In _Notes and Queries_ [9th S., ix. 369, 450; x. 16] a letter had
appeared, signed 'Jay Aitch,' inquiring as to the school of mystics
founded by Lavater, alluded to on page 83 of the _Illustrated
Aylwin_. This afforded Mr. Thomas St. E. Hake another opportunity of
unloading his wallet of Rossetti and _Aylwin_ lore. And in the same
journal, for 2nd August 1902, he wrote as follows:
The question raised by Jay Aitch as to the school of mystics founded
by Lavater, and the large book _The Veiled Queen_, by 'Philip
Aylwin,' which contains quotations that Jay Aitch affirms have
haunted him ever since he read them, are certainly questions about as
interesting as any that could have been raised in connexion with the
story. And in answering these queries I find an opportunity of saying
a few authentic words on a subject upon which many unauthentic ones
have been-uttered--that of the occultism of D. G, Rossetti and some
of his friends. It has been frequently said that Rossetti was a
spiritualist, and it is a fact that he went to several _séances_; but
the word 'spiritualism' seems to have a rather elastic meaning. A
spiritualist, as distinguished from a materialist, Rossetti certainly
was, but his spiritualism was not, I should say, that which in common
parlance bears this name. It was exactly like 'Aylwinism,' which
seems to have been related to the doctrines of the Lavaterian sect
about which Jay Aitch inquires. As a matter of fact, it was not the
original of 'Wilderspin' nearly so much as the original D'Arcy who
was captured by the doctrine of what is called in the story the
'Aylwinian.'
With regard to Johann Kaspar Lavater, Jay Aitch is no doubt aware
that, although this once noted writer's fame rests entirely upon his
treatise _Physiognomische Fragmente_, he founded a school of mystics
in Switzerland. This was before what is called spiritualism came into
vogue. I believe that the doctrines of _The Veiled Queen_ are closely
related to the doctrines of the Lavaterians; but my knowledge on this
matter is of a second-hand kind, and is derived from conversations
upon Lavater and his claims as a physiognomist, which I heard many
years ago at Coombe and during walks in Richmond Park, between the
author of _Aylwin_ and my father, who, admittedly a man of
intellectual grasp, went even further than Lavater.
A writer in the _Literary World_, in some admirable remarks upon this
story, is, as far as I know, the only critic who has dwelt upon the
extraordinary character of 'Philip Aylwin.' He says:
'The melancholy, the spiritual isolation, and the passionate love of
this master-mystic for his dead wife are so finely rendered that the
reader's sympathies go out at once to this most pathetic and lonely
figure....It would be difficult for any sensitive man or woman to
follow Philip Aylwin's story as related by his son without the
tribute of aching heart and scalding tears. To our thinking, the
man's sanity is more moving, more supremely tragic, than even the
madness of Winifred, which is the culminating tragedy of the book.'
I must say that I agree with this writer in thinking 'Philip Aylwin'
to be the most impressive character in the story. The most remarkable
feature of the novel, indeed, is that, although 'Philip Aylwin'
disappears from the scene so early, his opinions, his character, and
his dreams are cast so entirely over the book from beginning to end
that the novel might have been called _Philip Aylwin_. I have a
special interest in this character, because I knew the undoubted
original of the character with a considerable amount of intimacy.
Without the permission of the author of _Aylwin_, I can only touch on
outward traits--the deep, spiritual life of this man is beyond me.
Although a very near relation, he was not, as has been so often
surmised, the author's father. [Footnote] He was a man of
extraordinary learning in the academic sense of the word, and
possessed still more extraordinary general knowledge. He lived for
many years the strangest kind of hermit life, surrounded by his
books and old manuscripts. His two great passions were philology
and occultism. He knew more, I think, of those strange writers
discussed in Vaughan's _Hours with the Mystics_ than any other
person--including, perhaps, Vaughan himself; but he managed to
combine with his love of Mysticism a deep passion for the physical
sciences, especially astronomy. He seemed to be learning languages up
to almost the last year of his life. His method of learning languages
was the opposite of that of George Borrow, that is to say, he made
great use of grammars; and when he died it is said that from four to
five hundred treatises on grammar were found among his books. He used
to express great contempt for Borrow's method of learning languages
from dictionaries only.
