not depressed by the want of outward success, given in so much larger
measure to many of his contemporaries, capable of looking at outward
things from a truly philosophic height, gifted with genuine humour, and
open in his soul to all kindly natural feelings, endowed with a rare
power of inspiring unclouded affection, he could not but enjoy a high
degree of happiness. It has been called a broken life. Broken indeed
it was, by death, too soon for the work he might have done, too soon
for any full comprehension of him by the public, or by any but his near
friends, too soon for those who loved him and depended on him. But not
too soon for the realisation of a great and manly character, for the
achievement in himself of the highest and purest peace; not too soon
to give to a few who really knew him the strongest sense of what he was
in himself. It was easiest to describe him by negatives, yet perhaps
no one ever made a more concrete positive impression on those who knew
him. As one of his friends said, ‘I always _felt_ his presence;’ and
truly he was above all a power, a warm supporting presence. His poems
tell us of his perplexities, his divided thoughts, his uncertainties;
those who remember him will think rather of his simple directness of
speech and action, the clearness of his judgment on any moot point;
above all, it is remarkable how unanimous all those who knew him are
in expressing their feeling of his entire nobleness, his utter purity
of character. It seems impossible to speak of him without using these
words.
But now this happy and peaceful though laborious life was approaching a
too early close. There was never to be any complete opportunity given
here for showing to the full what his best friends believed to be in
him, and what his poems partly reveal. Probably ever since very early
youth he had been subjected to a too severe moral and intellectual
strain. His health, though good, had never been strong, and after
1859 it began to cause anxiety to his family, when a series of small
illnesses and accidents combined to weaken his constitution. In the
summer of 1860, he also suffered the loss of his mother. After a
lingering illness of several years, she died of paralysis, a disease to
which several of the family had succumbed, and which was so soon after
to strike down her son.
His usual autumn holiday, this time spent chiefly in Scotland, failed
of its usual good effect in reviving him, and finding himself seriously
out of health, he obtained six months’ leave from the Council Office.
He then underwent several weeks’ treatment at Malvern, which appeared
to improve his health. Afterwards, in February 1861, he removed to
Freshwater, in the Isle of Wight, and here, though at first in a
suffering state, he soon improved and regained his spirits, and for the
last time really enjoyed his family life with his wife and children.
He was naturally fond of children, and to his own little ones he was a
most tender and devoted father; he never tired of strolling about with
them, carrying them on his back along the country lanes, and listening
to their just beginning talk. The pleasures of the country had always
had a strong hold upon him, and the opening spring in that sweet spot
brought many pleasant sights; many walks among daffodil and snowdrop
beds, and discoveries of ferns in sheltered nooks. He always rose
early, and was often seen strolling over the downs before breakfast.
At this time he returned to his old employment of translating Homer,
the only form of versification which he had not laid aside altogether
during his office work. This became now a great pleasure to him. At
this time too he wrote two or three of the miscellaneous poems. Here
also it was a source of great enjoyment to him to be near friends whom
he especially valued, and whose society gave him just the intellectual
stimulus he needed for enjoyment.
But this pleasant time came too soon to an end. Though himself
unwilling to move from a place where he felt happy, and where he had
experienced an improvement in his health, he was warned that the good
would soon be exhausted, and that the climate was too relaxing for
warmer weather. Further change of air, and still more change of scene,
were ordered, and in the middle of April he went alone to Greece and
Constantinople. Apparently he greatly enjoyed this journey, and no
sooner was he again at leisure and in solitude than the old fountain
of verse, so long dry within him, reopened afresh. During this journey
he wrote the first and perhaps the second of the Mari Magno stories.
In June he returned for a few weeks to England; he seemed unable to
bear any protracted absence, and to long for his home; yet he consented
to quit it again in July and go to Auvergne and the Pyrenees. There he
was fortunate enough to join, though but for a short time, his friends
Mr. and Mrs. Tennyson, whose companionship made his solitary wanderings
pleasant, and to it he owed probably more than pleasure, some of the
stimulus which produced the poems which were his last creations. While
travelling in Auvergne and the Pyrenees he composed all the remaining
Mari Magno tales, except the last, which was conceived and written
entirely during his last illness. In the south of France he remained
till the middle of September, when he went to Paris to join his wife.
