Roundabout Papers

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I choose to take John at the time when his little peccadillo is
suspected, perhaps, but when there is no specific charge of robbery
against him. He is not yet convicted: he is not even on his trial; how
then can we venture to say he is guilty? Now think what scores of men
and women walk the world in a like predicament; and what false coin
passes current! Pinchbeck strives to pass off his history as sound
coin. He knows it is only base metal, washed over with a thin varnish of
learning. Poluphloisbos puts his sermons in circulation: sounding brass,
lacquered over with white metal, and marked with the stamp and image of
piety. What say you to Drawcansir's reputation as a military commander?
to Tibbs's pretensions to be a fine gentleman? to Sapphira's claims as a
poetess, or Rodoessa's as a beauty? His bravery, his piety, high birth,
genius, beauty--each of these deceivers would palm his falsehood on us,
and have us accept his forgeries as sterling coin. And we talk here,
please to observe, of weaknesses rather than crimes. Some of us have
more serious things to hide than a yellow cheek behind a raddle of
rouge, or a white poll under a wig of jetty curls. You know, neighbor,
there are not only false teeth in this world, but false tongues: and
some make up a bust and an appearance of strength with padding, cotton,
and what not? while another kind of artist tries to take you in by
wearing under his waistcoat, and perpetually thumping, an immense sham
heart. Dear sir, may yours and mine be found, at the right time, of the
proper size and in the right place.

And what has this to do with half-crowns, good or bad? Ah, friend! may
our coin, battered, and clipped, and defaced though it be, be proved to
be Sterling Silver on the day of the Great Assay!




"STRANGE TO SAY, ON CLUB PAPER."


Before the Duke of York's column, and between the "Athenaeum" and
"United Service" Clubs, I have seen more than once, on the esplanade,
a preacher holding forth to a little congregation of badauds and
street-boys, whom he entertains with a discourse on the crimes of a
rapacious aristocracy, or warns of the imminent peril of their own
souls. Sometimes this orator is made to "move on" by brutal policemen.
Sometimes, on a Sunday, he points to a white head or two visible in
the windows of the Clubs to the right and left of him, and volunteers a
statement that those quiet and elderly Sabbath-breakers will very soon
be called from this world to another, where their lot will by no means
be so comfortable as that which the reprobates enjoy here, in their
arm-chairs by their snug fires.

At the end of last month, had I been a Pall Mall preacher, I would have
liked to send a whip round to all the Clubs in St. James's, and convoke
the few members remaining in London to hear a discourse sub Dio on a
text from the Observer newspaper. I would have taken post under the
statue of Fame, say, where she stands distributing wreaths to the three
Crimean Guardsmen. (The crossing-sweeper does not obstruct the path, and
I suppose is away at his villa on Sundays.) And, when the congregation
was pretty quiet, I would have begun:--

In the Observer of the 27th September, 1863, in the fifth page and the
fourth column, it is thus written:--

"The codicil appended to the will of the late Lord Clyde, executed at
Chatham, and bearing the signature of Clyde, F. M., is written, strange
to say, on a sheet of paper BEARING THE 'ATHENAEUM CLUB' MARK."

What the codicil is, my dear brethren, it is not our business to
inquire. It conveys a benefaction to a faithful and attached friend of
the good Field-Marshal. The gift may be a lakh of rupees, or it may be a
house and its contents--furniture, plate, and wine-cellar. My friends, I
know the wine-merchant, and, for the sake of the legatee, hope heartily
that the stock is large.

Am I wrong, dear brethren, in supposing that you expect a preacher to
say a seasonable word on death here? If you don't, I fear you are but
little familiar with the habits of preachers, and are but lax hearers
of sermons. We might contrast the vault where the warrior's remains lie
shrouded and coffined, with that in which his worldly provision of
wine is stowed away. Spain and Portugal and France--all the lands
which supplied his store--as hardy and obedient subaltern, as resolute
captain, as colonel daring but prudent--he has visited the fields of
all. In India and China he marches always unconquered; or at the head of
his dauntless Highland brigade he treads the Crimean snow; or he rides
from conquest to conquest in India once more; succoring his countrymen
in the hour of their utmost need; smiting down the scared mutiny, and
trampling out the embers of rebellion; at the head of an heroic army,
a consummate chief. And now his glorious old sword is sheathed, and his
honors are won: and he has bought him a house, and stored it with modest
cheer for his friends (the good old man put water in his own wine, and
a glass or two sufficed him)--behold the end comes, and his legatee
inherits these modest possessions by virtue of a codicil to his
lordship's will, written, "strange to say, upon a sheet of paper,
bearing the 'Athenaeum Club' mark."

