Before going on with my own story to-day, I must fasten down a main
principle about doing good work, not yet enough made clear.
It has been a prevalent notion in the minds of well-disposed persons,
that if they acted according to their own conscience, they must,
therefore, be doing right.
But they assume, in feeling or asserting this, either that there is no
Law of God, or that it cannot be known; but only felt, or conjectured.
“I must do what I think right.” How often is this sentence uttered and
acted on—bravely—nobly—innocently; but always—because of its
egotism—erringly. You must not do what YOU think right, but, whether
you or anybody think, or don’t think it, what is right.
“I must act according to the dictates of my conscience.”
By no means, my conscientious friend, unless you are quite sure that
yours is not the conscience of an ass.
“I am doing my best—what can man do more?”
You might be doing much less, and yet much better:—perhaps you are
doing your best in producing, or doing, an eternally bad thing.
All these three sayings, and the convictions they express, are wise
only in the mouths and minds of wise men; they are deadly, and all the
deadlier because bearing an image and superscription of virtue, in the
mouths and minds of fools.
“But there is every gradation, surely, between wisdom and folly?”
No. The fool, whatever his wit, is the man who doesn’t know his
master—who has said in his heart—there is no God—no Law.
The wise man knows his master. Less or more wise, he perceives lower or
higher masters; but always some creature larger than himself—some law
holier than his own. A law to be sought—learned, loved—obeyed; but in
order to its discovery, the obedience must be begun first, to the best
one knows. Obey something; and you will have a chance some day of
finding out what is best to obey. But if you begin by obeying nothing,
you will end by obeying Beelzebub and all his seven invited friends.
Which being premised, I venture to continue the history of my own early
submissions to external Force.
The Bible readings, described in my last letter, took place always in
the front parlour of the house, which, when I was about five years old,
my father found himself able to buy the lease of, at Herne Hill. The
piece of road between the Fox tavern and the Herne Hill station,
remains, in all essential points of character, unchanged to this day:
certain Gothic splendours, lately indulged in by our wealthier
neighbours, being the only serious innovations; and these are so
graciously concealed by the fine trees of their grounds, that the
passing viator remains unappalled by them; and I can still walk up and
down the piece of road aforesaid, imagining myself seven years old.
Our house was the fourth part of a group which stand accurately on the
top or dome of the hill, where the ground is for a small space level,
as the snows are (I understand) on the dome of Mont Blanc; presently
falling, however, in what may be, in the London clay formation,
considered a precipitous slope, to our valley of Chamouni (or of
Dulwich) on the east; and with a softer descent into Cold Arbour,
(nautically aspirated into Harbour)-lane on the west: on the south, no
less beautifully declining to the dale of the Effra, (doubtless
shortened from Effrena, signifying the “Unbridled” river; recently, I
regret to say, bricked over for the convenience of Mr. Biffin, the
chemist, and others); while on the north, prolonged indeed with slight
depression some half mile or so, and receiving, in the parish of
Lambeth, the chivalric title of ‘Champion Hill,’ it plunges down at
last to efface itself in the plains of Peckham, and the rustic
solitudes of Goose Green.
The group, of which our house was the quarter, consisted of two
precisely similar partner-couples of houses,—gardens and all to match;
still the two highest blocks of buildings seen from Norwood on the
crest of the ridge; which, even within the time I remember, rose with
no stinted beauty of wood and lawn above the Dulwich fields.
The house itself, three-storied, with garrets above, commanded, in
those comparatively smokeless days, a very notable view from its upper
windows, of the Norwood hills on one side, and the winter sunrise over
them; and of the valley of the Thames, with Windsor in the distance, on
the other, and the summer sunset over these. It had front and back
garden in sufficient proportion to its size; the front, richly set with
old evergreens, and well grown lilac and laburnum; the back, seventy
yards long by twenty wide, renowned over all the hill for its pears and
apples, which had been chosen with extreme care by our predecessor,
(shame on me to forget the name of a man to whom I owe so much!)—and
possessing also a strong old mulberry tree, a tall white-heart cherry
tree, a black Kentish one, and an almost unbroken hedge, all round, of
alternate gooseberry and currant bush; decked, in due season, (for the
ground was wholly beneficent,) with magical splendour of abundant
fruit: fresh green, soft amber, and rough-bristled crimson bending the
spinous branches; clustered pearl and pendant ruby joyfully
discoverable under the large leaves that looked like vine.