Their three little children had been left in England; he had very much
wished to come home and see them before starting on a further journey,
but in the present state of his nerves it was considered desirable to
avoid any unnecessary emotion, and he unwillingly yielded this point.
He felt the privation very keenly, though he shrank from any words,
and he could hardly endure to hear about the children whom he had not
been allowed to revisit. In this way it unfortunately came to pass
that he never even saw his youngest child, a little girl who was born
after he left England the second time. In Paris he spent a few days
and then set out to travel through Switzerland to the Italian lakes,
intending to stay some time at Florence, and reach Rome before the
winter. He was then able to enjoy much, though he could bear but little
fatigue. They stopped at Dijon to see the beautiful Puits de Moyse and
the sculptures in the Museum by the same hand; and then crossed the
Jura from Salines to Pontarlier and Neufchâtel. Between Salines and
Pontarlier was then still a beautiful drive in the diligence over low
grassy hills crowned with pine woods. At Pontarlier they rejoined the
railway; a striking line, seen as they saw it by moonlight, a ‘chemin
très accidenté,’ keeping half-way up the hill-side, equally steep
whether looking up or down, and continually darting in and out through
numerous tunnels. After this came three pleasant vetturino days over
the Simplon, one spent in the long drive up the Valais, monotonous
but pleasant, with occasional walks and halts to gather the deep blue
gentians and mountain pinks on the wayside. The next day, on which they
crossed the pass, a sudden deep snow came on, unusual so early in the
year as September; many little avalanches fell, and it was with some
difficulty they reached the crest. Then on descending the slope of the
great alpine wall, into the country of the sun, everything changed
suddenly, the snow disappeared, and all seemed bursting into rich
vegetation. Arthur enjoyed this part of the journey excessively; first
the beautiful Pass of Gondo, full of waterfalls and cascades, then the
descent lower down on Domo d’Ossola, among walnut and chestnut trees.
The sense of southern beauty and richness seemed to penetrate him with
enjoyment. The third day’s drive to Stresa on Lago Maggiore was also
full of pleasure. At Stresa they rested a few days and made expeditions
to Isola Bella, Orta, and Magadino; but here he became slightly unwell,
and hurried on to Milan, thinking it would be more bracing. He did
apparently improve, and took pleasure in visiting the pictures and
churches, but never recovered himself; and they continued their painful
journey, during which he grew gradually worse, to Florence, where they
expected to meet friends, and where they found good medical help. Some
days were better than others, and at Parma he spent a few hours among
the pictures of Correggio with great enjoyment. The last day before
entering Florence they had a drive of several hours over the Apennines,
coming down on Pistoia. It was a lovely sunny day; the hills were
covered with young chestnuts and flowering arbutus; the air was fresh
and soothing, and he seemed to revive on the heights, but looked with
dread on the valley lying beneath, with its white towns shining hot in
the sun.
They reached Florence early in the day of October 10. That afternoon
Arthur went to the Boboli Gardens, and to look at the grand arches of
Orcagna in the Piazza del Granduca. The next day too he attempted to
walk as far as the Cathedral and the Baptistery, which were close to
the hotel. But on the 12th, when a permanent lodging had been found, he
went to bed, unable longer to resist the fever. He had suffered much
rheumatic pain in the head, but it very soon gave way to treatment,
and after this he did not suffer much. The fever, a sort of malaria,
had its course, and appeared to give way. During the first three weeks
he seemed perpetually occupied with a poem he was writing, the last in
the volume of his poems; and when he began apparently to recover, and
was able to sit up for several hours in the day, he insisted on trying
to write it out, and when this proved too great an effort he begged
to dictate it. But he broke down before it was finished, and returned
to bed never to leave it again. A few days before his death he begged
for a pencil and contrived to write down two verses, and quite to the
end his thoughts kept hold of his poem. Fortunately it had all been
completed and written out in pencil in the first stage of his illness,
and was found after his death in his notebook. It seemed a comfort
to him to have his mind preoccupied and relieved from the weight of
illness and anxiety by this creative instinct.
