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HARPER'S
NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
No. II.--JULY, 1850.--VOL. I.
[From the London Eclectic Review.]
THOMAS DE QUINCEY.
When "Gilfillan's Gallery" first appeared, a copy of it was sent to an
eminent lay-divine, the first sentence of whose reply was, "You have
sent me a _list of shipwrecks_." It was but too true, for that "Gallery"
contains the name of a Godwin, shipwrecked on a false system, and a
Shelley, shipwrecked on an extravagant version of that false system--and
a Hazlitt, shipwrecked on no system at all--and a Hall, driven upon the
rugged reef of madness--and a Foster, cast high and dry upon the dark
shore of Misanthropy--and an Edward Irving, inflated into sublime idiocy
by the breath of popular favor, and in the subsidence of that breath,
left to roll at the mercy of the waves, a mere log--and lastly, a
Coleridge and a De Quincy, stranded on the same poppy-covered coast, the
land of the "Lotos-eaters," where it is never morning, nor midnight, nor
full day, but always afternoon.
Wrecks all these are, but all splendid and instructive withal. And we
propose now--repairing to the shore, where the last great argosy, Thomas
De Quincey, lies half bedded in mud--to pick up whatever of noble and
rare, of pure and permanent, we can find floating around. We would speak
of De Quincey's history, of his faults, of his genius, of his works, and
of his future place in the history of literature. And when we reflect on
what a _mare magnum_ we are about to show to many of our readers, we
feel for the moment as if it were new to us also, as if _we_ stood--
"Like stout Cortea, when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific,
----and all his men
Gathered round him with a wild surmise,
Silent, upon a peak of Darien."
We can not construct a regular biography of this remarkable man; neither
the time for this has come, nor have the materials been, as yet, placed
within reach of us, or of any one else. But we may sketch the outlines
of what we know, which is indeed but little.
Thomas De Quincey is the son of a Liverpool merchant. He is one of
several children, the premature loss of one of whom he has, in his
"Suspiria de Profundis" (published in "Blackwood") most plaintively and
eloquently deplored. His father seems to have died early. Guardians were
appointed over him, with whom he contrived to quarrel, and from whose
wing (while studying at Oxford) he fled to London. There he underwent a
series of surprising adventures and severe sufferings, which he has
recounted in the first part of his "Opium Confessions." On one occasion,
while on the point of death by starvation, his life was saved by the
intervention of a poor street-stroller, of whom he afterward lost sight,
but whom, in the strong gratitude of his heart, he would pursue into the
central darkness of a London brothel, or into the deeper darkness of the
grave. Part of the same dark period of his life was spent in Wales,
where he subsisted now on the hospitality of the country people, and
now, poor fellow, on hips and haws. He was at last found out by some of
his friends, and remanded to Oxford. There he formed a friendship with
Christopher North, which has continued unimpaired to this hour.
Both--besides the band of kindred genius--had that of profound
admiration, then a rare feeling, for the poetry of Wordsworth. In the
course of this part of his life he visited Ireland, and was introduced
soon afterward to OPIUM--fatal friend, treacherous ally--root of that
tree called Wormwood, which has overshadowed all his after life. A blank
here occurs in his history. We find him next in a small white cottage in
Cumberland--married--studying Kant, drinking laudanum, and dreaming the
most wild and wondrous dreams which ever crossed the brain of mortal.
These dreams he recorded in the "London Magazine," then a powerful
periodical, conducted by John Scott, and supported by such men as
Hazlitt, Reynolds, and Allan Cunningham. The "Confessions," when
published separately, ran like wildfire, although from their anonymous
form they added nothing at the time to the author's fame. Not long after
their publication, Mr. De Quincey came down to Scotland, where he has
continued to reside, wandering from place to place, contributing to
periodicals of all sorts and sizes--to "Blackwood," "Tait," "North
British Review," "Hogg's Weekly Instructor," as well as writing for the
"Encyclopaedia Britannica," and publishing one or two independent works,
such as "Klosterheim," a tale, and the "Logic of Political Economy." His
wife has been long dead. Three of his daughters, amiable and excellent
persons, live in the sweet village of Lasswade, in the neighborhood of
Edinburgh; and there he is, we believe, at present himself.
From his very imperfect sketch of De Quincey's history, there rush into
our minds some rather painful reflections. It is painful to see a
"Giant mind broken by sorrows unspoken,
And woes."
It is painful to see a glorious being transfigured into a rolling thing
before the whirlwind. It is painful to be compelled to inscribe upon
such a shield the word "Desdichado." It is painful to remember how much
misery must have passed through that heart, and how many sweat drops of
agony must have stood, in desolate state, upon that brow. And it is most
painful of all to feel that guilt, as well as misery, has been here, and
that the sowing of the wind preceded the reaping of the whirlwind.
Such reflections were mere sentimentalism, unless attended by such
corollaries as these: 1st. Self-control ought to be more than at present
a part of education, sedulously and sternly taught, for is it not the
geometry of life? 2dly. Society should feel more that she is responsible
for the wayward children of genius, and ought to seek more than she does
to soothe their sorrows, to relieve their wants, to reclaim their
wanderings, and to search, as with lighted candles, into the causes of
their incommunicable misery. Had the public, twenty years ago, feeling
Mr. De Quincey to be one of the master spirits of the age, and,
therefore, potentially, one of its greatest benefactors, inquired
deliberately into his case, sought him out, put him beyond the reach of
want, encouraged thus his heart, and strengthened his hand, rescued him
from the mean miseries into which he was plunged, smiled approvingly
upon the struggles he was making to conquer an evil habit--in one word,
_recognized_ him, what a different man had he been now, and over what
magnificent wholes had we been rejoicing, in the shape of his works,
instead of deploring powers and acquirements thrown away, in rearing
towers of Babel, tantalizing in proportion to the magnitude of their
design, and the beauty of their execution. Neglected and left alone as a
corpse in the shroud of his own genius, a fugitive, though not a
vagabond, compelled day after day to fight absolute starvation at the
point of his pen, the marvel is, that he has written so much which the
world may not willingly let die. _But_, it is the world's fault that the
writings it now recognizes, and may henceforth preserve on a high shelf,
are rather the sublime ravings of De Quincey drunk, than the calm,
profound cogitations of De Quincey sober. The theory of capital
punishments is much more subtle and widely ramified than we might at
first suppose. On what else are many of our summary critical and moral
judgments founded? Men find a man guilty of a crime--they vote him for
that one act a purely pernicious member of society, and they turn him
off. So a Byron quarrels with his wife--a Coleridge loses his balance,
and begins to reel and totter like Etna in an earthquake--a Burns, made
an exciseman, gradually descends toward the low level of his trade--or
a De Quincey takes to living on laudanum, and the public, instead of
seeking to reform and re-edify each brilliant begun ruin, shouts out,
"Raze, raze it to its foundation." Because the sun is eclipsed, they
would howl him away! Because one blot has lighted on an imperishable
page, they would burn it up! Let us hope, that as our age is fast
becoming ashamed of those infernal sacrifices called executions, so it
shall also soon forbear to make its most gifted sons pass through the
fire to Moloch, till it has tested their _thorough_ and _ineradicable_
vileness.
