after them inherent in the civilised and educated mind. To the
superficial, the hot suns of Juan Fernandez may sufficiently account for
his quaint choice of a luxury; but surely one who had borne the hard
labour of a seaman under the tropics for all these years could have
supported an excursion after goats or a peaceful _constitutional_ arm in
arm with the nude Friday. No, it was not this: the memory of a vanished
respectability called for some outward manifestation, and the result
was--an umbrella. A pious castaway might have rigged up a belfry and
solaced his Sunday mornings with the mimicry of church-bells; but Crusoe
was rather a moralist than a pietist, and his leaf-umbrella is as fine
an example of the civilised mind striving to express itself under
adverse circumstances as we have ever met with.
It is not for nothing, either, that the umbrella has become the very
foremost badge of modern civilisation--the Urim and Thummim of
respectability. Its pregnant symbolism has taken its rise in the most
natural manner. Consider, for a moment, when umbrellas were first
introduced into this country, what manner of men would use them, and
what class would adhere to the useless but ornamental cane. The first,
without doubt, would be the hypochondriacal, out of solicitude for their
health, or the frugal, out of care for their raiment; the second, it is
equally plain, would include the fop, the fool, and the Bobadil. Any one
acquainted with the growth of Society, and knowing out of what small
seeds of cause are produced great revolutions, and wholly new conditions
of intercourse, sees from this simple thought how the carriage of an
umbrella came to indicate frugality, judicious regard for bodily
welfare, and scorn for mere outward adornment, and, in one word, all
those homely and solid virtues implied in the term RESPECTABILITY. Not
that the umbrella's costliness has nothing to do with its great
influence. Its possession, besides symbolising (as we have already
indicated) the change from wild Esau to plain Jacob dwelling in tents,
implies a certain comfortable provision of fortune. It is not every one
that can expose twenty-six shillings' worth of property to so many
chances of loss and theft. So strongly do we feel on this point, indeed,
that we are almost inclined to consider all who possess really
well-conditioned umbrellas as worthy of the Franchise. They have a
qualification standing in their lobbies; they carry a sufficient stake
in the common-weal below their arm. One who bears with him an
umbrella--such a complicated structure of whalebone, of silk, and of
cane, that it becomes a very microcosm of modern industry--is
necessarily a man of peace. A half-crown cane may be applied to an
offender's head on a very moderate provocation; but a six-and-twenty
shilling silk is a possession too precious to be adventured in the shock
of war.
These are but a few glances at how umbrellas (in the general) came to
their present high estate. But the true Umbrella-Philosopher meets with
far stranger applications as he goes about the streets.
Umbrellas, like faces, acquire a certain sympathy with the individual
who carries them: indeed, they are far more capable of betraying his
trust; for whereas a face is given to us so far ready made, and all our
power over it is in frowning, and laughing, and grimacing, during the
first three or four decades of life, each umbrella is selected from a
whole shopful, as being most consonant to the purchaser's disposition.
An undoubted power of diagnosis rests with the practised
Umbrella-Philosopher. O you who lisp, and amble, and change the fashion
of your countenances--you who conceal all these, how little do you think
that you left a proof of your weakness in our umbrella-stand--that even
now, as you shake out the folds to meet the thickening snow, we read in
its ivory handle the outward and visible sign of your snobbery, or from
the exposed gingham of its cover detect, through coat and waistcoat, the
hidden hypocrisy of the "_dickey_"! But alas! even the umbrella is no
certain criterion. The falsity and the folly of the human race have
degraded that graceful symbol to the ends of dishonesty; and while some
umbrellas, from carelessness in selection, are not strikingly
characteristic (for it is only in what a man loves that he displays his
real nature), others, from certain prudential motives, are chosen
directly opposite to the person's disposition. A mendacious umbrella is
a sign of great moral degradation. Hypocrisy naturally shelters itself
below a silk; while the fast youth goes to visit his religious friends
armed with the decent and reputable gingham. May it not be said of the
bearers of these inappropriate umbrellas that they go about the streets
"with a lie in their right hand"?