The fever left him worn out, and then paralysis, with which he had been
threatened, struck him down. On the 13th of November he died, in his
forty-third year.
Three days before his death his sister reached him from England. He
knew her, and was glad to see her near him, but he was too weak to
realise the parting that was coming.
He lies buried in the little Protestant cemetery, just outside the
walls of Florence, looking towards Fiesole and the hills which he loved
and which he had gazed on as he entered Florence, little thinking he
should leave it no more. ‘Tall cypresses wave over the graves, and the
beautiful hills keep guard around;’ nowhere could there be a lovelier
resting-place.
The memory of Arthur Clough will be safe in the hearts of his friends.
Few beyond his friends have known him at all; his writings may not
reach beyond a small circle; but those who have received his image into
their hearts know that something has been given them which no time can
take away, and to them we think no words will seem fitter than those of
the poet, happily also his friend, which have cherished the memory of
another beautiful soul:--
So, dearest, now thy brows are cold,
We see thee as thou art, and know
Thy likeness to the wise below,
Thy kindred with the great of old.
LETTERS.
FROM 1829 TO 1836.
RUGBY.
_To his Sister._
Chester: May 15, 1829.
DEAR ANNE,--I received your kind letter by the barque ‘Melantho,’
after an extremely long voyage. Charles received one on the same day
from uncle Charles, intimating that we were to spend our vacation at
Easter with him at the vicarage. During the Easter holidays, which we
spent very pleasantly at Mold, I had plenty of leisure for drawing.
Two men were hung here lately for robbing an old clergyman. We have
bought a book entitled ‘The Newtonian System of Philosophy,’ which
treats chiefly of the power and weight of air; the cause of volcanoes,
earthquakes, and other phenomena of nature, such as lightning, the
aurora borealis; also a description of the sun, planets, their moons or
satellites, constellations, comets, and other heavenly bodies; likewise
of air-guns, balloons, air-pumps; also a very pleasing one of snow,
hail, and vapours. It also describes electricity and magnetism, and
gives a brief account of minerals, vegetables, and animals.
The summer vacation is now just approaching, after which time we shall
be conducted either by uncle Alfred or uncle Charles to Rugby, which is
not far from Leamington, at which place cousin Eliza is at school.
Were you not grieved to hear that magnificent building York Minster
had been partly destroyed through the destructive means of fire?
_To his Mother._
Rugby: May 15, 1830.
DEAR MAMMA,--I am glad to tell you that both Charles and myself have
been removed out of the third form into the lower fourth; we enjoyed
uncle Alfred’s company (he was steward to the Easter Meeting at Rugby)
and also the speeches and holidays very much. There were four prizes.
There was also a prize for boys in the fifth form, which was gained by
Stanley for an English essay ‘On Sicily and its Revolutions.’ These
were all recited by their different writers on Wednesday in Easter
week. After the four first had repeated their poems and read their
essays, Stanley came forth and read his essay. Unfortunately the prizes
had not arrived, and therefore Dr. Arnold was obliged to postpone the
delivery of them. One morning, however, at prayers, we saw a great many
books in extremely handsome bindings; and after prayers, Dr. Arnold
gave them to those for whom they were intended.
School House, Rugby: May 28, 1833.
... I have gained one place in the form by this examination, and I
shall certainly be in the sixth form next half-year. I am now seventh,
and ten at least of the Præposters leave either now or at Lawrence
Sheriffe.[3]
_To his Brother George._
School House, Rugby: October 13, 1834.
MY DEAR GEORGY,--You say you do not like your school even so well as
you did last year. I believe that it is worse than many places, but
even here at Rugby, the best of all public schools, which are the best
kind of schools, even here there is a vast deal of bad. It was but a
few nights ago that a little fellow, not more than thirteen at the very
most, was quite drunk, and that for the second time in the last year.
I do not know that there is here much of the low mean spirit (which I
fear you have so much of), but it must be remembered that Rugby is far
better off in this way than most schools.
_To his Mother._
Jesus College, Oxford: July 9, 1835.