It is to this part of the text, my brethren, that I propose to address
myself particularly, and if the remarks I make are offensive to any of
you, you know the doors of our meeting-house are open, and you can
walk out when you will. Around us are magnificent halls and palaces
frequented by such a multitude of men as not even the Roman Forum
assembled together. Yonder are the Martium and the Palladium. Next to
the Palladium is the elegant Viatorium, which Barry gracefully stole
from Rome. By its side is the massive Reformatorium: and the--the
Ultratorium rears its granite columns beyond. Extending down the street
palace after palace rises magnificent, and under their lofty roofs
warriors and lawyers, merchants and nobles, scholars and seamen, the
wealthy, the poor, the busy, the idle assemble. Into the halls built
down this little street and its neighborhood the principal men of all
London come to hear or impart the news; and the affairs of the state
or of private individuals, the quarrels of empires or of authors,
the movements of the court, or the splendid vagaries of fashion, the
intrigues of statesmen or of persons of another sex yet more wily, the
last news of battles in the great occidental continents, nay, the
latest betting for the horse-races, or the advent of a dancer at the
theatre--all that men do is discussed in these Pall Mall agorae, where
we of London daily assemble.

Now among so many talkers, consider how many false reports must fly
about: in such multitudes imagine how many disappointed men there must
be; how many chatterboxes; how many feeble and credulous (whereof I mark
some specimens in my congregation); how many mean, rancorous, prone
to believe ill of their betters, eager to find fault; and then, my
brethren, fancy how the words of my text must have been read and
received in Pall Mall! (I perceive several of the congregation looking
most uncomfortable. One old boy with a dyed moustache turns purple in
the face, and struts back to the Martium: another, with a shrug of the
shoulder and a murmur of "Rubbish," slinks away in the direction of the
Togatorium, and the preacher continues.) The will of Field-Marshal Lord
Clyde--signed AT CHATHAM, mind, where his lordship died--is written,
STRANGE TO SAY, on a sheet of paper bearing the "Athenaeum Club" mark!

The inference is obvious. A man cannot get Athenaeum paper except at the
"Athenaeum." Such paper is not sold at Chatham, where the last codicil
to his lordship's will is dated. And so the painful belief is forced
upon us, that a Peer, a Field-Marshal, wealthy, respected, illustrious,
could pocket paper at his Club, and carry it away with him to the
country. One fancies the hall-porter conscious of the old lord's
iniquity, and holding down his head as the Marshal passes the door.
What is that roll which his lordship carries? Is it his Marshal's baton
gloriously won? No; it is a roll of foolscap conveyed from the Club.
What has he on his breast, under his greatcoat? Is it his Star of India?
No; it is a bundle of envelopes, bearing the head of Minerva, some
sealing-wax, and a half-score of pens.

Let us imagine how in the hall of one or other of these Clubs this
strange anecdote will be discussed.

"Notorious screw," says Sneer. "The poor old fellow's avarice has long
been known."

"Suppose he wishes to imitate the Duke of Marlborough," says Simper.

"Habit of looting contracted in India, you know; ain't so easy to get
over, you know," says Snigger.

"When officers dined with him in India," remarks Solemn, "it was
notorious that the spoons were all of a different pattern."

"Perhaps it isn't true. Suppose he wrote his paper at the Club?"
interposes Jones.

"It is dated at Chatham, my good man," says Brown. "A man if he is in
London says he is in London. A man if he is in Rochester says he is in
Rochester. This man happens to forget that he is using the Club paper;
and he happens to be found out: many men DON'T happen to be found out.
I've seen literary fellows at Clubs writing their rubbishing articles;
I have no doubt they take away reams of paper. They crib thoughts: why
shouldn't they crib stationery? One of your literary vagabonds who
is capable of stabbing a reputation, who is capable of telling any
monstrous falsehood to support his party, is surely capable of stealing
a ream of paper."