[Footnote: He was Mr. Watts-Dunton's uncle--Mr. James Orlando Watts.]
I do not think that any one connected with literature--with the
exception of Mr. Watts-Dunton, Mr. Swinburne, my father, and Dr. R.
G. Latham--knew so much of him as I did. His personal appearance was
exactly like that of 'Philip Aylwin,' as described in the novel.
Although he never wrote poetry, he translated, I believe, a good deal
from the Spanish and Portuguese poets. I remember that he was an
extraordinary admirer of Shelley. His knowledge of Shakespeare and
the Elizabethan dramatists was a link between him and Mr. Swinburne.
At a time when I was a busy reader at the British Museum
Reading-Room, I used frequently to see him, and he never seemed to
know any one among the readers except myself, and whenever he spoke
to me it was always in a hushed whisper, lest he should disturb the
other readers, which in his eyes would have been a heinous offence.
For very many years he had been extremely well known to the
second-hand booksellers, for he was a constant purchaser of their
wares. He was a great pedestrian, and, being very much attached to
the north of London, would take long, slow tramps ten miles out in
the direction of Highgate, Wood Green, etc. I have a very distinct
recollection of calling upon him in Myddelton Square at the time when
I was living close to him in Percy Circus. Books were piled up from
floor to ceiling, apparently in great confusion, but he seemed to
remember where to find every book and what there was in it. It is a
singular fact that the only person outside those I have mentioned who
seems to have known him was that brilliant but eccentric journalist,
Thomas Purnell, who had an immense opinion of him and used to call
him 'the scholar.' How Purnell managed to break through the icy wall
that surrounded the recluse always puzzled me; but I suppose they
must have come across one another at one of those pleasant inns in
the north of London where 'the scholar' was taking his chop and
bottle of Beaune. He was a man that never made new friends, and as
one after another of his old friends died he was left so entirely
alone that, I think, he saw no one except Mr. Swinburne, the author
of _Aylwin_, and myself. But at Christmas he always spent a week at
'The Pines,' when and where my father and I used to meet him. His
memory was so powerful that he seemed to be able to recall not only
all that he had read, but the very conversations in which he had
taken a part. He died, I think, at a little over eighty, and his
faculties up to the last were exactly like those of a man in the
prime of life. He always reminded me of Charles Lamb's description
of George Dyer.
Such is my outside picture of this extraordinary man; and it is only
of externals that I am free to speak here, even if I were competent
to touch upon his inner life. He was a still greater recluse than
the 'Philip Aylwin' of the novel. I think I am right in saying that
he took up one or two Oriental tongues when he was seventy years of
age. Another of his passions was numismatics, and it was in these
studies that he sympathized with the author of _Aylwin's_ friend, the
late Lord de Tabley. I remember one story of his peculiarities which
will give an idea of the kind of man he was. He had a brother who was
the exact opposite of him in every way--strikingly good-looking, with
great charm of mariner and _savoir faire_, but with an ordinary
intellect and a very superficial knowledge of literature, or, indeed,
anything else, except records of British military and naval
exploits--where he was really learned. Being full of admiration of
his student brother, and having a parrot-like instinct for mimicry,
he used to talk with great volubility upon all kinds of subjects
wherever he went, and repeat in the same words what he had been
listening to from his brother, until at last he got to be called the
'walking encyclopedia.' The result was that he got the reputation of
being a great reader and an original thinker, while the true student
and book-lover was frequently complimented on the way in which he
took after his learned brother. This did not in the least annoy the
real student, it simply amused him, and he would give with a dry
humour most amusing stories as to what people had said to him on this
subject.