The exhibitioners this year are Lake, Penrose, and Gell. We had an
extremely pleasant time up at Rugby at the examination, as the Oxford
vacation was just beginning, and we had six or seven old Rugbeians
down, and in so busy and exciting a time their company was a great
relief. I had not been very well after Easter all along, but I believe
that time did more to make me well than all the physic, which has
lengthened the doctor’s bill to a most boa-constrictor-like size. I
have been in one continued state of excitement for at least the last
three years, and now comes the time of exhaustion. When you all come
over next year, and I get home at last, I do think this will end.
I must send you our ‘Rugby Magazine,’ which I beg you will patronise
with all your might, though I suppose your canvassing materials in
America are rather small.
_To his Brother George._
School House, Rugby: September 13, 1835.
... Only remember--don’t be indolent, George; you recollect what I
told you about that family failing. Idle, I do not think you will be;
but take care you never say, ‘It is too much trouble,’ ‘I can’t be
bothered,’ which are tolerably old favourites of yours, and, indeed,
of all who have any Perfect blood in them.
... No doubt you will feel very much the loss of any one to talk to
about religion, but let this, my dear George, only make you keep more
close to God; and I still--for I know that our weakness does often
want more direct and visible aid than this, and that our minds are too
imperfectly brought to righteousness and goodness to be continually
talking even with our kind Father God, just as you would wish to talk
to those of your own age sometimes, and not always to those above you
only, however much you might love them--if you do still want some one
to talk to, you have only to write to me, and I shall be sure to answer
you within a week or two. Remember, too, that if the school is bad, it
is no reason, no excuse for you to do as they do. Remember, they are
not many, and Jesus said that a little leaven leavens the whole lump:
now, do not think that I am telling you to put yourself forward as a
kind of apostle or missionary to them. Only go on without fearing or
shrinking in any point from your duty; do not mind their knowing that
you are trying to serve God.
The magazine prospers; it will probably be out on the 1st October.
‘Egmont’ will appear, and one or two other things of mine. I assure you
I have enough to do. I sometimes think of giving up fagging hard here,
and doing all my extra work in the holidays, so as to have my time here
free for these two objects--1st. The improvement of the school; 2nd.
The publication and telling abroad of the merits of the school by means
of the magazine.
_To the same._
School House, Rugby: October 11, 1835.
Simpkinson left me last Monday for Cambridge, and his absence has made
me head of the school house, which is an office of considerable trust
and great difficulty. Indeed, you could not do better than try to win
the liking and esteem of your schoolfellows by being as kind to them
as you can. I hope I am trying earnestly to do the same. But there is
one danger in this occupation which assails _me_, at least, very often;
and that is, the danger of carrying our wish too far. And remember
always, that to be liked is not the thing we should wish for on its
own account, but only because it will make it more easy for us to do
good to those who like us. Try, my dear George, to be as active in this
good work as you can be; only take care that you have a few moments to
yourself with God every day, so that you do not forget Him in your more
active employments; if you do these two things I do not think you will
be likely to fall into any more _stupors_, as you call those states of
mind, which I very well know and have often experienced. As soon as you
feel anything of the kind coming on, go and do something, no matter
what, which will employ you actively. Perhaps, if you do some kindness
to a schoolfellow, or resist him in some evil practice, you will feel
this go down very rapidly. You never told us how your school-work is
getting on; do you do any Euclid now? I have not heard from America
lately; the last letter I had was from my father, dated at Saratoga.
Tell me when you write all about No. II. of the ‘Rugby Magazine.’
It is very much liked here, better than the first, and we have had
intelligence of its being thought very well of in the literary circles
in London. I only hope it will not decay under my hands; for I have got
the management of it almost entirely by myself.
_To his Sister._
School House, Rugby: October 10, 1835.
My oldest and only friend, Simpkinson, is just gone to Cambridge, and
there are also two or three more gone whom I knew and loved better
than the rest; so that I am now quite alone, and am doomed so to remain
for two long years.
