all set out on a race from our door by Grasmere Lake to the top of
Fairfield. He was the second to reach the summit. His action uphill was
peculiar; he used to lay himself forward almost horizontally towards
the slope, and take very long strides which carried him quickly over
the ground. Few men, so stout as he then was, could have matched him up
a mountain.
‘Shortly after this time at Oxford, somewhere that is between 1843 and
1845, I remember to have heard him speak at a small debating society
called the Decade, in which were discussed often graver subjects, and
in a less popular way, than in the Union. Having been an unfrequent
attender, I heard him only twice. But both times, what he said and the
way he said it, were so marked and weighty as to have stuck to memory
when almost everything else then spoken has been forgotten. The first
time was in Oriel Common-room; the subject proposed--“That Tennyson
was a greater poet than Wordsworth.” This was one of the earliest
expressions of that popularity--since become nearly universal--which
I remember. Clough spoke against the proposition, and stood up for
Wordsworth’s greatness with singular wisdom and moderation. He
granted fully that Wordsworth was often prosy, that whole pages of
the “Excursion” had better have been written in prose; but still,
when he was at his best, he was much greater than any other modern
English poet, saying his best things without knowing they were so
good, and then drawling on into prosaic tediousness, without being
aware where the inspiration failed and the prose began. In this kind
of unconsciousness, I think he said, lay much of his power. One of the
only other times I heard him speak was, about the same time, when a
meeting of the Decade was held in Balliol Common-room. The subject of
debate was--“That the character of a gentleman was in the present day
made too much of.” To understand the drift of this would require one
to know how highly pleasant manners and a good exterior are rated in
Oxford at all times, and to understand something of the peculiar mental
atmosphere of Oxford at that time. Clough spoke neither for nor against
the proposition; but for an hour and a half--well on two hours--he
went into the origin of the ideal, historically tracing from mediæval
times how much was implied originally in the notion of a “gentle
knight”--truthfulness, consideration for others (even self-sacrifice),
courtesy, and the power of giving outward expression to these moral
qualities. From this high standard he traced the deterioration into the
modern Brummagem pattern which gets the name. These truly gentlemen of
old time had invented for themselves a whole economy of manners, which
gave true expression to what was really in them, to the ideal in which
they lived. These manners, true in them, became false when adopted
traditionally and copied from without by modern men placed in quite
different circumstances, and living different lives. When the same
qualities are in the hearts of men now, as truly as in the best of old
time, they will fashion for themselves a new expression, a new economy
of manners suitable to their place and time. But many men now, wholly
devoid of the inward reality, yet catching at the reputation of it,
adopt these old traditional ways of speaking and of bearing themselves,
though they express nothing that is really in them.
‘One expression I remember he used, to illustrate the truth that where
the true gentle spirit exists, it will express itself in its own rather
than in the traditional way. “I have known peasant men and women in the
humblest places in whom dwelt these qualities as truly as they ever did
in the best of lords and ladies, and who had invented for themselves
a whole economy of manners to express them, who were very ‘poets of
courtesy.’”
‘His manner of speaking was very characteristic, slow and deliberate,
never attempting rhetorical flow, stopping at times to think the right
thing, or to feel for the exactly fitting word, but with a depth of
suggestiveness, a hold of reality, a poetry of thought, not found
combined in any other Oxonian of our time.
‘It must have been in the autumn of 1845 that Clough and I first met
in Scotland. One visit there to Walrond’s family at Calder Park I
especially remember. On a fine morning early in September, we started
from Calder Park to drive to the Falls of Clyde. We were to spend the
day at Milton Lockhart, and go on to Lanark in the evening. Besides
Walrond and Clough, there were T. Arnold, E. Arnold, and myself. It
was one of the loveliest September mornings that ever shone, and the
drive lay through one of the most lovely regions in south Scotland,
known as “the Trough of Clyde.” The sky was bright blue, fleeced with
whitest clouds. From Hamilton to Milton Lockhart, about ten miles, the
road keeps down in the hollow of the trough, near the water, the banks
covered with orchards, full of heavy-laden apple and other fruit trees
bending down till they touched the yellow corn that grew among them.
There is a succession of fine country houses, with lawns that slope
towards lime trees that bend over the river. It was the first time any
of us but Walrond had been that way, and in such a drive, under such a
sky, you may believe we were happy enough. We reached Milton Lockhart,
a beautiful place, built on a high grassy headland, beneath and round
which winds the Clyde. Sir Walter Scott, I believe, chose the site, and
none could be more beautifully chosen. It looks both ways, up and down
the lovely vale.
‘As we drove up, near ten o’clock, we found the late Mr. J. G. Lockhart
(Scott’s biographer) walking on the green terrace that looks over the
river. The laird himself being from home, his brother was our host.
Soon after we arrived, his daughter, then very young, afterwards Mrs.
