Take the Elizabethan drama, and compare it with ours. What should we think of our best dramatist if, in one of his tragedies, a man's eyes were plucked out on the stage, and if he that did it exclaimed as he trampled on them, 'Out, vile jelly! where is thy l.u.s.tre now?' or of a t.i.tus Andronicus cutting two throats, while his daughter ''tween her stumps doth hold a basin to receive their blood'?

'Humanity,' says Taine, speaking of these times, 'is as much lacking as decency. Blood, suffering, does not move them.'

Heaven forbid that we should return to such brutality! I cite these pa.s.sages merely to show how times are changed; and to suggest that with the change there is a decided loss of manliness. Are men more virtuous, do they love honour more, are they more chivalrous, than the Miltons, the Lovelaces, the Sidneys of the past? Are the women chaster or more gentle? No; there is more puritanism, but not more true piety. It is only the outside of the cup and the platter that are made clean, the inward part is just as full of wickedness, and all the worse for its hysterical fastidiousness.

To what do we owe this tendency? Are we degenerating morally as well as physically? Consider the physical side of the question. Fifty years ago the standard height for admission to the army was five feet six inches.

It is now lowered to five feet. Within the last ten years the increase in the urban population has been nearly three and a half millions.

Within the same period the increase in the rural population is less than a quarter of one million. Three out of five recruits for the army are rejected; a large proportion of them because their teeth are gone or decayed. Do these figures need comment? Can you look for sound minds in such unsound bodies? Can you look for manliness, for self-respect, and self-control, or anything but animalistic sentimentality?

It is not the character of our drama or of our works of fiction that promotes and fosters this propensity; but may it not be that the enormous increase in the number of theatres, and the prodigious supply of novels, may have a share in it, by their exorbitant appeal to the emotional, and hence neurotic, elements of our nature? If such considerations apply mainly to dwellers in overcrowded towns, there is yet another cause which may operate on those more favoured,-the vast increase in wealth and luxury. Wherever these have grown to excess, whether in Babylon, or Nineveh, or Thebes, or Alexandria, or Rome, they have been the symptoms of decadence, and forerunners of the nation's collapse.

Let us be humane, let us abhor the horrors of war, and strain our utmost energies to avert them. But we might as well forbid the use of surgical instruments as the weapons that are most destructive in warfare. If a limb is rotting with gangrene, shall it not be cut away? So if the pa.s.sions which occasion wars are inherent in human nature, we must face the evil stout-heartedly; and, for one, I humbly question whether any abolition of dum-dum bullets or other attempts to mitigate this disgrace to humanity, do, in the end, more good than harm.

It is elsewhere that we must look for deliverance,-to the overwhelming power of better educated peoples; to closer intercourse between the nations; to the conviction that, from the most selfish point of view even, peace is the only path to prosperity; to the restraint of the baser Press which, for mere pelf, spurs the pa.s.sions of the mult.i.tude instead of curbing them; and, finally, to deliverance from the 'all-potent wills of Little Fathers by Divine right,' and from the ign.o.ble ambition of bullet-headed uncles and brothers and cousins-a curse from which England, thank the G.o.ds! is, and let us hope, ever will be, free. But there are more countries than one that are not so-just now; and the world may ere long have to pay the bitter penalty.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII

IT is curious if one lives long enough to watch the change of taste in books. I have no lending-library statistics at hand, but judging by the reading of young people, or of those who read merely for their amus.e.m.e.nt, the authors they patronise are nearly all living or very recent. What we old stagers esteemed as cla.s.sical in fiction and _belles-lettres_ are sealed books to the present generation. It is an exception, for instance, to meet with a young man or young woman who has read Walter Scott. Perhaps Balzac's reason is the true one. Scott, says he, 'est sans pa.s.sion; il l'ignore, ou peut-etre lui etait-elle interdite par les murs hypocrites de son pays. Pour lui la femme est le devoir incarne.

A de rares exceptions pres, ses herones sont absolument les memes . . .

La femme porte le desordre dans la societe par la pa.s.sion. La pa.s.sion a des accidents infinis. Peignez donc les pa.s.sions, vous aurez les sources immenses dont s'est prive ce grand genie pour etre lu dans toutes les familles de la prude Angleterre.' Does not Thackeray lament that since Fielding no novelist has dared to face the national affectation of prudery? No English author who valued his reputation would venture to write as Anatole France writes, even if he could. Yet I pity the man who does not delight in the genius that created M. Bergeret.

A well-known author said to me the other day, he did not believe that Thackeray himself would be popular were he writing now for the first time-not because of his freedom, but because the public taste has altered. No present age can predict immortality for the works of its day; yet to say that what is intrinsically good is good for all time is but a truism. The misfortune is that much of the best in literature shares the fate of the best of ancient monuments and n.o.ble cities; the c.u.mulative rubbish of ages buries their splendours, till we know not where to find them. The day may come when the most valuable service of the man of letters will be to unearth the lost treasures and display them, rather than add his grain of dust to the ever-increasing middens.