The differences of primal importance which I observed between the
nature of this garden, and that of Eden, as I had imagined it, were,
that, in this one, all the fruit was forbidden; and there were no
companionable beasts: in other respects the little domain answered
every purpose of Paradise to me; and the climate, in that cycle of our
years, allowed me to pass most of my life in it. My mother never gave
me more to learn than she knew I could easily get learnt, if I set
myself honestly to work, by twelve o’clock. She never allowed anything
to disturb me when my task was set; if it was not said rightly by
twelve o’clock, I was kept in till I knew it, and in general, even when
Latin Grammar came to supplement the Psalms, I was my own master for at
least an hour before dinner at half-past one, and for the rest of the
afternoon. My mother, herself finding her chief personal pleasure in
her flowers, was often planting or pruning beside me,—at least if I
chose to stay beside her. I never thought of doing anything behind her
back which I would not have done before her face; and her presence was
therefore no restraint to me; but, also, no particular pleasure; for,
from having always been left so much alone, I had generally my own
little affairs to see after; and on the whole, by the time I was seven
years old, was already getting too independent, mentally, even of my
father and mother; and having nobody else to be dependent upon, began
to lead a very small, perky, contented, conceited, Cock-Robinson-Crusoe
sort of life, in the central point which it appeared to me, (as it must
naturally appear to geometrical animals) that I occupied in the
universe.
This was partly the fault of my father’s modesty; and partly of his
pride. He had so much more confidence in my mother’s judgment as to
such matters than in his own, that he never ventured even to help, much
less to cross her, in the conduct of my education; on the other hand,
in the fixed purpose of making an ecclesiastical gentleman of me, with
the superfinest of manners, and access to the highest circles of
fleshly and spiritual society, the visits to Croydon, where I entirely
loved my aunt, and young baker-cousins, became rarer and more rare: the
society of our neighbours on the hill could not be had without breaking
up our regular and sweetly selfish manner of living; and on the whole,
I had nothing animate to care for, in a childish way, but myself, some
nests of ants, which the gardener would never leave undisturbed for me,
and a sociable bird or two; though I never had the sense or
perseverance to make one really tame. But that was partly because, if
ever I managed to bring one to be the least trustful of me, the cats
got it.
Under these favourable circumstances, what powers of imagination I
possessed, either fastened themselves on inanimate things—the sky, the
leaves, and pebbles, observable within the walls of Eden, or caught at
any opportunity of flight into regions of romance, compatible with the
objective realities of existence in the nineteenth century, within a
mile and a quarter of Camberwell Green.
Herein my father, happily, though with no definite intention other than
of pleasing me, when he found he could do so without infringing any of
my mother’s rules, became my guide. I was particularly fond of watching
him shave; and was always allowed to come into his room in the morning
(under the one in which I am now writing), to be the motionless witness
of that operation. Over his dressing-table hung one of his own
water-colour drawings, made under the teaching of the elder Nasmyth. (I
believe, at the High School of Edinburgh.) It was done in the early
manner of tinting, which, just about the time when my father was at the
High School, Dr. Munro was teaching Turner; namely, in grey under-tints
of Prussian blue and British ink, washed with warm colour afterwards on
the lights. It represented Conway Castle, with its Frith, and, in the
foreground, a cottage, a fisherman, and a boat at the water’s edge.