Hope Scott, came out on the terrace to say that breakfast was ready.
After breakfast she sang, with great spirit and sweetness, several of
her grandfather’s songs, copied into her mother’s books by herself,
when they were still newly composed. After listening to these for some
time, her brother, Walter Scott Lockhart, then a youth of nineteen or
so, and with a great likeness to the portraits of Sir Walter when a
young man, was our guide to an old castle, situated on a bank of one
of the small glens that come down to the Clyde from the west. It was
the original of Scott’s Tillietudlem in “Old Mortality.” A beautiful
walk thither; the castle large, roofless and green with herbage and
leafage. We stayed some time roaming over the green deserted place,
then returned to a lunch, which was our dinner; more songs, and then
drove off late in the afternoon to the Falls of Clyde and Lanark for
the night. It was a pleasant day. Clough enjoyed it much in his own
quiet way--quietly, yet so humanly interested in all he met. Many a
joke he used to make about that day afterwards. Not he only, but all
our entertainers of that day, Mr. J. G. Lockhart, his son and daughter,
are now gone.
‘In the summer of 1847, Clough had a reading party at Drumnadrochet,
in Glen Urquhart, about two miles north from Loch Ness, where, about
the beginning of August, I, along with T. Arnold and Walrond, paid him
a visit. Some of the incidents and characters in “The Bothie” were
taken from that reading party, though its main scenes and incidents
lay in Braemar. One anecdote I specially remember connected with
that visit. On our way to Drumnadrochet, T. Arnold and I had made a
solitary walk together from the west end of Loch Rannoch, up by Loch
Ericht, one of the wildest, most unfrequented lochs in the Highlands.
All day we saw only one house, till, late at night, we reached another
on the side of the loch, about six miles from Dalwhinnie. It was one
of the loveliest, most primitive places I ever saw even in the most
out-of-the-way parts of the Highlands. We told Clough of it, and when
his reading party was over, later in the autumn, he went on our track.
He spent a night at the inn at the west end of Loch Rannoch, called
Tighnalyne, where he met with some of the incidents which appeared in
“The Bothie.” He also visited the house by the side of Loch Ericht, a
small heather-thatched hut, occupied by one of the foresters of the
Ben Aulder forest. He found one of the children lying sick of a fever,
the father I think from home, and the mother without any medicines or
other aid for her child. He immediately set off and walked to Fort
William, about two days’ journey from the place, but the nearest place
where medicines and other supplies were to be had. These he got at Fort
William, and returned on his two days’ journey, and left them with
the mother. He had four days’ walk, over a rough country, to bring
medicines to this little child, and the people did not even know his
name. On these occasions in Scotland, he told me that he used to tell
the people he was a “Teacher,” and they were at once at ease with him
then. I doubt whether he ever mentioned this to any one but myself, and
to me it only came out casually.
‘If I am not mistaken, it was from this place that he took the original
name of what is now Tober-na-Vuolich. In this year he visited the West
Highlands, and went through “Lochaber, anon in Locheil, in Knoydart,
Moydart, Morrer, Ardgower, and Ardnamurchan.” In the first edition this
line was--“Knoydart, Moydart, Croydart, Morrer, and Ardnamurchan.” But
he discovered afterwards that Croydart was only the way that the Gael
pronounce what is spelt Knoydart. During this wander he saw all the
country about Ben Nevis, westward to the Atlantic--
‘Where the great peaks look abroad over Skye to the westermost Islands.
He walked “where pines are grand in Glen-Mally,” and saw all the
country which in a few lines here and there he has pictured so
powerfully in “The Bothie.” The expression about Ben Nevis, with the
morning sprinkling of snow on his shoulders, is absolutely true to
reality.
‘In this expedition he came to Glenfinnan, at the head of Loch Shiel,
the place where Prince Charles met the Highland clans, and unfurled his
standard. Here there used to stand a nice quiet little-frequented inn,
where one could live for weeks undisturbed. But at the time when Clough
reached it, a great gathering was being held there. The Queen had gone
to Loch Laggan, and the ships that escorted her to Fort William were
lying at the head of Loch Linnhe. McDonald of Glen Aladale had invited
all the officers of these ships to have a day’s deer-stalking on his
property of Glen Aladale, down the side of Loch Shiel, and to have a
ball at the Glenfinnan Inn after their day’s sport. Clough came in for
the ball. It was a strange gathering--the English sailors, officers, a
few Highland lairds, Highland farmers and shepherds, with their wives
and daughters, were all met altogether at the ball. Clough and one
of his reading party were invited to join the dance, and they danced
Highland reels, and went through all the festivities like natives. The
uproar was immense, and the ludicrous scenes not few. He often used to
speak of it afterwards, as one of the motliest, drollest gatherings he
had ever fallen in with.