Mr. De Quincey's faults we have spoken of in the plural--we ought,
perhaps, rather to have used the singular number. In the one word
excitement, assuming the special form of opium--the "insane root"--lies
the _gravamen_ of his guilt, as, also, of Coleridge's. Now, we are far
from wishing to underrate the evil of this craving. But we ought to
estimate Mr. De Quincey's criminality with precision and justice; and,
while granting that he used opium to excess--an excess seldom
paralleled--we must take his own explanation of the circumstances which
led him to begin its use, and of the effects it produced on him. He did
not begin it to multiply or intensify his pleasures, still less to lash
himself with its fiery thongs into a counterfeit inspiration, but to
alleviate bodily pain. It became, gradually and reluctantly, a necessity
of his life. Like the serpents around Laocoon, it confirmed its grasp,
notwithstanding the wild tossings of his arms, the spasmodic resistance
of every muscle, the loud shouts of protesting agony; and, when
conquered, he lay like the overpowered Hatteraick in the cave, sullen,
still in despair, breathing hard, but perfectly powerless. Its effects
on him, too, were of a peculiar kind. They were not brutifying or
blackguardizing. He was never intoxicated with the drug in his life;
nay, he denies its power to intoxicate. Nor did it at all weaken his
intellectual faculties any more than it strengthened them. We have heard
poor creatures consoling themselves for their inferiority by saying,
"Coleridge would not have written so well but for opium." "No thanks to
De Quincey for his subtlety--he owes it to opium." Let such persons
swallow the drug, and try to write the "Suspiria," or the "Aids to
Reflection."
Coleridge and De Quincey were great in spite of their habits. Nay, we
believe that on truly great intellects stimulus produces little
inspiration at all. Can opium think? can beer imagine? It is De Quincey
in opium--not opium in De Quincey--that ponders and that writes. The
stimulus is only the _occasional cause_ which brings the internal power
into play; it may sometimes dwarf the giant, but it can never really
elevate the dwarf.
The evil influences of opium on De Quincey were of a different, but a
very pernicious sort: they weakened his will; they made him a colossal
slave to a tiny tyrant; they shut him up (like the Genii in the "Arabian
Tales") in a phial filled with dusky fire; they spread a torpor over
the energies of his body; they closed up or poisoned the natural sources
of enjoyment; the air, the light, the sunshine, the breeze, the
influences of spring, lost all charm and power over him. Instead of
these, snow was welcomed with an unnatural joy; storm embraced as a
brother; and the stern scenery of night arose like a desolate temple
round his ruined spirit. If his heart was not utterly hardened, it was
owing to its peculiar breadth and warmth. At last his studies were
interrupted, his peace broken, his health impaired, and then came the
noon of his night; a form of gigantic gloom, swaying an "ebon sceptre,"
stood over him in triumph, and it seemed as if nothing less than a
miraculous intervention could rescue the victim from his power.
But the victim was not an ordinary one. Feeling that hell had come, and
that death was at hand, he determined, by a mighty effort, to arise from
his degradation. For a season his struggles were great and impotent, as
those of the giants cast down by Jove under Etna. The mountain shook,
the burden tottered, but the light did not at first appear. Nor has he
ever, we suspect, completely emancipated himself from his bondage; but
he has struggled manfully against it, and has cast off such a large
portion of the burden that it were injustice not to say of him that he
is now FREE.
It were ungracious to have dwelt, even so long, upon the errors of De
Quincey, were it not that, first, his own frankness of disclosures frees
us from all delicacy; and that, secondly, the errors of such a man, like
the cloud of the pillar, have two sides--his darkness may become our
light--his sin our salvation. It may somewhat counteract that craving
cry for excitement, that everlasting Give, give, so much the mistake of
the age, to point strongly to this conspicuous and transcendent victim,
and say to his admirers, "Go ye and do _otherwise_."
We pass gladly to the subject of his genius. That is certainly one of
the most singular in its power, variety, culture, and eccentricity, our
age has witnessed. His intellect is at once solid and subtle, reminding
you of veined and figured marble, so beautiful and evasive in aspect,
that you must touch ere you are certain of its firmness. The motion of
his mind is like that of dancing, but it is the dance of an elephant, or
of a Polyphemus, with his heavy steps, thundering down the music to
which he moves. Hence his humor often seems forced in motion, while
always fine in spirit. The contrast between the slow march of his
sentences, the frequent gravity of his spirit, the recondite masses of
his lore, the logical severity of his diction, and his determination, at
times, to be desperately witty, produces a ludicrous effect, but
somewhat different from what he had intended. It is "Laughter" lame, and
only able to hold one of his sides, so that you laugh at, as well as
with him. But few, we think, would have been hypercritical in judging of
Columbus' first attitudes as he stepped down upon his new world. And
thus, let a great intellectual explorer be permitted to occupy his own
region, in whatever way, and with whatever ceremonies, may seem best to
himself. Should he even, like Caesar, stumble upon the shore, no matter
if he stumble _forward_, and by accepting, make the omen change its
nature and meaning.
Genius and logical perception are De Quincey's principal powers. There
are some writers whose power, like the locusts in the Revelation, is "in
their tails"--they have stings, and there lies their scorpion power. De
Quincey's vigor is evenly and equally diffused through his whole being.
