, Deb; thank God, thank God for this! And thou, Deb, sweet Deb, how
is't with thee?'
'I am rich, dear. I am betrothed to King Fleming, whom I love most
dearly; and I have wealth enough for all. It is well with thy two
children, thou seest.'
And ere the night fell, two messengers came gently to his side. One,
radiant with 'white raiment' and drooped wings; the other, footsore,
travel-stained, and war-worn. And one was the Angel of Death, who stood
and looked upon them pitifully; the other was his prodigal son, who
kneeled and folded his arms around his father, and bowed his head and
wept.
'Now,' said Sir Vincent, 'I die in peace. How have I yearned for thee!
God bless thee! I bless thee, my boy! Deb, this is death!'
And so, raised in Charlie's strong arms and with his hands in
Deborah's, without a struggle, the spirit passed away.
CHAPTER THE LAST.
Two figures stand together in one of the deep oriel windows of the
old hall at Enderby. The blood-red splendour of a setting sun fills
the marsh, the low land, and the hanging woods; and streaming like a
beacon in at the windows, floods those two with radiant light. They are
Charles Fleming and his bride. The storms have swept by, and left her
thrice his own, with the old walls and the sacred hearth of Enderby.
Thus may God send on us the lightning of His chastisement, and yet
guide and guard us through all--through the morning of wild and sunny
childhood; through the noon of gay and love-bright youth, environed as
it is by perils; through the sudden-falling night of dread, despair,
and death. He does not leave us 'comfortless.' As for Deborah Fleming,
passionately as she loved the beauteous world, she never again lost
sight of the valley up which had passed the souls of those she loved,
and the golden gates across the shining flood. And in later days, when
children's children clustered eagerly round the stately old Lady of
Lincoln, she, with the faithfulness of old age, would return lovingly,
lingeringly to the days of her youth, when 'Charlie and she were young.'
O happy time--blessed childhood--how can I end better than with thee?
Over the shadows of evening rises the day-star of childhood's memories.
It knows no night--
There is _no_ night in a glad and green old age.
THE END.
CHARLES DICKENS' MANUSCRIPTS.
A glimpse of the manuscripts of the late Charles Dickens, which now
form part of the 'Forster Collection' in the South Kensington Museum,
conjures up a vision of numerous characters in his popular novels. On
looking attentively at the manuscripts, we are at once struck by the
number of alterations and interlineations with which the pages abound;
and our first sentiment is one of surprise that the books which appear
so wonderfully natural and fluent when we read them, should evidently
have been the result of much anxious thought, care, and elaboration.
The collection comprises the original manuscripts of the following
works: _Oliver Twist_, published in 1838-39; _Master Humphrey's Clock_,
comprising the _Old Curiosity Shop_ and _Barnaby Rudge_, published
in 1840-41; _Barnaby Rudge_, a separate volume, 1840-41; _American
Notes_, 1842; _Martin Chuzzlewit_, 1843-44; _The Chimes_, Christmas
1844; _Dombey and Son_, 1846-48; _David Copperfield_, 1849-50; _Bleak
House_, which has in the original manuscript a secondary title, _The
East Wind_, 1852-53; _Hard Times_, 1854; _Little Dorrit_, 1855-57; _A
Tale of Two Cities_, 1859; and _The Mystery of Edwin Drood_ (his last
but unfinished work), 1870. There are also proof volumes from the
printers, consisting of _Dombey and Son_, _David Copperfield_, _Bleak
House_, and _Little Dorrit_, the pages of which bear marginal and other
corrections and alterations, in ink, by the author.