‘Often afterwards he used to speak of his Scotch adventures with great
heartiness. There was much in the ways of life he saw there that suited
the simplicity of his nature. Even when Englishmen would laugh at the
baldness of our Presbyterian services, he would defend them as better
than English ritualism and formality.’
To these reminiscences of Principal Shairp’s may be added some notes
supplied by Professor Conington, of his recollections of the speeches
made by Clough in the debates of a society at Oxford, called the
Decade. Mr. Conington was himself the secretary of the society at the
time of which he speaks. ‘The first occasion of my meeting Mr. Clough
at the Decade,’ he says, ‘was on February 14, 1846, when I myself
brought forward the subject for discussion. The subject was--“That
means ought to be adopted by the Legislature for recognising formally
the social and political importance of the manufacturing interest.”
Sir Robert Peel’s change of policy about the corn laws had just been
announced, and those of us who were on the movement side were naturally
more or less enthusiastic in favour of the manufacturers, who appeared
to us as the winners of a great social victory. My proposal, if I
remember rightly, was to the effect that they ought to be made peers,
just as great landowners were. In this the bulk of the members present
at that meeting do not seem to have concurred with me; but I had Mr.
Clough’s support. I do not recollect thoroughly a single sentence of
his speech, but I can recall his commanding manner, and the stately
serene tones in which he delivered a kind of prophecy of the new era
which in a few days was to be inaugurated, and told us that “these
men” (the manufacturers) “were the real rulers of England.” The next
occasion was some months afterwards, on June 9, 1846, when the question
for debate was--“That any system of moral science, distinct from a
consideration of Christianity, is essentially imperfect.” Mr. Clough
is reported as having spoken for this motion in part. He eventually
moved a rider, which, with the motion, was unanimously accepted--“But
the existence of moral science is recognised and presupposed by the
idea of a revelation.” The only point which remains on my mind is
an application by him of the text “comparing spiritual things with
spiritual;” “that is,” said he, “comparing the spiritual things in a
revelation with the spiritual things in one’s own mind.”
‘I see there were five other occasions, in 1847 and the early part of
1848, on which Mr. Clough appeared at the Decade during my membership.
One dwells in my memory with tolerable distinctness--a speech made
in a debate on March 6, 1847, the subject being--“That the study of
philosophy is more important for the formation of opinion than that
of history.” I see that he made five speeches on that evening. I have
entered him as supporting the motion “with qualifications,” a common
mode of registering opinion in our debates: but I remember that, as
the debate grew warm, his qualifications seemed to disappear, and
in the speech which I happen to recollect, few if any of them were
visible. “What is it to me,” he said, “to know the fact of the battle
of Marathon, or the fact of the existence of Cromwell? I have it all
within me.” Correcting himself afterwards, he said, “I do not mean that
it is of no importance to me that there should have been such a battle
or such a person; it is of a great deal: but it is of no importance
that I should know it.”
‘The only other occasion when I recollect anything of Mr. Clough which
seems worth recording was a conversation which I had with him in the
autumn of 1848. He had given up his fellowship, and was living for a
few weeks in small cheap lodgings in Holywell Street, Oxford, where
I remember finding him without a fire on a cold day. His “Bothie”
was just about to be published, and he gave me some account of it,
particularly of the metre. He repeated, in his melodious way, several
lines, intended to show me how a verse might be read so that one
syllable should take up the time of two, or, conversely, two of one.
The line which he instanced (altered, I think, from “Evangeline”) was
this:--
White | naked | feet on the | gleaming | floor of her | chamber.
This was new to me, as I had not risen beyond the common notion of
spondees, dactyls, and the rest. So I asked for more explanation. He
bade me scan the first line of the “Paradise Lost.” I began, “‘Of
man’s:’ iambus.” “Yes.” “‘First dis-’”----There I was puzzled. It did
not seem an iambus or a spondee: it was nearly a trochee, but not quite
one. He then explained to me his conception of the rhythm. The two feet
“first disobe-” took up the time of four syllables, two iambic feet:
the voice rested awhile on the word “first,” then passed swiftly over
“diso-,” then rested again on “be-,” so as to recover the previous
hurry. I think he went on to explain that in the next foot, “dience
and,” both syllables were short, but that the loss of time was made up
for by the pause required by the sense after the former of the two,
and that finally the voice rested on the full-sounded word “fruit.”
Possibly this last impression may really be the result of my own
subsequent use of the clue which he then gave me. But a clue it was in
the fullest sense of the term: it gave me an insight into rhythm which
I had not before, and which has constantly been my guide since both in
reading and writing.’