When my father had finished shaving, he always told me a story about
this picture. The custom began without any initial purpose of his, in
consequence of my troublesome curiosity whether the fisherman lived in
the cottage, and where he was going to in the boat. It being settled,
for peace’ sake, that he did live in the cottage, and was going in the
boat to fish near the castle, the plot of the drama afterwards
gradually thickened; and became, I believe, involved with that of the
tragedy of “Douglas,” and of the “Castle Spectre,” in both of which
pieces my father had performed in private theatricals, before my
mother, and a select Edinburgh audience, when he was a boy of sixteen,
and she, at grave twenty, a model housekeeper, and very scornful and
religiously suspicious of theatricals. But she was never weary of
telling me, in later years, how beautiful my father looked in his
Highland dress, with the high black feathers.
I remember nothing of the story he used to tell me, now; but I have the
picture still, and hope to leave it finally in the Oxford schools,
where, if I can complete my series of illustrative work for general
reference, it will be of some little use as an example of an
old-fashioned method of water-colour drawing not without its
advantages; and, at the same time, of the dangers incidental in it to
young students, of making their castles too yellow, and their fishermen
too blue.
In the afternoons, when my father returned (always punctually) from his
business, he dined, at half-past four, in the front parlour, my mother
sitting beside him to hear the events of the day, and give counsel and
encouragement with respect to the same;—chiefly the last, for my father
was apt to be vexed if orders for sherry fell the least short of their
due standard, even for a day or two. I was never present at this time,
however, and only avouch what I relate by hearsay and probable
conjecture; for between four and six it would have been a grave
misdemeanour in me if I so much as approached the parlour door. After
that, in summer time, we were all in the garden as long as the day
lasted; tea under the white-heart cherry tree; or in winter and rough
weather, at six o’clock in the drawing-room,—I having my cup of milk,
and slice of bread-and-butter, in a little recess, with a table in
front of it, wholly sacred to me; and in which I remained in the
evenings as an Idol in a niche, while my mother knitted, and my father
read to her,—and to me, so far as I chose to listen.
The series of the Waverley novels, then drawing towards its close, was
still the chief source of delight in all households caring for
literature; and I can no more recollect the time when I did not know
them than when I did not know the Bible; but I have still a vivid
remembrance of my father’s intense expression of sorrow mixed with
scorn, as he threw down ‘Count Robert of Paris,’ after reading three or
four pages; and knew that the life of Scott was ended: the scorn being
a very complex and bitter feeling in him,—partly, indeed, of the book
itself, but chiefly of the wretches who were tormenting and selling the
wrecked intellect, and not a little, deep down, of the subtle
dishonesty which had essentially caused the ruin. My father never could
forgive Scott his concealment of the Ballantyne partnership.
I permit myself, without check, to enlarge on these trivial
circumstances of my early days, partly because I know that there are
one or two people in the world who will like to hear of them; but
chiefly because I can better assure the general reader of some results
of education on after life, by one example in which I know all my
facts, than by many, in which every here and there a link might be
wanting.
And it is perhaps already time to mark what advantage and mischief, by
the chances of life up to seven years old, had been irrevocably
determined for me.
I will first count my blessings (as a not unwise friend once
recommended me to do, continually; whereas I have a bad trick of always
numbering the thorns in my fingers, and not the bones in them).
And for best and truest beginning of all blessings, I had been taught
the perfect meaning of Peace, in thought, act, and word.
I never had heard my father’s or mother’s voice once raised in any
question with each other; nor seen an angry, or even slightly hurt or
offended, glance in the eyes of either. I had never heard a servant
scolded, nor even suddenly, passionately, or in any severe manner,
blamed. I had never seen a moment’s trouble or disorder in any
household matter; nor anything whatever either done in a hurry, or
undone in due time. I had no conception of such a feeling as anxiety;
my father’s occasional vexation in the afternoons, when he had only got
an order for twelve butts after expecting one for fifteen, as I have
just stated, was never manifested to me; and itself related only to the
question whether his name would be a step higher or lower in the year’s
list of sherry exporters; for he never spent more than half his income,
and therefore found himself little incommoded by occasional variations
in the total of it. I had never done any wrong that I knew of—beyond
occasionally delaying the commitment to heart of some improving
sentence, that I might watch a wasp on the window pane, or a bird in
the cherry tree; and I had never seen any grief.