Of course, as the collection is placed under a glass case, the public
can only see one or two pages of each work; but even with this meagre
guide, the acute observer is able in some degree to trace the working
of the writer's mind, and to follow to some extent the development of
his ideas. As we have already remarked, the first thing which strikes
us is the comparatively large number of alterations and interlineations
which occur in the manuscript. It is evident that Charles Dickens wrote
with the greatest care, and scrupulously revised his writing, in order
to render each sentence as perfect as might be. Taking the works in
their chronological order, we may notice that in _Oliver Twist_, which
is open at 'Chapter the Twelfth'--'In which Oliver is taken better
care of than he ever was before, with some particulars concerning a
certain picture'--there are few alterations in the manuscript; the
writing also being larger and firmer than in the majority of the later
works. Charles Dickens made his alterations so carefully that it is
difficult to trace the words which he had originally written; but the
one or two which occur on this page give us some little insight into
the careful manner in which the author worked up his sentences into a
well-rounded and euphonious form. The passage at which this manuscript
is opened runs as follows: 'The coach rattled away down Mount Pleasant
and up Exmouth Street--over nearly the same ground as that which Oliver
had traversed when he first entered London in;' and here occurs the
first alteration, 'the D----' is erased, and 'company with the Dodger'
is written in its place; the author evidently considering the latter
a more euphonious form of expression than 'in the Dodger's company,'
as it was doubtless his original intention to make the passage. The
alteration to which we have referred may appear, as indeed it is, of
exceedingly small significance; but we have mentioned it simply as an
instance of the extremely careful way in which Dickens studied the
details and minutiæ of composition.
The next manuscript in point of date is _Master Humphrey's Clock_,
which is open at 'No. IV.,' headed 'Master Humphrey from his clock-side
in the chimney corner,' and commences as follows: 'Night is generally
my time for walking. In the summer I often leave home early in the
morning and roam about fields and lanes all day, or even escape for
days or weeks together, but, saving in the country' [this originally
stood 'but, at other seasons of the year;' but Dickens doubtless saw
that the expression as it now stands would be more consistent with the
context], 'I seldom go out until after dark, though, Heaven be thanked,
I love its light and feel the cheerfulness it sheds upon the earth
as much as any creature living.' This page of manuscript has only a
moderate share of alterations.
Then we come to the volume of _Barnaby Rudge_, which is opened at
'Chapter One,' and also contains only a moderate number of alterations,
one being in the height of the _Maypole_ sign, and another in the
distance of Epping Forest from Cornhill; both of which are noticeable
as further illustrations of the conscientious love of accuracy which
characterised the author's mind. Next in order follows the _American
Notes_, which has very few corrections, and is opened at the page
headed 'Chapter the First. Introductory and necessary to be read;' in
which the author challenges the right of any person 'to pass judgment
on this book or to arrive at any reasonable conclusion in reference to
it without first being at the trouble of becoming acquainted with its
design and purpose.' Surely a caution fair and reasonable enough on the
part of the writer of a book which he could not but feel would probably
give offence, where such an end was farthest from his wish.
_The Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzlewit_ comes next, open at
'Chapter I. Introductory. Concerning the Pedigree of the Chuzzlewit
Family;' and giving us a brief but telling satire on the pride of birth
by assuring us that this family 'undoubtedly descended in a direct
line from Adam and Eve, and was in the very earliest times closely
connected with the agricultural interest.' This page is notably full
of alterations, and seems a fair indication that with Charles Dickens,
as with many others, the first step was the most difficult of all.
The caligraphy in this as in all the other manuscripts is legible but
rather small, the letters being distinctly formed, and the use of
abbreviations studiously avoided.
We next turn to _The Chimes_, one of those delightful stories with
which Dickens introduced to us those Christmas annuals, which now form
so important a section of our periodical literature. This again is
open at the commencement, where the author lays down the dogma that
there are not many people who would care to sleep in a church: 'I
don't mean at sermon-time in warm weather (when the thing has actually
been done once or twice), but in the night, and alone.' This sentence
originally finished with 'in the night;' but we can readily imagine the
development of the idea in the brain of the writer; and the words 'and
alone' suggesting themselves as lending an additional ground of fear
for the situation. The manuscript of this page bears a moderate number
of alterations.