It is not a partial palpitation, but a deep, steady glow. His insight
hangs over us and the world like a nebulous star, seeing us, but, in
part, remaining unseen. In fact, his deepest thoughts have never been
disclosed. Like Burke, he has not "hung his heart upon his sleeve for
daws to peck at." He has profound _reticence_ as well as power, and he
has modesty as well as reticence. On subjects with which he is
acquainted, such as logic, literature, or political economy, no man can
speak with more positive and perfect assurance. But on all topics where
the conscience--the inner most moral nature--must be the umpire, "the
English Opium Eater" is silent. His "silence" indeed, "answers very
loud," his dumbness has a tongue, but it requires a "fine ear" to hear
its accents; and to interpret them what but his own exquisitely subtle
and musical style, like written sculpture, could suffice?
Indeed, De Quincey's style is one of the most wondrous of his gifts. As
Professor Wilson once said to us about him, "the _best_ word always
comes up." It comes up easily, as a bubble on the wave; and is yet
fixed, solid, and permanent as marble. It is at once warm as genius, and
cool as logic. Frost and fire fulfill the paradox of "embracing each
other." His faculties never disturb or distract each other's
movements--they are inseparable, as substance and shadow. Each thought
is twin-born with poetry. His sentences are generally very long, and as
full of life and of joints as a serpent. It is told of Coleridge, that
no shorthand-writer could do justice to his lectures; because, although
he spoke deliberately, yet it was impossible, from the first part of his
sentences, to have the slightest notion how they were to end--each
clause was a new surprise, and the close often unexpected as a
thunderbolt. In this, as in many other respects. De Quincey resembles
the "noticeable man with large gray eyes." Each of his periods, begin
where it may, accomplishes a cometary sweep ere it closes. To use an
expression of his own, applied to Bishop Berkeley, "he passes, with the
utmost ease and speed, from tar-water to the Trinity, from a mole-heap
to the thrones of the Godhead." His sentences are microcosms--real,
though imperfect wholes. It is as if he dreaded that earth would end,
and chaos come again, ere each prodigious period were done. This
practice, so far from being ashamed of, he often and elaborately
defends--contrasting it with the "short-winded and asthmatic" style of
writing which abounds in modern times, and particularly among French
authors. We humbly think that the truth on this question lies in the
middle. If an author is anxious for fullness, let him use long
sentences; if he aims at clearness, let them be short. If he is beating
about for truth, his sentences will be long; if he deems he has found,
and wishes to communicate it to others, they will be short. In long
sentences you see processes; in short, results. Eloquence delights in
long sentences, wit in short. Long sentences impress more at the time;
short sentences, if nervous, cling more to the memory. From long
sentences you must, in general, deduct a considerable quantum of
verbiage; short have often a meagre and skeleton air. The reading of
long sentences is more painful at first, less so afterward; a volume
composed entirely of short sentences becomes soon as wearisome as a
jest-book. The mind which employs long sentences has often a broad, but
dim vision--that which delights in short, sees a great number of small
points clearly, but seldom a rounded whole. De Quincey is a good
specimen of the first class. The late Dr. Hamilton, of Leeds, was the
most egregious instance of the second. With all his learning, and
talent, and fancy, the writings of that distinguished divine are
rendered exceedingly tedious by the broken and gasping character of
their style--reading which has been compared to walking on
stepping-stones instead of a firm road. Every thing is so clear, sharp,
and short, that you get irritated and provoked, and cry out for an
intricate or lengthy sentence, both as a trial to your wind, and as a
relief to your weariness.
The best style of writing, in point of effect, is that which combines
both forms of sentence in proper proportions. Just as a well-armed
warrior of old, while he held the broadsword in his right hand, had the
dagger of mercy suspended by his side, the effective writer, who can at
one time wave the flaming brand of eloquence, can at another use the
pointed poignard of direct statement, of close logic, or of keen and
caustic wit. Thus did Burke, Hall, Horsley, and Chalmers.
Akin to De Quincey's length of sentence, is his ungovernable habit of
digression. You can as soon calculate on the motions of a stream of the
aurora, as on those of his mind. From the title of any one of his
papers, you can never infer whether he is to treat the subject
announced, or a hundred others--whether the subjects he is to treat are
to be cognate, or contradictory, to the projected theme--whether, should
he begin the subject, he shall ever finish it--or into how many
foot-notes he is to draw away, as if into subterranean pipes, its pith
and substance. At every possible angle of his road he contrives to break
off, and hence he has never yet reached the end of a day's journey.
Unlike Christian in the "Pilgrim," _he_ welcomes every temptation to go
astray--and, not content with shaking hands with old Worldly Wiseman, he
must, before climbing Mount Difficulty, explore both the way of Danger
and that of Destruction. It may be inquired, if this arise from the
fertility or from the frailty of his genius--from his knowledge of, and
dominion over every province of thought, or from his natural or acquired
inability to resist "right-hand or left-hand defections," provided they
promise to interest himself and to amuse his readers. Judging from
Coleridge's similar practice, we are forced to conclude that it is in De
Quincey too--a weakness fostered, if not produced, by long habits of
self-indulgence.
And yet, notwithstanding such defects (and we might have added to them
his use of logical formulae at times when they appear simply ridiculous,
his unnecessary scholasticism, and display of learning, the undue
self-complacence with which he parades his peculiar views, and explodes
his adversary's, however reputed and venerable, and a certain air of
exaggeration which swathes all his written speech), what splendid powers
this strange being, at all times and on all subjects, exerts! With what
razor-like sharpness does he cut the most difficult distinctions! What
learning is his--here compelling wonder, from its variety and minute
accuracy; and there, from the philosophical grasp with which he holds
it, in compressed masses! And, above all, what grand, sombre, Miltonic
gleams his imagination casts around him on his way; and in what deep
swells of organ-like music do his thoughts often, harmoniously and
irrepressibly, move! The three prose-writers of this century, who, as it
appears to us, approach most nearly to the giants of the era of Charles
I., in spirit of genius and munificence of language, are, Edward Irving,
in his preface to "Ben Ezra," Thomas Aird, in parts of his "Religious
Characteristics," and Thomas De Quincey, in his "Confessions," and his
"Suspiria de Profundis."