Next to this quite priceless gift of Peace, I had received the perfect
understanding of the natures of Obedience and Faith. I obeyed word, or
lifted finger, of father or mother, simply as a ship her helm; not only
without idea of resistance, but receiving the direction as a part of my
own life and force, a helpful law, as necessary to me in every moral
action as the law of gravity in leaping. And my practice in Faith was
soon complete: nothing was ever promised me that was not given; nothing
ever threatened me that was not inflicted, and nothing ever told me
that was not true.
Peace, obedience, faith; these three for chief good; next to these, the
habit of fixed attention with both eyes and mind—on which I will not
farther enlarge at this moment, this being the main practical faculty
of my life, causing Mazzini to say of me, in conversation authentically
reported, a year or two before his death, that I had “the most analytic
mind in Europe.” An opinion in which, so far as I am acquainted with
Europe, I am myself entirely disposed to concur.
Lastly, an extreme perfection in palate and all other bodily senses,
given by the utter prohibition of cake, wine, comfits, or, except in
carefullest restriction, fruit; and by fine preparation of what food
was given me. Such I esteem the main blessings of my childhood;—next,
let me count the equally dominant calamities.
First, that I had nothing to love.
My parents were—in a sort—visible powers of nature to me, no more loved
than the sun and the moon: only I should have been annoyed and puzzled
if either of them had gone out; (how much, now, when both are
darkened!)—still less did I love God; not that I had any quarrel with
Him, or fear of Him; but simply found what people told me was His
service, disagreeable; and what people told me was His book, not
entertaining. I had no companions to quarrel with, neither; nobody to
assist, and nobody to thank. Not a servant was ever allowed to do
anything for me, but what it was their duty to do; and why should I
have been grateful to the cook for cooking, or the gardener for
gardening,—when the one dared not give me a baked potato without asking
leave, and the other would not let my ants’ nests alone, because they
made the walks untidy? The evil consequence of all this was not,
however, what might perhaps have been expected, that I grew up selfish
or unaffectionate; but that, when affection did come, it came with
violence utterly rampant and unmanageable, at least by me, who never
before had anything to manage.
For (second of chief calamities) I had nothing to endure. Danger or
pain of any kind I knew not: my strength was never exercised, my
patience never tried, and my courage never fortified. Not that I was
ever afraid of anything,—either ghosts, thunder, or beasts; and one of
the nearest approaches to insubordination which I was ever tempted into
as a child, was in passionate effort to get leave to play with the
lion’s cubs in Wombwell’s menagerie.
Thirdly. I was taught no precision nor etiquette of manners; it was
enough if, in the little society we saw, I remained unobtrusive, and
replied to a question without shyness: but the shyness came later, and
increased as I grew conscious of the rudeness arising from the want of
social discipline, and found it impossible to acquire, in advanced
life, dexterity in any bodily exercise, skill in any pleasing
accomplishment, or ease and tact in ordinary behaviour.
Lastly, and chief of evils. My judgment of right and wrong, and powers
of independent action, [40] were left entirely undeveloped; because the
bridle and blinkers were never taken off me. Children should have their
times of being off duty, like soldiers; and when once the obedience, if
required, is certain, the little creature should be very early put for
periods of practice in complete command of itself; set on the
barebacked horse of its own will, and left to break it by its own
strength. But the ceaseless authority exercised over my youth left me,
when cast out at last into the world, unable for some time to do more
than drift with its elements. My present courses of life are indeed not
altogether of that compliant nature; but are, perhaps, more
unaccommodating than they need be, in the insolence of reaction; and
the result upon me, of the elements and the courses together, is, in
sum, that at my present age of fifty-six, while I have indeed the
sincerest admiration for the characters of Phocion, Cincinnatus, and
Caractacus, and am minded, so far as I may, to follow the example of
those worthy personages, my own private little fancy, in which, for
never having indulged me, I am always quarrelling with my Fortune, is
still, as it always was, to find Prince Ahmed’s arrow, and marry the
Fairy Paribanou.