The kings of Siam, as we read, besides having a graduated social scale
of umbrellas (which was a good thing), prevented the great bulk of their
subjects from having any at all, which was certainly a bad thing. We
should be sorry to believe that this Eastern legislator was a fool--the
idea of an aristocracy of umbrellas is too philosophic to have
originated in a nobody,--and we have accordingly taken exceeding pains
to find out the reason of this harsh restriction. We think we have
succeeded; but, while admiring the principle at which he aimed, and
while cordially recognising in the Siamese potentate the only man before
ourselves who had taken a real grasp of the umbrella, we must be allowed
to point out how unphilosophically the great man acted in this
particular. His object, plainly, was to prevent any unworthy persons
from bearing the sacred symbol of domestic virtues. We cannot excuse his
limiting these virtues to the circle of his court. We must only remember
that such was the feeling of the age in which he lived. Liberalism had
not yet raised the war-cry of the working classes. But here was his
mistake: it was a needless regulation. Except in a very few cases of
hypocrisy joined to a powerful intellect, men, not by nature
_umbrellarians_, have tried again and again to become so by art, and yet
have failed--have expended their patrimony in the purchase of umbrella
after umbrella, and yet have systematically lost them, and have finally,
with contrite spirits and shrunken purses, given up their vain struggle,
and relied on theft and borrowing for the remainder of their lives. This
is the most remarkable fact that we have had occasion to notice; and yet
we challenge the candid reader to call it in question. Now, as there
cannot be any _moral selection_ in a mere dead piece of furniture--as
the umbrella cannot be supposed to have an affinity for individual men
equal and reciprocal to that which men certainly feel toward individual
umbrellas,--we took the trouble of consulting a scientific friend as to
whether there was any possible physical explanation of the phenomenon.
He was unable to supply a plausible theory, or even hypothesis; but we
extract from his letter the following interesting passage relative to
the physical peculiarities of umbrellas: "Not the least important, and
by far the most curious property of the umbrella, is the energy which it
displays in affecting the atmospheric strata. There is no fact in
meteorology better established--indeed, it is almost the only one on
which meteorologists are agreed--than that the carriage of an umbrella
produces desiccation of the air; while if it be left at home, aqueous
vapour is largely produced, and is soon deposited in the form of rain.
No theory," my friend continues, "competent to explain this hygrometric
law has been given (as far as I am aware) by Herschel, Dove, Glaisher,
Tait, Buchan, or any other writer; nor do I pretend to supply the
defect. I venture, however, to throw out the conjecture that it will be
ultimately found to belong to the same class of natural laws as that
agreeable to which a slice of toast always descends with the buttered
surface downwards."
But it is time to draw to a close. We could expatiate much longer upon
this topic, but want of space constrains us to leave unfinished these
few desultory remarks--slender contributions towards a subject which has
fallen sadly backward, and which, we grieve to say, was better
understood by the king of Siam in 1686 than by all the philosophers of
to-day. If, however, we have awakened in any rational mind an interest
in the symbolism of umbrellas--in any generous heart a more complete
sympathy with the dumb companion of his daily walk,--or in any grasping
spirit a pure notion of respectability strong enough to make him expend
his six-and-twenty shillings--we shall have deserved well of the world,
to say nothing of the many industrious persons employed in the
manufacture of the article.
FOOTNOTE:
[36] "This paper was written in collaboration with James Walter
Ferrier, and if reprinted this is to be stated, though his principal
collaboration was to lie back in an easy-chair and laugh."--[R. L. S.,
_Oct_. 25, 1894.]
V
THE PHILOSOPHY OF NOMENCLATURE
"How many Caesars and Pompeys, by mere inspirations of the names, have
been rendered worthy of them? And how many are there, who might have
done exceeding well in the world, had not their characters and spirits
been totally depressed and Nicodemus'd into nothing?"--"Tristram
Shandy," vol. i. chap. xix.
Such were the views of the late Walter Shandy, Esq., Turkey merchant. To
the best of my belief, Mr. Shandy is the first who fairly pointed out
the incalculable influence of nomenclature upon the whole life--who
seems first to have recognised the one child, happy in an heroic
appellation, soaring upwards on the wings of fortune, and the other,
like the dead sailor in his shotted hammock, haled down by sheer weight
of name into the abysses of social failure. Solomon possibly had his eye
on some such theory when he said that "a good name is better than
precious ointment"; and perhaps we may trace a similar spirit in the
compilers of the English Catechism, and the affectionate interest with
which they linger round the catechumen's name at the very threshold of
their work. But, be these as they may, I think no one can censure me for
appending, in pursuance of the expressed wish of his son, the Turkey
merchant's name to his system, and pronouncing, without further
preface, a short epitome of the "Shandean Philosophy of Nomenclature."
To begin, then: the influence of our name makes itself felt from the
very cradle. As a schoolboy I remember the pride with which I hailed
Robin Hood, Robert Bruce, and Robert le Diable as my name-fellows; and
the feeling of sore disappointment that fell on my heart when I found a
freebooter or a general who did not share with me a single one of my
numerous _praenomina_. Look at the delight with which two children find
they have the same name. They are friends from that moment forth; they
have a bond of union stronger than exchange of nuts and sweetmeats. This
feeling, I own, wears off in later life. Our names lose their freshness
and interest, become trite and indifferent. But this, dear reader, is
merely one of the sad effects of those "shades of the prison-house"
which come gradually betwixt us and nature with advancing years; it
affords no weapon against the philosophy of names.