I see, however, quite plainly that this is far better for me, for
now I shall not fag so much, as being of necessity thrown much more
with other fellows, and wishing now most earnestly to know as many
as possible; for there is a deal of evil springing up in the school,
and it is to be feared that the tares will choke much of the wheat.
There is a great deal of good in the top of the school, but then it
is what may be called disagreeable good, having much evil mixed with
it; especially in little matters. So that from these persons good is
disliked. I am trying, if possible, to show them that good is not
necessarily disagreeable, and that a Christian may be, and is likely to
be, a gentleman.
Monday, October 12.
The nights (that is, after locking-up time) are getting very long,
beginning as they do now from a quarter-past six; so that I have a
great deal of time in my study, and am almost more by myself than I
wish. Sometimes, when I am thus alone, I long very much indeed to have
you all over here; for before Simpkinson left, Rugby was almost like
a home to me, and now I feel the want of a home far more than I ever
did before; so that I cannot tell you how welcome next summer will be
to me. Even the holidays without you seem a thing to be looked forward
to very much, which they never did before, except last half-year, when
I was unable to work. I am very tolerably well now, and think I have
recovered altogether, though I verily believe I shall not be able
ever again to fag so much; indeed, I shall never wish to do so in the
same way. You will understand a good deal of the way in which fagging
hard is so frequently ruinous both to body and mind, from an article
in the ‘Rugby Magazine,’ No. III., which I hope you will like as much
as the people on this side the Atlantic (I mean the article entitled
‘A Schoolboy’s Story’); I think you will see a good deal in that to
explain it.
By this time, I suppose, you are back in Charleston, and ere long I
shall have heard the full account of your trip to Lake George. I had a
great deal of pleasant travelling myself in the summer, particularly in
that part of my journey which took me from Oxford through Cheltenham
and Shrewsbury, to Beaumaris. I met a very curious animal in the
coffee-room at the Shrewsbury inn, a German merchant’s son from Bremen.
He was very ignorant and very intelligent, so that he was also very
amusing. At one time he made me think him half an idiot, at another he
seemed quite clever. Probably he had never been out of a counting-house
in his life before; at any rate, his observation must have been very
limited, for I went to show him Lord Hill’s column, and as we were
walking up to it he said, ‘Well, that is very beautiful, very big,’ and
a moment or two after, ‘and it gets bigger as we come nearer!’
_To J. P. Gell, Esq._
School House, Rugby: October 24, 1835.
I do wish that I could be acquainted and intimate with a great many
fellows, but I really have not time; and here is another advantage
on the side of evil, that bad characters are also idle, whereas good
characters are industrious, so that when a fellow wants a companion he
is much more likely to pitch on a bad than on a good one. I am afraid
that writing or thinking much about these things does me harm. I only
wish you would write to me about it, for your letters always put me
more on my legs. Do you remember what Arnold says (Sermons, vol. iii.
Introduction) about the enduring value of the ancient philosophical
and historical works? Well, I really think that letters from fellows
who have left act much in the same way, keeping one’s mind ‘fresh and
comprehensive.’ So spare not pen and paper when you can spare time.
_To the same._
School House, Rugby: November 9, 1835.
... I have to take care lest the excitement should carry me away;
for though assuredly there is no Simpkinson here, nor Vaughan, nor
Burbidge, yet it is most easy to find excitement, on the one hand,
fagging, and on the other, in associating with fellows for their good,
which is a more dangerous employment than I looked for; there is such
an excess of acquaintance and such a lack of friends here; nobody to
look up to in one’s common school-dealings, and so much to look up to
at times in Arnold, that it is no easy matter to ‘keep a level temper,’
as young ---- used to say. Sometimes all seems so very bright, the
little good one has done seems so great, and the good one hopes to
do so certain, that one gets quite elevated; then there soon follows
the exhaustion, and I think it is no use trying; and in the meantime
copies, &c., have been accumulating and I am obliged to set to, though
the true cure of such a state is forcing oneself to try even against
hope. Besides, there are all the letters from Oxford and Cambridge,
than which more exciting things were never created.
I don’t know which to think the greatest, the blessing of being under
Arnold, or the curse of being without a home.
_To his Mother._
Finch House, near Liverpool: December 1835.