My present verdict, therefore, on the general tenour of my education at
that time, must be, that it was at once too formal and too luxurious;
leaving my character, at the most important moment for its
construction, cramped indeed, but not disciplined; and only by
protection innocent, instead of by practice virtuous. My mother saw
this herself, and but too clearly, in later years; and whenever I did
anything wrong, stupid, or hard-hearted,—(and I have done many things
that were all three),—always said, ‘It is because you were too much
indulged.’
So strongly do I feel this, as I sip my coffee this morning, (May
24th,) after being made profoundly miserable last night, because I did
not think it likely I should be accepted if I made an offer to any one
of three beautiful young ladies who were crushing and rending my heart
into a mere shamrock leaf, the whole afternoon; nor had any power to
do, what I should have liked better still, send Giafar (without
Zobeide’s knowing anything about it) to superintend the immediate
transport to my palace of all three;—that I am afraid, if it were left
to me at present to institute, without help from kinder counsellors,
the education of the younger children on St. George’s estate, the
methods of the old woman who lived in a shoe would be the first that
occurred to me as likely to conduce most directly to their future worth
and felicity.
And I chanced, as Fors would have it, to fall, but last week, as I was
arranging some books bought two years ago, and forgotten ever since,—on
an instance of the use of extreme severity in education, which cannot
but commend itself to the acceptance of every well informed English
gentlewoman. For all well informed English gentlewomen and
gentle-maidens, have faithful respect for the memory of Lady Jane Grey.
But I never myself, until the minute when I opened that book, could at
all understand Lady Jane Grey. I have seen a great deal, thank Heaven,
of good, and prudent, and clever girls; but not among the very best and
wisest of them did I ever find the slightest inclination to stop
indoors to read Plato, when all their people were in the Park. On the
contrary, if any approach to such disposition manifested itself, I
found it was always, either because the scholastic young person thought
that somebody might possibly call, suppose—myself, the Roger Ascham of
her time,—or suppose somebody else who would prevent her, that day,
from reading “piu avanti,” or because the author who engaged her
attention, so far from being Plato himself, was, in many essential
particulars, anti-Platonic. And the more I thought of Lady Jane Grey,
the more she puzzled me.
Wherefore, opening, among my unexamined books, Roger Ascham’s
Scholemaster, printed by John Daye, dwelling over Aldersgate, An. 1571,
just at the page where he gives the original account of the thing as it
happened, I stopped in my unpacking to decipher the black letter of it
with attention; which, by your leave, good reader, you shall also take
the trouble to do yourself, from this, as far as I can manage to give
it you, accurate facsimile of the old page. And trust me that I have a
reason for practising you in these old letters, though I have no time
to tell it you just now.
“And one example, whether love or feare doth worke more in a childe for
vertue and learning, I will gladly report: which may bee heard with
some pleasure, t̄ followed with more profite. Before I went into
Germanie I came to Brodegate in Leicestershire, to take my leave of
that noble Lady Jane Grey, to whom I was exceeding much beholding. Her
parentes, the Duke and the Dutchesse, with all the householde,
Gentlemen and Gentleweemen, were hunting in the Parke: I found her in
her chamber, reading Phædon Platonis in Greeke, t̄ that with as much
delite, as some gentleman would read a mery tale in Bocase. After
salutation, and duetie done, with some other talk, I asked her, why
shee would leese such pastime in the Parke? Smiling shee answered mee:
I wisse, all their sport in the Parke, is but a shadow to that pleasure
yͪ I finde in Plato: Alas, good folke, they never felt what true
pleasure ment.”
Thus far, except in the trouble of reading black letters, I have given
you nothing new, or even freshly old. All this we have heard of the
young lady a hundred times over. But next to this, comes something
which I fancy will be unexpected by most of my readers. For the fashion
of all literary students, catering for the public, has hitherto been to
pick out of their author whatever bits they thought likely to be
acceptable to Demos, and to keep everything of suspicious taste out of
his dish of hashed hare. Nay, ‘he pares his apple that will cleanly
eat,’ says honest George Herbert. I am not wholly sure, however, even
of that; if the apple itself be clean off the bough, and the teeth of
little Eve and Adam, what teeth should be, it is quite questionable
whether the good old fashion of alternate bite be not the method of
finest enjoyment of flavour. But the modern frugivorous public will
soon have a steam-machine in Covent Garden, to pick the straw out of
their strawberries.