In June 1842 occurred the death of Dr. Arnold, which was a severe shock
as well as a great grief to Clough from its suddenness as well as from
the intense reverence and affection he felt for him. ‘He was for a long
time more than a father to me,’ were his own words, and no doubt the
sensitive boy, exiled from his own family in his childhood, clung with
even more of filial feeling than is common to the teacher to whom he
owed so much. He heard the news at Oxford, and came home immediately,
seeming, as his sister describes him, completely stunned by the blow,
incapable of realising or speaking of what had happened, and unable to
rest. He soon left home, and wandered away among the Welsh hills, where
Mr. Shairp tells us of their meeting.
Later in the summer he had some pupils in Ireland, but left them to
come over to bid farewell to his brother George, who sailed for America
in October 1842. He was deeply attached to this his youngest brother,
whose lively spirits combined with most affectionate devotion to him
had done a great deal to cheer him even in his darkest moments. And
this was, as it proved, their last meeting. The poor young fellow, only
just twenty-two, was struck down by fever at Charleston, when away from
all his own family, and died there, after a very few days’ illness.
His father had sailed for America, intending to join him, before the
news of his illness reached England, and arrived in Boston only to hear
that all was over. The shock was a dreadful one to the unhappy father,
and came with a double force, because he relied on his son’s help at
this moment in a period of great anxiety concerning business. He never
recovered the blow, and in the following summer, in 1843, he returned
home much shaken by grief and very ill in health, and after lingering
on for a few months, during which time he was most tenderly nursed by
all his family, including Arthur, he also died.
During his father’s illness, and the years that immediately followed,
Arthur spent much of his time with his own family; and when he was away
from them, he always took an active part in all plans and arrangements
for their comfort and happiness. He had never become estranged in any
way from his home, as is often the case with sons and brothers whose
calling separates them from their families. Essentially tender and
domestic in his feelings, and full of consideration for others, it
always seemed natural to him to enter into their interests, and to
undertake trouble and responsibility for their sakes.
In 1843 he had been appointed tutor as well as fellow of Oriel, and
he is spoken of as being remarkably effective in this capacity. ‘A
most excellent tutor, and exceedingly beloved by the undergraduates,’
one of those who best knew has called him. But little need be said
of this period. He led a quiet, hardworking, uneventful tutor’s life,
diversified with the reading parties, which have been commemorated in
the ‘Bothie.’ This was the time when most of the poems in the little
volume called ‘Ambarvalia’ were written. He took a warm and increasing
interest in all social questions, and in every way he seems to have
been full of spirit and vigour. To his younger friends and pupils he
especially endeared himself. Mr. Walrond says: ‘My Oxford days seem
all coloured with the recollection of happy and most instructive
walks and talks with him. We used to meet every day almost, though at
different colleges; and it was my regular Sunday holiday to breakfast
with him, and then take a long ramble over Cumnor Hurst or Bagley
Wood. When I recall those days, the one thing that comes back upon me
most, even more than the wisdom and loftiness and suggestiveness of
his conversation, is his unselfishness and tender kindness. Many must
have told you what a gift he had for making people personally _fond_
of him; I can use no other word. For myself, I owe him more than I can
ever tell, for the seed of just and noble thoughts sown, for the pure
and lofty type of character set before me; but the feeling of personal
attachment is the strongest of all.’ Another friend of this period
says: ‘In him I felt I had an example of a nobleness and tenderness of
nature most rare, and one, too, who, since I was an undergraduate, had
always given me not only sincere love, but wise and sincere counsel in
many difficulties. What he would think on any doubtful point was indeed
often in the mind of many others with me. Often, too, I have remembered
that, by his taste, I was first led to read and take pleasure in
Wordsworth.’
Thus his life passed on with much of cheerful and active interest
and work. Yet it would seem, from his letters, that he was living at
Oxford under a sense of intellectual repression. He appears at one
time to have doubted about undertaking the tutor’s work, but to have
overcome the doubt. He evidently regarded teaching as his natural
vocation, and he had great enjoyment in it; but the sense of being
bound by his position to silence on many important subjects probably
oppressed him. At intervals he expresses vague inclinations to leave
Oxford, and seek work elsewhere; but the difficulty of finding this,
and the undefined nature of his objections, appear to have hindered
him. At this time, in order to secure the comfort of a near relative,
he entered into a pecuniary arrangement, by which he bound himself to
pay 100_l._ a year, on condition of receiving a considerable sum at
the death of one of the parties to the negotiation. This was looked on
as an event certain to occur very soon, but, in fact, it did not come
to pass for fifteen years; and this liability, very easily borne while
his circumstances were prosperous, became a drag upon him when he had
no longer any assured income. Thus, though everything in his outward
circumstances combined to make it desirable for him to remain in his
present position, yet by degrees his dissatisfaction with it became
too strong to be endured. His was a nature ‘which moveth all together,
if it move at all;’ and, once entered upon the course of free inquiry,
nothing could stop the expansion of his thought in that direction. His
absolute conscientiousness and intense unworldliness prevented the
usual influences which slacken men’s movements from telling upon his.