In coming down from an author to his works we have often a feeling of
humiliation and disappointment. It is like comparing the great Ben Nevis
with the streamlets which flow from his base, and asking, "Is this all
the mighty mountain can give the world?" So, "What has De Quincey done?"
is a question we are now sure to hear, and feel rather afraid to answer.
In a late number of that very excellent periodical, "Hogg's Instructor,"
Mr. De Quincey, as if anticipating some such objection, argues
(referring to Professor Wilson), that it is ridiculous to expect a
writer now to write a large separate work, as some had demanded from the
professor. He is here, however, guilty of a fallacy, which we wonder he
allowed to escape from his pen: there is a difference between a large
and a great work. No one wishes either De Quincey or John Wilson to
write a folio; what we wish from each of them is, an _artistic_ whole,
large or comparatively small, fully reflecting the image of his mind,
and bearing the relation to his other works which the "Paradise Lost"
does to Milton's "Lycidas," "Arcades," and "Hymn on the Nativity." And
this, precisely, is what neither of those illustrious men has as yet
effected.
De Quincey's works, if collected, would certainly possess sufficient
bulk; they lie scattered, in prodigal profusion, through the thousand
and one volumes of our periodical literature; and we are certain, that a
selection of their better portions would fill ten admirable octavos. Mr.
De Quincey himself was lately urged to collect them. His reply was,
"Sir, the thing is absolutely, insuperably, and forever impossible. Not
the archangel Gabriel, nor his multipotent adversary, durst attempt any
such thing!" We suspect, at least, that death must seal the lips of the
"old man eloquent," ere such a selection shall be made. And yet, in
those unsounded abysses, what treasures might be found--of criticism, of
logic, of wit, of metaphysical acumen, of research, of burning
eloquence, and essential poetry! We should meet there with admirable
specimens of translation from Jean Paul Richter and Lessing; with a
criticism on the former, quite equal to that more famous one of
Carlyle's; with historical chapters, such as those in "Blackwood" on the
Caesars, worthy of Gibbon; with searching criticisms, such as one on the
knocking in Macbeth, and two series on Landor and Schlosser; with the
elephantine humor of his lectures on "Murder, considered as one of the
fine arts;" and with the deep theological insight of his papers on
Christianity, considered as a means of social progress, and on the
Essenes. In fact, De Quincey's knowledge of theology is equal to that of
two bishops--in metaphysics, he could puzzle any German professor--in
astronomy, he has outshone Professor Nichol--in chemistry, he can
outdive Samuel Brown--and in Greek, excite to jealousy the shades of
Porson and Parr. There is another department in which he stands first,
second, and third--we mean, the serious hoax. Do our readers remember
the German romance of Walladmor, passed off at the Leipsic fair as one
of Sir Walter Scott's, and afterward translated into English? The
translation, which was, in fact, a new work, was executed by De Quincey,
who, finding the original dull, thought proper to re-write it; and thus,
to charge trick upon trick. Or have they ever read his chapter in
"Blackwood" for July, 1837, on the "Retreat of a Tartar tribe?" a
chapter certainly containing the most powerful historical painting we
ever read, and recording a section of adventurous and romantic story not
equaled, he says, "since the retreat of the fallen angels." This
chapter, we have good reason for knowing, originated principally in his
own inventive brain. Add to all this, the fiery eloquence of his
"Confessions"--the labored speculation of his "Political Economy"--the
curiously-perverted ingenuity of his "Klosterheim"--and the solemn,
sustained, linked, and lyrical raptures of his "Suspiria," and we have
answered the question, What has he done? But another question is less
easy to answer, What can he, or should he, or shall he yet do? And here
we venture to express a long-cherished opinion. Pure history, or that
species of biography which merges into history, is his forte, and ought
to have been his selected province. He never could have written a
first-rate fiction or poem, or elaborated a complete or original system
of philosophy, although both his imagination and his intellect are of a
very high order. But he has every quality of the great historian, except
compression; he has learning, insight, the power of reproducing the
past, fancy to color, and wit to enliven his writing, and a style which,
while it is unwieldy upon small subjects, rises to meet all great
occasions, like a senator to salute a king. The only danger is, that if
he were writing the history of the Crusades or Caesars, for instance, his
work would expand to the dimensions of the "Universal History."
A great history we do not now expect from De Quincey; but he might,
produce some, as yet, unwritten life, such as the life of Dante, or of
Milton. Such a work would at once concentrate his purpose, task his
powers, and perpetuate his name.
As it is, his place in the future gallery of ages is somewhat uncertain.
For all he has hitherto done, or for all the impression he has made upon
the world, his course may be marked as that of a brilliant but timid
meteor, shooting athwart the midnight, watched but by few eyes, but
accompanied by the keenest interest and admiration of those who did
watch it. Passages of his writings may be preserved in collections; and,
among natural curiosities in the museum of man, his memory must
assuredly be included as the greatest consumer of laudanum and
learning--as possessing the most potent of brains, and the weakest of
wills, of almost all men who ever lived.
We have other two remarks to offer ere we close. Our first is, that,
with all his errors, De Quincey has never ceased to believe in
Christianity. In an age when most men of letters have gone over to the
skeptical side, and too often treat with insolent scorn, as sciolistic
and shallow, those who still cling to the gospel, it is refreshing to
find one who stands confessedly at the head of them all, in point of
talent and learning, so intimately acquainted with the tenets, so
profoundly impressed by the evidences, and so ready to do battle for the
cause, of the blessed faith of Jesus. From those awful depths of sorrow
in which he was long plunged, he never ceased to look up to the
countenance and the cross of the Saviour; and now, recovered from his
evils, and sins, and degradations, we seem to see him sitting, "clothed
and in his right mind, at the feet of Jesus." Would to God that others
of his class were to go, and to sit down beside him!