In accordance with which popular principle of natural selection, the
historians of Lady Jane’s life, finding this first opening of the scene
at Brodegate so entirely charming and graceful, and virtuous, and
moral, and ducal, and large-landed-estate-ish—without there being the
slightest suggestion in it of any principle, to which any body could
possibly object,—pounce upon it as a flawless gem; and clearing from it
all the objectionable matrix, with delicate skill, set it forth—changed
about from one to another of the finest cases of velvet eloquence to be
got up for money—in the corner shop—London and Ryder’s, of the Bond
Street of Vanity Fair.
But I, as an old mineralogist, like to see my gems in the rock; and
always bring away the biggest piece I can break with the heaviest
hammer I can carry. Accordingly, I venture to beg of you also, good
reader, to decipher farther this piece of kindly Ascham’s following
narration:
“And how came you, Madame, quoth I, to this deepe knowledge of
pleasure, t̄ what did cheefly allure you unto it, seing not many women,
but very fewe have attayned thereunto. I will tell you, quoth shee, and
tell you a troth, which perchance ye will marvel at. One of the
greatest benefites that ever God gave me, is, that hee sent me so
sharpe and severe parentes, and so gentle a schoolemaster. For whē I am
in presence either of father or mother, whether I speake, keepe
silence, sit, stand, or go, eate, drinke, be mery, or sad, bee swoing,
playing, dancing, or doing anything els, I must doe it, as it were, in
such weight, measure, t̄ number, even so perfectly, as God made the
world, or ells I am so sharply taunted, so cruelly threatned, yea,
presently sometimes, with pinches, nippes, and bobbes, and other wayes
which I will not name for the honor I beare thē, so without measure
misordered, that I thinke my selfe in hell, till time come that I must
goe to M. Elmer who teacheth mee so gently, so pleasantly, with such
faire alluremētes to learning that I thinke all the time nothing,
whiles I am with him. And when I am called frō him, I fall on weeping,
because, whatsoever I doe els but learning, is full of greefe, trouble,
feare, and whole misliking unto mee. And thus my booke hath been so
much my pleasure, t̄ bringeth daily to me more pleasure t̄ more, yͭ in
respect of it, all other pleasures, in very deede, bee but trifles t̄
troubles unto mee.
Lady Jane ceases, Ascham speaks: I remm̄ber this talke gladly, bothe
because it is so worthy of memory t̄ because also it was the last talke
that ever I had, and the last time, that ever I saw that noble t̄ worthy
Lady.”
Now, for the clear understanding of this passage,—I adjure you, gentle
reader, (if you are such, and therefore capable of receiving
adjuration)—in the name of St. George and all saints,—of Edward III.
and all knights,—of Alice of Salisbury and all stainless wives, and of
Jeanne of France and all stainless maids, that you put at once out of
your mind, under penalty of sharpest Honte Ban, all such thought as
would first suggest itself to the modern novel writer, and novel
reader, concerning this matter,—namely, that the young girl is in love
with her tutor. She loves him rightly, as all good and noble boys and
girls necessarily love good masters,—and no otherwise;—is grateful to
him rightly, and no otherwise;—happy with him and her book—rightly, and
no otherwise.
And that her father and mother, with whatever leaven of human
selfishness, or impetuous disgrace in the manner and violence of their
dealing with her, did, nevertheless, compel their child to do all
things that she did,—rightly, and no otherwise, was, verily, though at
that age she knew it but in part,—the literally crowning and guiding
Mercy of her life,—the plaited thorn upon the brow, and rooted thorn
around the feet, which are the tribute of Earth to the Princesses of
Heaven.