"Well, well, we have all our weaknesses," sighs Robinson. "Seen that
article, Thompson, in the Observer about Lord Clyde and the Club paper?
You'll find it up stairs. In the third column of the fifth page towards
the bottom of the page. I suppose he was so poor he couldn't afford to
buy a quire of paper. Hadn't fourpence in the world. Oh, no!"

"And they want to get up a testimonial to this man's memory--a statue or
something!" cries Jawkins. "A man who wallows in wealth and takes paper
away from his Club! I don't say he is not brave. Brutal courage most men
have. I don't say he was not a good officer: a man with such experience
MUST have been a good officer unless he was a born fool. But to think
of this man loaded with honors--though of a low origin--so lost to
self-respect as actually to take away the 'Athenaeum' paper! These
parvenus, sir, betray their origin--betray their origin. I said to my
wife this very morning, 'Mrs. Jawkins,' I said, 'there is talk of a
testimonial to this man. I will not give one shilling. I have no idea
of raising statues to fellows who take away Club paper. No, by George, I
have not. Why, they will be raising statues to men who take Club spoons
next! Not one penny of MY money shall they have!'"

And now, if you please, we will tell the real story which has furnished
this scandal to a newspaper, this tattle to Club gossips and loungers.
The Field-Marshal, wishing to make a further provision for a friend,
informed his lawyer what he desired to do. The lawyer, a member of the
"Athenaeum Club," there wrote the draft of such a codicil as he would
advise, and sent the paper by the post to Lord Clyde at Chatham. Lord
Clyde finding the paper perfectly satisfactory, signed it and sent it
back: and hence we have the story of "the codicil bearing the signature
of Clyde, F. M., and written, strange to say, upon paper bearing the
'Athenaeum Club' mark."

Here I have been imagining a dialogue between a half-dozen gossips such
as congregate round a Club fireplace of an afternoon. I wonder how many
people besides--whether any chance reader of this very page has read
and believed this story about the good old lord? Have the country papers
copied the anecdote, and our "own correspondents" made their remarks on
it? If, my good sir, or madam, you have read it and credited it, don't
you own to a little feeling of shame and sorrow, now that the trumpery
little mystery is cleared? To "the new inhabitant of light," passed away
and out of reach of our censure, misrepresentation, scandal, dulness,
malice, a silly falsehood matters nothing. Censure and praise are alike
to him--

"The music warbling to the deafened ear,
The incense wasted on the funeral bier,"

the pompous eulogy pronounced over the gravestone, or the lie that
slander spits on it. Faithfully though this brave old chief did his
duty, honest and upright though his life was, glorious his renown--you
see he could write at Chatham on London paper; you see men can be found
to point out how "strange" his behavior was.

And about ourselves? My good people, do you by chance know any man or
woman who has formed unjust conclusions regarding his neighbor? Have you
ever found yourself willing, nay, eager to believe evil of some man
whom you hate? Whom you hate because he is successful, and you are not:
because he is rich, and you are poor: because he dines with great men
who don't invite you: because he wears a silk gown, and yours is still
stuff: because he has been called in to perform the operation though you
lived close by: because his pictures have been bought and yours returned
home unsold: because he fills his church, and you are preaching to empty
pews? If your rival prospers have you ever felt a twinge of anger? If
his wife's carriage passes you and Mrs. Tomkins, who are in a cab,
don't you feel that those people are giving themselves absurd airs of
importance? If he lives with great people, are you not sure he is a
sneak? And if you ever felt envy towards another, and if your heart has
ever been black towards your brother, if you have been peevish at his
success, pleased to hear his merit depreciated, and eager to believe all
that is said in his disfavor--my good sir, as you yourself contritely
own that you are unjust, jealous, uncharitable, so, you may be sure,
some men are uncharitable, jealous, and unjust regarding YOU.