We may state, in fine, that efforts are at present being made to
procure for Mr. De Quincey a pension. A memorial on the subject has been
presented to Lord John Russell. We need hardly say, that we cordially
wish this effort all success. A pension would be to him a delicate
sunset ray--soon, possibly, to shine on his bed of death--but, at all
events, sure to minister a joy and a feeling of security, which, during
all his long life, he has never for an hour experienced. It were but a
proper reward for his eminent abilities, hard toils, and the uniform
support which he has given, by his talents, to a healthy literature, and
a spiritual faith. We trust, too, that government may be induced to
couple with his name, in the same generous bestowal, another--inferior,
indeed, in brilliance, but which represents a more consistent and a more
useful life. We allude to Dr. Dick, of Broughty Ferry, a gentleman who
has done more than any living author to popularize science--to
accomplish the Socratic design of bringing down philosophy to earth--who
has never ceased, at the same time, to exhale moral and religious
feeling, as a fine incense, from the researches and experiments of
science to the Eternal Throne--and who, for his laborious exertions, of
nearly thirty years' duration, has been rewarded by poverty, and
neglect, the "proud man's contumely," and, as yet, by the silence of a
government which professes to be the patron of literature and the
succorer of every species of merit in distress. To quote a
newspaper-writer, who is well acquainted with the case: "I know that Dr.
Dick has lived a long and a laborious life, writing books which have
done much good to man. I know that he has often had occasion to sell
these books to publishers, at prices to which his poverty, and not his
will consented. I know, too, that throughout his life he has lived with
the moderation and the meekness of a saint, as he has written with the
wisdom of a sage; and, knowing these things, I would fain save him from
the death of a martyr."
[From Household Words.]
THE MINER'S DAUGHTERS--A TALE OF THE PEAK.
IN THREE CHAPTERS.
CHAPTER I--THE CHILD'S TRAGEDY.
There is no really beautiful part of this kingdom so little known as the
Peak of Derbyshire. Matlock, with its tea-garden trumpery and
mock-heroic wonders; Buxton, with its bleak hills and fashionable
bathers; the truly noble Chatsworth and the venerable Haddon, engross
almost all that the public generally have seen of the Peak. It is talked
of as a land of mountains, which in reality are only hills; but its true
beauty lies in valleys that have been created by the rending of the
earth in some primeval convulsion, and which present a thousand charms
to the eyes of the lover of nature. How deliciously do the crystal
waters of the Wye and the Dove rush along such valleys, or dales, as
they there are called. With what a wild variety do the gray rocks soar
up amid their woods and copses. How airily stand in the clear heavens
the lofty limestone precipices, and the gray edges of rock gleam cut
from the bare green downs--there _never_ called downs. What a genuine
Saxon air is there cast over the population--what a Saxon bluntness
salutes you in their speech!
It is into the heart of this region that we propose now to carry the
reader. Let him suppose himself with us now on the road from
Ashford-in-the-water to Tideswell. We are at the Bull's Head, a little
inn on that road. There is nothing to create wonder, or a suspicion of a
hidden Arcadia in any thing you see, but another step forward,
and--there! There sinks a world of valleys at your feet. To your left
lies the delicious Monsal Dale. Old Finn Hill lifts his gray head
grandly over it. Hobthrush's Castle stands bravely forth in the hollow
of his side--gray, and desolate, and mysterious. The sweet Wye goes
winding and sounding at his feet, amid its narrow green meadows, green
as the emerald, and its dark glossy alders. Before us stretches on,
equally beautiful, Cressbrook Dale; Little Edale shows its cottages from
amidst its trees; and as we advance, the Mousselin-de-laine Mills
stretch across the mouth of Miller's Dale, and startle with the aspect
of so much life amid so much solitude.
But our way is still onward. We resist the attraction of Cressbrook
village on its lofty eminence, and plunge to the right, into Wardlow
Dale. Here we are buried deep in woods, and yet behold still deeper the
valley descend below us. There is an Alpine feeling upon us. We are
carried once more, as in a dream, into the Saxon Switzerland. Above us
stretch the boldest ranges of lofty precipices, and deep amid the woods
are heard the voices of children. These come from a few workmen's
houses, couched at the foot of a cliff that rises high and bright amid
the sun. That is Wardlow Cop; and there we mean to halt for a moment.
Forward lies a wild region of hills, and valleys, and lead-mines, but
forward goes no road, except such as you can make yourself through the
tangled woods.
At the foot of Wardlow Cop, before this little hamlet of Bellamy Wick
was built, or the glen was dignified with the name of Raven Dale, there
lived a miner who had no term for his place of abode. He lived, he said,
under Wardlow Cop, and that contented him.
His house was one of those little, solid, gray limestone cottages, with
gray flagstone roofs, which abound in the Peak. It had stood under that
lofty precipice when the woods which now so densely fill the valley were
but newly planted. There had been a mine near it, which had no doubt
been the occasion of its erection in so solitary a place; but that mine
was now worked out and David Dunster, the miner, now worked at a mine
right over the hills in Miller's Dale. He was seldom at home, except at
night, and on Sundays. His wife, besides keeping her little house, and
digging and weeding in the strip of garden that lay on the steep slope
above the house, hemmed in with a stone wall, also seamed stockings for
a framework-knitter in Ashford, whither she went once or twice in the
week.
They had three children, a boy and two girls. The boy was about eight
years of age; the girls were about five and six. These children were
taught their lessons of spelling and reading by the mother, among her
other multifarious tasks; for she was one of those who are called
regular plodders. She was quiet, patient, and always doing, though never
in a bustle. She was not one of those who acquire a character for vast
industry by doing every thing in a mighty flurry, though they contrive
to find time for a tolerable deal of gossip under the plea of resting a
bit, and which "resting a bit" they always terminate by an exclamation
that "they must be off, though, for they have a world of work to do."
Betty Dunster, on the contrary, was looked on as rather "a slow coach."
If you remarked that she was a hard-working woman, the reply was, "Well,
she's always doing--Betty's work's never done; but then she does na
hurry hersen." The fact was, Betty was a thin, spare woman, of no very
strong constitution, but of an untiring spirit. Her pleasure and rest
were, when David came home at night, to have his supper ready, and to
sit down opposite to him at the little round table, and help him, giving
a bit now and then to the children, that came and stood round, though
they had had their suppers, and were ready for bed as soon as they had
seen something of their "dad."