In after life, although we fail to trace its working, that name which
careless godfathers lightly applied to your unconscious infancy will
have been moulding your character, and influencing with irresistible
power the whole course of your earthly fortunes. But the last name,
overlooked by Mr. Shandy, is no whit less important as a condition of
success. Family names, we must recollect, are but inherited nicknames;
and if the _sobriquet_ were applicable to the ancestor, it is most
likely applicable to the descendant also. You would not expect to find
Mr. M'Phun acting as a mute, or Mr. M'Lumpha excelling as a professor of
dancing. Therefore, in what follows, we shall consider names,
independent of whether they are first or last. And to begin with, look
what a pull _Cromwell_ had over _Pym_--the one name full of a resonant
imperialism, the other, mean, pettifogging, and unheroic to a degree.
Who would expect eloquence from _Pym_--who would read poems by
_Pym_--who would bow to the opinion of _Pym_? He might have been a
dentist, but he should never have aspired to be a statesman. I can only
wonder that he succeeded as he did. Pym and Habakkuk stand first upon
the roll of men who have triumphed, by sheer force of genius, over the
most unfavourable appellations. But even these have suffered; and, had
they been more fitly named, the one might have been Lord Protector, and
the other have shared the laurels with Isaiah. In this matter we must
not forget that all our great poets have borne great names. Chaucer,
Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, Pope, Wordsworth, Shelley--what a
constellation of lordly words! Not a single common-place name among
them--not a Brown, not a Jones, not a Robinson; they are all names that
one would stop and look at on a door-plate. Now, imagine if _Pepys_ had
tried to clamber somehow into the enclosure of poetry, what a blot would
that word have made upon the list! The thing was impossible. In the
first place a certain natural consciousness that men would have held him
down to the level of his name, would have prevented him from rising
above the Pepsine standard, and so haply withheld him altogether from
attempting verse. Next, the book-sellers would refuse to publish, and
the world to read them, on the mere evidence of the fatal appellation.
And now, before I close this section, I must say one word as to
_punnable_ names, names that stand alone, that have a significance and
life apart from him that bears them. These are the bitterest of all. One
friend of mine goes bowed and humbled through life under the weight of
this misfortune; for it is an awful thing when a man's name is a joke,
when he cannot be mentioned without exciting merriment, and when even
the intimation of his death bids fair to carry laughter into many a
home.
So much for people who are badly named. Now for people who are _too_
well named, who go top-heavy from the font, who are baptized into a
false position, and find themselves beginning life eclipsed under the
fame of some of the great ones of the past. A man, for instance, called
William Shakespeare could never dare to write plays. He is thrown into
too humbling an apposition with the author of _Hamlet._ His own name
coming after is such an anti-climax. "The plays of William Shakespeare"?
says the reader--"O no! The plays of William Shakespeare Cockerill," and
he throws the book aside. In wise pursuance of such views, Mr. John
Milton Hengler, who not long since delighted us in this favoured town,
has never attempted to write an epic, but has chosen a new path, and has
excelled upon the tight-rope. A marked example of triumph over this is
the case of Mr. Dante Gabriel Rossetti. On the face of the matter, I
should have advised him to imitate the pleasing modesty of the
last-named gentleman, and confine his ambition to the sawdust. But Mr.
Rossetti has triumphed. He has even dared to translate from his mighty
name-father; and the voice of fame supports him in his boldness.
Dear readers, one might write a year upon this matter. A lifetime of
comparison and research could scarce suffice for its elucidation. So
here, if it please you, we shall let it rest. Slight as these notes have
been, I would that the great founder of the system had been alive to see
them. How he had warmed and brightened, how his persuasive eloquence
would have fallen on the ears of Toby; and what a letter of praise and
sympathy would not the editor have received before the month was out!
Alas, the thing was not to be. Walter Shandy died and was duly buried,
while yet his theory lay forgotten and neglected by his
fellow-countrymen. But, reader, the day will come, I hope, when a
paternal government will stamp out, as seeds of national weakness, all
depressing patronymics, and when godfathers and godmothers will soberly
and earnestly debate the interest of the nameless one, and not rush
blindfold to the christening. In these days there shall be written a
"Godfather's Assistant," in shape of a dictionary of names, with their
concomitant virtues and vices; and this book shall be scattered
broadcast through the land, and shall be on the table of every one
eligible for god-fathership, until such a thing as a vicious or untoward
appellation shall have ceased from off the face of the earth.