The proofs and manuscript of this little sermon have just come from
the printer's, and as I look at the writing, I perceive, not without a
smile, that one or two of the pages bear, "strange to say," the mark of
a Club of which I have the honor to be a member. Those lines quoted in
a foregoing page are from some noble verses written by one of Mr.
Addison's men, Mr. Tickell, on the death of Cadogan, who was amongst the
most prominent "of Marlborough's captains and Eugenio's friends." If
you are acquainted with the history of those times, you have read how
Cadogan had his feuds and hatreds too, as Tickell's patron had his, as
Cadogan's great chief had his. "The Duke of Marlborough's character has
been so variously drawn" (writes a famous contemporary of the duke's),
"that it is hard to pronounce on either side without the suspicion
of flattery or detraction. I shall say nothing of his military
accomplishments, which the opposite reports of his friends and enemies
among the soldiers have rendered problematical. Those maligners who deny
him personal valor, seem not to consider that this accusation is charged
at a venture, since the person of a general is too seldom exposed, and
that fear which is said sometimes to have disconcerted him before action
might probably be more for his army than himself." If Swift could hint
a doubt of Marlborough's courage, what wonder that a nameless scribe of
our day should question the honor of Clyde?




THE LAST SKETCH.


Not many days since I went to visit a house where in former years I
had received many a friendly welcome. We went into the owner's--an
artist's--studio. Prints, pictures, and sketches hung on the walls as I
had last seen and remembered them. The implements of the painter's
art were there. The light which had shone upon so many, many hours of
patient and cheerful toil, poured through the northern window upon print
and bust, lay figure and sketch, and upon the easel before which the
good, the gentle, the beloved Leslie labored. In this room the busy
brain had devised, and the skilful hand executed, I know not how many
of the noble works which have delighted the world with their beauty and
charming humor. Here the poet called up into pictorial presence, and
informed with life, grace, beauty, infinite friendly mirth and wondrous
naturalness of expression, the people of whom his dear books told him
the stories,--his Shakspeare, his Cervantes, his Moliere, his Le Sage.
There was his last work on the easel--a beautiful fresh smiling shape
of Titania, such as his sweet guileless fancy imagined the Midsummer
Night's queen to be. Gracious, and pure, and bright, the sweet smiling
image glimmers on the canvas. Fairy elves, no doubt, were to have been
grouped around their mistress in laughing clusters. Honest Bottom's
grotesque head and form are indicated as reposing by the side of the
consummate beauty. The darkling forest would have grown around them,
with the stars glittering from the midsummer sky: the flowers at the
queen's feet, and the boughs and foliage about her, would have been
peopled with gambolling sprites and fays. They were dwelling in the
artist's mind no doubt, and would have been developed by that patient,
faithful, admirable genius: but the busy brain stopped working, the
skilful hand fell lifeless, the loving, honest heart ceased to beat.
What was she to have been--that fair Titania--when perfected by the
patient skill of the poet, who in imagination saw the sweet innocent
figure, and with tender courtesy and caresses, as it were, posed and
shaped and traced the fair form? Is there record kept anywhere of
fancies conceived, beautiful, unborn? Some day will they assume form in
some yet undeveloped light? If our bad unspoken thoughts are registered
against us, and are written in the awful account, will not the good
thoughts unspoken, the love and tenderness, the pity, beauty, charity,
which pass through the breast, and cause the heart to throb with
silent good, find a remembrance too? A few weeks more, and this lovely
offspring of the poet's conception would have been complete--to charm
the world with its beautiful mirth. May there not be some sphere unknown
to us where it may have an existence? They say our words, once out of
our lips, go travelling in omne oevum, reverberating for ever and ever.
If our words, why not our thoughts? If the Has Been, why not the Might
Have Been?

Some day our spirits may be permitted to walk in galleries of fancies
more wondrous and beautiful than any achieved works which at present we
see, and our minds to behold and delight in masterpieces which poets'
and artists' minds have fathered and conceived only.