David Dunster was one of those remarkably tall fellows that you see
about these hills, who seem of all things the very worst made men to
creep into the little mole holes on the hill sides that they call
lead-mines. But David did manage to burrow under and through the hard
limestone rooks as well as any of them. He was a hard-working man,
though he liked a sup of beer, as most Derbyshire men do, and sometimes
came home none of the soberest. He was naturally of a very hasty temper,
and would fly into great rages; and if he were put out by any thing in
the working of the mines, or the conduct of his fellow-workmen, he would
stay away from home for days, drinking at Tideswell, or the Bull's Head,
at the top of Monsal Dale, or down at the Miners' Arms at
Ashford-in-the-water.
Betty Dunster bore all this patiently. She looked on these things
somewhat as matters of course. At that time, and even now, how few
miners do not drink and "rol a bit," as they call it. She was,
therefore, tolerant, and let the storms blow over, ready always to
persuade her husband to go home and sleep off his drink and anger, but
if he were too violent, leaving him till another attempt might succeed
better. She was very fond of her children, and not only taught them on
week-days their lessons, and to help her to seam, but also took them to
the Methodist Chapel in "Tidser," as they called Tideswell, whither,
whenever she could, she enticed David. David, too, in his way, was fond
of the children, especially of the boy, who was called David after him.
He was quite wrapped up in the lad, to use the phrase of the people in
that part; in fact, he was foolishly and mischievously fond of him. He
would give him beer to drink, "to make a true Briton on him," as he
said, spite of Betty's earnest endeavor to prevent it--telling him that
he was laying the foundation in the lad of the same faults that he had
himself. But David Dunster did not look on drinking as a fault at all.
It was what he had been used to all his life. It was what all the miners
had been used to for generations. A man was looked on as a milk-sop and
a Molly Coddle, that would not take his mug of ale, and be merry with
his comrades. It required the light of education, and the efforts that
have been made by the Temperance Societies, to break in on this ancient
custom of drinking, which, no doubt, has flourished in these hills since
the Danes and other Scandinavians bored and perforated them of old for
the ores of lead and copper. To Betty Dunster's remonstrances, and
commendations of tea, David would reply, "Botheration, Betty, wench!
Dunna tell me about thy tea and such-like pig's-wesh. It's all very well
for women; but a man, Betty, a man mun ha' a sup of real stingo, lass.
He mun ha' summut to prop his ribs out, lass, as he delves through th'
chert and tood-stone. When tha weylds th' maundrel (the pick), and I
wesh th' dishes, tha shall ha' th' drink, my wench, and I'll ha' th'
tea. Till then, prithee let me aloon, and dunna bother me, for it's no
use. It only kicks my monkey up."
And Betty found that it was of no use; that it did only kick his monkey
up, and so she let him alone, except when she could drop in a persuasive
word or two. The mill-owners at Cress brook and Miller's Dale had
forbidden any public-house nearer than Edale, and they had more than
once called the people together to point out to them the mischiefs of
drinking, and the advantages to be derived from the very savings of
temperance. But all these measures, though they had some effect on the
mill people, had very little on the miners. They either sent to
Tideswell or Edale for kegs of beer to peddle at the mines, or they went
thither themselves on receiving their wages.
And let no one suppose that David Dunster was worse than his fellows, or
that Betty Dunster thought her case a particularly hard one. David was
"pretty much of a muchness," according to the country phrase, with the
rest of his hard-working tribe, which was, and always had been, a
hard-drinking tribe; and Betty, though she wished it different, did not
complain just because it was of no use, and because she was no worse off
than her neighbors.
Often when she went to "carry in her hose" to Ashford, she left the
children at home by themselves. She had no alternative. They were there
in that solitary valley for many hours playing alone. And to them it was
not solitary. It was all that they knew of life, and that all was very
pleasant to them. In spring, they hunted for birds'-nests in the copses,
and among the rocks and gray stones that had fallen from them. In the
copses built the blackbirds and thrushes; in the rocks the firetails;
and the gray wagtails in the stones, which were so exactly of their own
color, as to make it difficult to see them. In summer, they gathered
flowers and berries, and in the winter they played at horses, kings, and
shops, and sundry other things in the house.
On one of these occasions, a bright afternoon in autumn, the three
children had rambled down the glen, and found a world of amusement in
being teams of horses, in making a little mine at the foot of a tall
cliff; and in marching for soldiers, for they had one day--the only time
in their lives--seen some soldiers go through the village of Ashford,
when they had gone there with their mother, for she now and then took
them with her when she had something from the shop to carry besides her
bundle of hose. At length they came to the foot of an open hill, which
swelled to a considerable height, with a round and climbable side, on
which grew a wilderness of bushes, amid which lay scattered masses of
gray crag. A small winding path went up this, and they followed it. It
was not long, however, before they saw some things which excited their
eager attention. Little David, who was the guide, and assumed to himself
much importance as the protector of his sisters, exclaimed, "See here!"
and springing forward, plucked a fine crimson cluster of the mountain
bramble. His sisters, on seeing this, rushed on with like eagerness.
They soon forsook the little winding and craggy footpath, and hurried
through sinking masses of moss and dry grass, from bush to bush, and
place to place. They were soon far up above the valley, and almost every
step revealed to them some delightful prize. The clusters of the
mountain-bramble, resembling mulberries, and known only to the
inhabitants of the hills, were abundant, and were rapidly devoured. The
dewberry was as eagerly gathered--its large, purple fruit passing with
them for blackberries. In their hands were soon seen posies of the
lovely grass of Parnassus, the mountain cistus, and the bright blue
geranium.
Higher and higher the little group ascended in this quest, till the
sight of the wide, naked hills, and the hawks circling round the lofty,
tower-like crags over their heads, made them feel serious and somewhat
afraid.
"Where are we?" asked Jane, the elder sister. "Arn't we a long way from
hom?"
"Let us go hom," said little Nancy. "I'm afreed here;" clutching hold of
Jane's frock.
"Pho, nonsense!" said David; "what are you afreed on? I'll tak care on
you, niver fear."
And with this he assumed a bold and defying aspect, and said, "Come
along; there are nests in th' hazzles up yonder."
He began to mount again, but the two girls hung back and said, "Nay,
David, dunna go higher; we are both afreed;" and Jane added, "It's a
long wee from hom, I'm sure."