In _Dombey and Son_ we find a large number of alterations on the first
page, the very title itself having been altered more than once. The
sketch of the newly-born Paul, who was placed in front of the fire,
'as if his constitution were analogous to that of a muffin, and it
was essential to toast him brown while he was very new,' is very good
indeed; but it is evident that the passage was rather the result of
careful elaboration than of spontaneous humour. And the same remark
will apply to the opening chapter of _David Copperfield_, in which,
although the passage descriptive of the birth of the hero is very neat
and natural as it now stands, the same careful revision and alteration
are again apparent.
_Bleak House_ too is notably full of alterations on the first page,
especially in the passage which tells us that in the muddy condition of
the London streets 'it would not be wonderful to meet a Mesalosaurus
forty feet long or so waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn
Hill.'
In _Hard Times_, where we are introduced to the gentleman who wants
nothing but 'Facts,' and in the opening chapter of _Little Dorrit_,
in which we have a description of Marseilles as it 'lay broiling
in the sun one day,' we find a large number of alterations; but in
these, as in most of the other instances, the primary words have been
erased so carefully, that it is next to impossible to form an idea
of how the passages originally stood. The _Tale of Two Cities_, on
the contrary, contains remarkably few corrections; and the opening
passage descriptive of 'The Period' is telling, and apparently written
spontaneously. _The Mystery of Edwin Drood_ has been opened with good
judgment at the last page. The manuscript is very small, but fairly
legible, and having but a moderate number of alterations. In a literary
sense, it is not perhaps so interesting as some of the others; but it
possesses a sad and melancholy claim upon our attention and sympathy,
inasmuch as it is the last page of manuscript ever written by this
gifted hand.
In the proof volumes with corrections in the handwriting of the author
there is nothing which calls for especial note save an unimportant
deletion in _Bleak House_, and a more interesting alteration in _David
Copperfield_. In the former there is a passage marked 'out,' in which
Sir Leicester Dedlock speaks to Mrs Rouncewell of her grandson in the
following passage: 'If (he said) the boy could not settle down at
Chesney Wold, in itself the most astonishing circumstance in the world,
could he not serve his country in the ranks of her defenders, as his
brother had done? Must he rush to her destruction at his early age and
with his parricidal hand strike at her?'
In _David Copperfield_ we find by a passage in which Mr Dick is
referring to his Memorial that his original hallucination took the form
of a 'bull in a china shop;' a rather trite idea, and it was not until
after the proof had actually been submitted to him by the printers that
Charles Dickens introduced the whimsical and happier notion of 'King
Charles's Head.'
Before bringing our brief paper to a conclusion, we would venture
to suggest to the gentleman or gentlemen to whom is intrusted the
arrangement of these manuscripts, that the present positions of the
manuscripts and printed volumes should be transposed, so that the
manuscripts should occupy the lower half of the case, as in their
present position it is rather difficult to decipher the caligraphy;
and to any one below the ordinary height it must involve an amount
of physical contortion as uncomfortable as it is inelegant. The
manuscripts being of course of greater interest than the printed
proofs, should certainly occupy the more prominent space, especially as
the latter could be read without any difficulty if placed in the rear
rank.
We have no doubt that many of those who read this short article will
have seen the Dickens manuscripts for themselves; many more doubtless
will see them; but there will still be a large number who will not
have the opportunity; and while we think that our remarks will be
endorsed by the first and second classes, we hope that they will prove
interesting to the third less fortunate class, and will enable them
to enjoy, at least in imagination, a somewhat closer intimacy than
they have known before with that great and gifted man, whose books
have effected so many beneficial changes both in society at large and
in many an individual heart and life, uprooting and casting to the
winds much that was base, worthless, and contemptible, and implanting
in their stead the seeds of those gentler sympathies and nobler
aspirations which find their fruition in a well-spent life.
THE ADMIRAL'S SECOND WIFE.