With a feeling much akin to that with which I looked upon the
friend's--the admirable artist's--unfinished work, I can fancy many
readers turning to the last pages which were traced by Charlotte
Bronte's hand. Of the multitude that have read her books, who has not
known and deplored the tragedy of her family, her own most sad and
untimely fate? Which of her readers has not become her friend? Who that
has known her books has not admired the artist's noble English, the
burning love of truth, the bravery, the simplicity, the indignation at
wrong, the eager sympathy, the pious love and reverence, the passionate
honor, so to speak, of the woman? What a story is that of that family
of poets in their solitude yonder on the gloomy northern moors! At nine
o'clock at night, Mrs. Gaskell tells, after evening prayers, when their
guardian and relative had gone to bed, the three poetesses--the three
maidens, Charlotte, and Emily, and Anne--Charlotte being the "motherly
friend and guardian to the other two"--"began, like restless wild
animals, to pace up and down their parlor, 'making out' their wonderful
stories, talking over plans and projects, and thoughts of what was to be
their future life."

One evening, at the close of 1854, as Charlotte Nicholls sat with her
husband by the fire, listening to the howling of the wind about the
house, she suddenly said to her husband, "If you had not been with me,
I must have been writing now." She then ran up stairs, and brought down,
and read aloud, the beginning of a new tale. When she had finished,
her husband remarked, "The critics will accuse you of repetition." She
replied, "Oh! I shall alter that. I always begin two or three times
before I can please myself." But it was not to be. The trembling
little hand was to write no more. The heart newly awakened to love and
happiness, and throbbing with maternal hope, was soon to cease to beat;
that intrepid outspeaker and champion of truth, that eager, impetuous
redresser of wrong, was to be called out of the world's fight and
struggle, to lay down the shining arms, and to be removed to a sphere
where even a noble indignation cor ulterius nequit lacerare, and where
truth complete, and right triumphant, no longer need to wage war.

I can only say of this lady, vidi tantum. I saw her first just as I rose
out of an illness from which I had never thought to recover. I remember
the trembling little frame, the little hand, the great honest eyes.
An impetuous honesty seemed to me to characterize the woman. Twice
I recollect she took me to task for what she held to be errors in
doctrine. Once about Fielding we had a disputation. She spoke her mind
out. She jumped too rapidly to conclusions. (I have smiled at one or
two passages in the "Biography," in which my own disposition or behavior
forms the subject of talk.) She formed conclusions that might be wrong,
and built up whole theories of character upon them. New to the London
world, she entered it with an independent, indomitable spirit of her
own; and judged of contemporaries, and especially spied out arrogance or
affectation, with extraordinary keenness of vision. She was angry with
her favorites if their conduct or conversation fell below her ideal.
Often she seemed to me to be judging the London folk prematurely: but
perhaps the city is rather angry at being judged. I fancied an austere
little Joan of Arc marching in upon us, and rebuking our easy lives, our
easy morals. She gave me the impression of being a very pure, and lofty,
and high-minded person. A great and holy reverence of right and truth
seemed to be with her always. Such, in our brief interview, she appeared
to me. As one thinks of that life so noble, so lonely--of that passion
for truth--of those nights and nights of eager study, swarming fancies,
invention, depression, elation, prayer; as one reads the necessarily
incomplete, though most touching and admirable history of the heart that
throbbed in this one little frame--of this one amongst the myriads
of souls that have lived and died on this great earth--this great
earth?--this little speck in the infinite universe of God,--with what
wonder do we think of to-day, with what awe await to-morrow, when that
which is now but darkly seen shall be clear! As I read this little
fragmentary sketch, I think of the rest. Is it? And where is it? Will
not the leaf be turned some day, and the story be told? Shall the
deviser of the tale somewhere perfect the history of little EMMA'S
griefs and troubles? Shall TITANIA come forth complete with her sportive
court, with the flowers at her feet, the forest around her, and all the
stars of summer glittering overhead?

How well I remember the delight, and wonder, and pleasure with which I
read "Jane Eyre," sent to me by an author whose name and sex were then
alike unknown to me; the strange fascinations of the book; and how with
my own work pressing upon me, I could not, having taken the volumes up,
lay them down until they were read through! Hundreds of those who, like
myself, recognized and admired that master-work of a great genius, will
look with a mournful interest and regard and curiosity upon the last
fragmentary sketch from the noble hand which wrote "Jane Eyre."