"And those birds screechin' so up there; I darna go up," added little
Nancy. They were the hawks that she meant, which hovered whimpering and
screaming about the highest cliffs. David called them little cowards,
but began to descend, and, presently, seeking for berries and flowers as
they descended, they regained the little winding, craggy road, and,
while they were calling to each other, discovered a remarkable echo on
the opposite hill side. On this, they shouted to it, and laughed, and
were half frightened when it laughed and shouted again. Little Nancy
said it must be an old man in the inside of the mountain; at which they
were all really afraid, though David put on a big look, and said,
"Nonsense! it was nothing at all." But Jane asked how nothing at all
could shout and laugh as it did? and on this little Nancy plucked her
again by the frock, and said in turn, "Oh, dear, let's go hom!"
But at this David gave a wild whoop to frighten them, and when the hill
whooped again, and the sisters began to run, he burst into laughter, and
the strange spectral Ha! ha! ha! that ran along the inside of the hill,
as it were, completed their fear, and they stopped their ears with their
hands, and scuttled away down the hill. But now David seized them, and
pulling their hands down from their heads, he said, "See here! what a
nice place with the stones sticking out like seats. Why, it's like a
little house; let us stay and play a bit here." It was a little hollow
in the hill side surrounded by projecting stones like an amphitheatre.
The sisters were still afraid, but the sight of this little hollow with
its seats of crag had such a charm for them that they promised David
they would stop awhile, if he would promise not to shout and awake the
echo. David readily promised this, and so they sat down. David proposed
to keep a school, and cut a hazel wand from a bush, and began to lord it
over his two scholars in a very pompous manner. The two sisters
pretended to be much afraid, and to read very diligently on pieces of
flat stone which they had picked up. And then David became a sergeant,
and was drilling them for soldiers, and stuck pieces of fern into their
hair for cockades. And then, soon after, they were sheep, and he was the
shepherd; and he was catching his flock and going to shear them, and
made so much noise that Jane cried, "Hold! there's the echo mocking us."
At this they all were still. But David said, "Pho! never mind the echo;
I must shear my sheep:" but just as he was seizing little Nancy to
pretend to shear her with a piece of stick, Jane cried out, "Look! look!
how black it is coming down the valley there! There's going to be a
dreadful starm. Let us hurry hom!"
David and Nancy both looked up, and agreed to run as fast down the hill
as they could. But the next moment the driving storm swept over the
hill, and the whole valley was hid in it. The three children still
hurried on, but it became quite dark, and they soon lost the track, and
were tossed about by the wind, so that they had difficulty to keep on
their legs. Little Nancy began to cry, and the three taking hold of each
other, endeavored in silence to make their way homeward. But presently
they all stumbled over a large stone, and fell some distance down the
hill. They were not hurt, but much frightened, for they now remembered
the precipices, and were afraid every minute of going over them. They
now strove to find the track by going up again, but they could not find
it any where. Sometimes they went upward till they thought they were
quite too far, and then they went downward till they were completely
bewildered; and then, like the Babes in the Wood, "They sate them down
and cried."
But ere they had sate long, they heard footsteps, and listened. They
certainly heard them and shouted, but there was no answer. David
shouted, "Help! fayther! mother! help!" but there was no answer. The
wind swept fiercely by; the hawks whimpered from the high crags, lost in
the darkness of the storm; and the rain fell, driving along icy cold.
Presently there was a gleam of light through the clouds; the hill side
became visible, and through the haze they saw a tall figure as of an old
man ascending the hill. He appeared to carry two loads slung from his
shoulders by a strap; a box hanging before, and a bag hanging at his
back. He wound up the hill slowly and wearily, and presently he stopped,
and relieving himself of his load, seated himself on a piece of crag to
rest. Again David shouted, but there still was no answer. The old man
sate as if no shout had been heard--immovable.
"It _is_ a man," said David, "and I _will_ mak him hear;" and with that
he shouted once more with all his might. But the old man made no sign of
recognition. He did not even turn his head, but he took off his hat and
began to wipe his brow as if warm with the ascent.
"What can it be?" said David in astonishment. "It _is_ a man, that's
sartain. I'll run and see."
"Nay, nay!" shrieked the sisters. "Don't, David, don't! It's perhaps the
old man out of the mountain that's been mocking us. Perhaps," added
Jane, "he only comes out in starms and darkness."
"Stuff!" said David, "an echo isn't a man; it's only our own voices.
I'll see who it is;" and away he darted, spite of the poor girls' crying
in terror, "Don't; don't, David; oh, don't!"
But David was gone. He was not long in reaching the old man, who sate on
his stone breathing hard, as if out of breath with his ascent, but not
appearing to perceive David's approach. The rain and the wind drove
fiercely upon him, but he did not seem to mind it. David was half afraid
to approach close to him, but he called out, "Help! help, mester!" The
old man remained as unconscious of his presence. "Hillo!" cried David
again. "Can you tell us the way down, mester?" There was no answer, and
David was beginning to feel a shudder of terror run through every limb,
when the clouds cleared considerably, and he suddenly exclaimed, "Why,
it's old Tobias Turton of top of Edale, and he's as deaf as a door
nail!"
In an instant David was at his side; seized his coat to make him aware
of his presence, and, on the old man perceiving him, shouted in his ear,
"Which is the way down here, Mester Turton? Where's the track?"
"Down? Weighs o' the back?" said the old man; "ay, my lad, I was fain to
sit down; it does weigh o' th' back, sure enough."
"Where's the foot-track?" shouted David, again.
"Th' foot-track? Why, what art ta doing here, my lad, in such a starm?
Isn't it David Dunster's lad?"
David nodded. "Why, the track's here--see!" and the old man stamped his
foot. "Get down hom, my lad, as fast as thou can. What dun they do
letting thee be upon th' hills in such a dee as this?"
David nodded his thanks, and turned to descend the track, while the old
man, adjusting his burden again, silently and wearily recommenced his
way upward.
David shouted to his sisters as he descended, and they quickly replied.
He called to them to come toward him, as he was on the track, and was
afraid to quit it again. They endeavored to do this; but the darkness
was now redoubled, and the wind and rain became more furious than ever.