NOTES AND ESSAYS CHIEFLY OF THE ROAD
NOTES AND ESSAYS CHIEFLY OF THE ROAD
I
A RETROSPECT
(_A Fragment: written at Dunoon, 1870_)
If there is anything that delights me in Hazlitt, beyond the charm of
style and the unconscious portrait of a vain and powerful spirit, which
his works present, it is the loving and tender way in which he returns
again to the memory of the past. These little recollections of bygone
happiness were too much a part of the man to be carelessly or poorly
told. The imaginary landscapes and visions of the most ecstatic dreamer
can never rival such recollections, told simply perhaps, but still told
(as they could not fail to be) with precision, delicacy, and evident
delight. They are too much loved by the author not to be palated by the
reader. But beyond the mere felicity of pencil, the nature of the piece
could never fail to move my heart. When I read his essay "On the Past
and Future," every word seemed to be something I had said myself. I
could have thought he had been eavesdropping at the doors of my heart,
so entire was the coincidence between his writing and my thought. It is
a sign perhaps of a somewhat vain disposition. The future is nothing;
but the past is myself, my own history, the seed of my present thoughts,
the mould of my present disposition. It is not in vain that I return to
the nothings of my childhood; for every one of them has left some stamp
upon me or put some fetter on my boasted free-will. In the past is my
present fate; and in the past also is my real life. It is not the past
only, but the past that has been many years in that tense. The doings
and actions of last year are as uninteresting and vague to me as the
blank gulf of the future, the _tabula rasa_ that may never be anything
else. I remember a confused hotch-potch of unconnected events, a "chaos
without form, and void"; but nothing salient or striking rises from the
dead level of "flat, stale, and unprofitable" generality. When we are
looking at a landscape we think ourselves pleased; but it is only when
it comes back upon us by the fire o' nights that we can disentangle the
main charm from the thick of particulars. It is just so with what is
lately past. It is too much loaded with detail to be distinct; and the
canvas is too large for the eye to encompass. But this is no more the
case when our recollections have been strained long enough through the
hour-glass of time; when they have been the burthen of so much thought,
the charm and comfort of so many a vigil. All that is worthless has been
sieved and sifted out of them. Nothing remains but the brightest lights
and the darkest shadows. When we see a mountain country near at hand,
the spurs and haunches crowd up in eager rivalry, and the whole range
seems to have shrugged its shoulders to its ears, till we cannot tell
the higher from the lower: but when we are far off, these lesser
prominences are melted back into the bosom of the rest, or have set
behind the round horizon of the plain, and the highest peaks stand forth
in lone and sovereign dignity against the sky. It is just the same with
our recollections. We require to draw back and shade our eyes before the
picture dawns upon us in full breadth and outline. Late years are still
in limbo to us; but the more distant past is all that we possess in
life, the corn already harvested and stored for ever in the grange of
memory. The doings of to-day at some future time will gain the required
offing; I shall learn to love the things of my adolescence, as Hazlitt
loved them, and as I love already the recollections of my childhood.
They will gather interest with every year. They will ripen in forgotten
corners of my memory; and some day I shall waken and find them vested
with new glory and new pleasantness.
It is for stirring the chords of memory, then, that I love Hazlitt's
essays, and for the same reason (I remember) he himself threw in his
allegiance to Rousseau, saying of him, what was so true of his own
writings: "He seems to gather up the past moments of his being like
drops of honey-dew to distil some precious liquor from them; his
alternate pleasures and pains are the bead-roll that he tells over and
piously worships; he makes a rosary of the flowers of hope and fancy
that strewed his earliest years." How true are these words when applied
to himself! and how much I thank him that it was so! All my childhood is
a golden age to me. I have no recollection of bad weather. Except one or
two storms where grandeur had impressed itself on my mind, the whole
time seems steeped in sunshine. "_Et ego in Arcadia vixi_" would be no
empty boast upon my grave. If I desire to live long, it is that I may
have the more to look back upon. Even to one, like the unhappy Duchess,
"Acquainted with sad misery
As the tamed galley-slave is with his oar,"
and seeing over the night of troubles no "lily-wristed morn" of hope
appear, a retrospect of even chequered and doubtful happiness in the
past may sweeten the bitterness of present tears. And here I may be
excused if I quote a passage from an unpublished drama (the unpublished
is perennial, I fancy) which the author believed was not all devoid of
the flavour of our elder dramatists. However this may be, it expresses
better than I could some further thoughts on this same subject. The
heroine is taken by a minister to the grave, where already some have
been recently buried, and where her sister's lover is destined to
rejoin them on the following day.[37]
* * * * *