The two sisters were soon bewildered among the bushes; and David, who
kept calling to them at intervals to direct their course toward him,
soon heard them crying bitterly. At this, he forgot the necessity of
keeping the track, and darting toward them, soon found them, by
continuing to call to them, and took their hands to lead them to the
track. But they were now drenched through with the rain, and shivered
with cold and fear. David, with a stout heart, endeavored to cheer them.
He told them the track was close by, and that they would soon be at
home. But though the track was not ten yards off, somehow they did not
find it. Bushes and projecting rocks turned them out of their course;
and, owing to the confusion caused by the wind, the darkness, and their
terror, they searched in vain for the track. Sometimes they thought they
had found it, and went on a few paces, only to stumble over loose
stones, or get entangled in the bushes.
It was now absolutely becoming night. Their terrors increased greatly.
They shouted and cried aloud, in the hope of making their parents hear
them. They felt sure that both father and mother must be come home; and
as sure that they would be hunting for them. But they did not reflect
that their parents could not tell in what direction they had gone. Both
father and mother were come home, and the mother had instantly rushed
out to try to find them, on perceiving that they were not in the house.
She had hurried to and fro, and called--not at first supposing they
would be far. But when she heard nothing of them, she ran in, and begged
of her husband to join in the search. But at first David Dunster would
do nothing. He was angry at them for going away from the house, and
said he was too tired to go on a wild-goose chase through the
plantations after them. "They are i' th' plantations," said he; "they
are sheltering there somewhere. Let them alone, and they'l come home,
with a good long tail behind them."
With this piece of a child's song of sheep, David sat down to his
supper, and Betty Dunster hurried up the valley, shouting, "Children,
where are you? David! Jane! Nancy! where are you?"
When she heard nothing of them, she hurried still more wildly up the
hill toward the village. When she arrived there--the distance of a mile
--she inquired from house to house, but no one had seen any thing of
them. It was clear they had not been in that direction. An alarm was
thus created in the village; and several young men set out to join Mrs.
Dunster in the quest. They again descended the valley toward Dunster's
house, shouting every now and then, and listening. The night was pitch
dark, and the rain fell heavily; but the wind had considerably abated,
and once they thought they heard a faint cry in answer to their call,
far down the valley. They were right: the children had heard the
shouting, and had replied to it. But they were far off. The young men
shouted again, but there was no answer; and after shouting once more
without success, they hastened on. When they reached David Dunster's
house, they found the door open, and no one within. They knew that David
had set off in quest of the children himself, and they determined to
descend the valley. The distracted mother went with them, crying
silently to herself, and praying inwardly, and every now and then trying
to shout. But the young men raised their strong voices above hers, and
made the cliffs echo with their appeals.
Anon a voice answered them down the valley. They ran on as well as the
darkness would let them, and soon found that it was David Dunster, who
had been in the plantations on the other side of the valley; but hearing
nothing of the lost children, now joined them. He said he had heard the
cry from the hill side farther down, that answered to their shouts; and
he was sure that it was his boy David's voice. But he had shouted again,
and there had been no answer but a wild scream as of terror, that made
his blood run cold.
"O God!" exclaimed the distracted mother, "what can it be! David!
David! Jane Nancy!"
There was no answer. The young men bade Betty Dunster to contain
herself, and they would find the children before they went home again.
All held on down the valley, and in the direction whence the voice came.
Many times did the young men and the now strongly agitated father shout
and listen. At length they seemed to hear voices of weeping and moaning.
They listened--they were sure they heard a lamenting--it could only be
the children. But why then did they not answer? On struggled the men,
and Mrs. Dunster followed wildly after. Now, again, they stood and
shouted, and a kind of terrified scream followed the shout.
"God in heaven!" exclaimed the mother; "what is it? There is something
dreadful. My children! my children! where are you?"
"Be silent, pray do, Mrs. Dunster," said one of the young men, "or we
can not catch the sounds so as to follow them." They again listened, and
the wailings of the children were plainly heard. The whole party pushed
forward over stock and stone up the hill. They called again, and there
was a cry of "Here! here! fayther! mother! where are you?"
In a few moments more the whole party had reached the children, who
stood drenched with rain, and trembling violently, under a cliff that
gave no shelter, but was exposed especially to the wind and rain.
"O Christ! my children!" cried the mother, wildly, struggling forward
and clasping one in her arms. "Nancy! Jane! But where is David? David!
David! Oh, where is David? Where is your brother?"
The whole party was startled at not seeing the boy, and joined in a
simultaneous "Where is he? where is your brother?"
The two children only wept and trembled more violently, and burst into
loud crying.
"Silence!" shouted the father. "Where is David? I tell ye? Is he lost?
David, lad, where ar ta?"
All listened, but there was no answer but the renewed crying of the two
girls.
"Where is the lad, then?" thundered forth the father with a terrible
oath.
The two terrified children cried, "Oh, down there! down there!"
"Down where? Oh, God!" exclaimed one of the young men; "why it's a
precipice! Down there!"
At this dreadful intelligence the mother gave a wild shriek, and fell
senseless on the ground. The young men caught her, and dragged her back
from the edge of the precipice. The father in the same moment, furious
at what he heard, seized the younger child, that happened to be near
him, and shaking it violently, swore he would fling it down after the
lad.
He was angry with the poor children, as if they had caused the
destruction of his boy. The young men seized him, and bade him think
what he was about; but the man believing his boy had fallen down the
precipice, was like a madman. He kicked at his wife as she lay on the
ground, as if she were guilty of this calamity by leaving the children
at home. He was furious against the poor girls, as if they had led their
brother into danger. In his violent rage he was a perfect maniac, and
the young men pushing him away, cried shame on him. In a while, the
desperate man, torn by a hurricane of passion, sate himself down on a
crag, and burst into a tempest of tears, and struck his head violently
with his clenched fists, and cursed himself and every body. It was a
dreadful scene.
Meantime, some of the young men had gone down below the precipice on
which the children had stood, and, feeling among the loose stones, had
found the body of poor little David. He was truly dead!
When he had heard the shout of his father, or of the young men, he had
given one loud shout in answer, and saying, "Come on! never fear now!"
sprang forward, and was over the precipice in the dark, and flew down,
and was dashed to pieces. His sisters heard a rush, a faint shriek, and
suddenly stopping, escaped the destruction that poor David had found.