Is Carlyle forgotten yet, I wonder? How much did my contemporaries owe to him in their youth? How readily we followed a leader so sure of himself, so certain of his own evangel. What an aid to strength to be a.s.sured that the true hero is the morally strong man. One does not criticise what one loves; one didn't look too closely into the doctrine that, might is right, for somehow he managed to persuade us that right makes the might-that the strong man is the man who, for the most part, does act rightly. He is not over-patient with human frailty, to be sure, and is apt, as Herbert Spencer found, to fling about his scorn rather recklessly. One fancies sometimes that he has more respect for a genuine bad man than for a sham good one. In fact, his 'Eternal Verities' come pretty much to the same as Darwin's 'Law of the advancement of all organic bodies'; 'let the strong live, and the weakest die.' He had no objection to seeing 'the young cuckoo ejecting its foster-brothers, or ants making slaves.' But he atones for all this by his hatred of cant and hypocrisy. It is for his manliness that we love him, for his honesty, for his indifference to any mortal's approval save that of Thomas Carlyle. He convinces us that right thinking is good, but that right doing is much better. And so it is that he does honour to men of action like his beloved Oliver, and Fritz,-neither of them paragons of wisdom or of goodness, but men of doughty deeds.

Just about this time I narrowly missed a longed-for chance of meeting this hero of my _penates_. Lady Ashburton-Carlyle's Lady Ashburton-knowing my admiration, kindly invited me to The Grange, while he was there. The house was full-mainly of ministers or ex-ministers,-Cornewall Lewis, Sir Charles Wood, Sir James Graham, Albany Fonblanque, Mr. Ellice, and Charles Buller-Carlyle's only pupil; but the great man himself had left an hour before I got there. I often met him afterwards, but never to make his acquaintance. Of course, I knew nothing of his special friendship for Lady Ashburton, which we are told was not altogether shared by Mrs. Carlyle; but I well remember the interest which Lady Ashburton seemed to take in his praise, how my enthusiasm seemed to please her, and how Carlyle and his works were topics she was never tired of discussing.

The South Western line to Alresford was not then made, and I had to post part of the way from London to The Grange. My chaise companion was a man very well known in 'Society'; and though not remarkably popular, was not altogether undistinguished, as the following little tale will attest.

Frederick Byng, one of the Torrington branch of the Byngs, was chiefly famous for his sobriquet 'The Poodle'; this he owed to no special merit of his own, but simply to the accident of his thick curly head of hair.

Some, who spoke feelingly of the man, used to declare that he had fulfilled the promises of his youth. What happened to him then may perhaps justify the opinion.

The young Poodle was addicted to practical jokes-as usual, more amusing to the player than to the playee. One of his victims happened to be Beau Brummell, who, except when he bade 'George ring the bell,' was as perfect a model of deportment as the great Mr. Turveydrop himself. His studied decorum possibly provoked the playfulness of the young puppy; and amongst other attempts to disturb the Beau's complacency, Master Byng ran a pin into the calf of that gentleman's leg, and then he ran away. A few days later Mr. Brummell, who had carefully dissembled his wrath, invited the unwary youth to breakfast, telling him that he was leaving town, and had a present which his young friend might have, if he chose to fetch it.

The boy kept the appointment, and the Beau his promise. After an excellent breakfast, Brummell took a whip from his cupboard, and gave it to the Poodle in a way the young dog was not likely to forget.

The happiest of my days then, and perhaps of my life, were spent at Mr.

Ellice's Highland Lodge, at Glenquoich. For sport of all kinds it was and is difficult to surpa.s.s. The hills of the deer forest are amongst the highest in Scotland; the scenery of its lake and glens, especially the descent to Loch Hourne, is unequalled. Here were to be met many of the most notable men and women of the time. And as the house was twenty miles from the nearest post-town, and that in turn two days from London, visitors ceased to be strangers before they left. In the eighteen years during which this was my autumn home, I had the good fortune to meet numbers of distinguished people of whom I could now record nothing interesting but their names. Still, it is a privilege to have known such men as John Lawrence, Guizot, Thiers, Landseer, Merimee, Comte de Flahault, Doyle, Lords Elgin and Dalhousie, Duc de Broglie, Pelissier, Panizzi, Motley, Delane, Dufferin; and of gifted women, the three Sheridans, Lady Seymour-the Queen of Beauty, afterwards d.u.c.h.ess of Somerset-Mrs. Norton, and Lady Dufferin. Amongst those who have a retrospective interest were Mr. and Lady Blanche Balfour, parents of Mr.

Arthur Balfour, who came there on their wedding tour in 1843. Mr. Arthur Balfour's father was Mrs. Ellice's first cousin.

It would be easy to lengthen the list; but I mention only those who repeated their visits, and who fill up my mental picture of the place and of the life. Some amongst them impressed me quite as much for their amiability-their loveableness, I may say-as for their renown; and regard for them increased with coming years. Panizzi was one of these.

Dufferin, who was just my age, would have fascinated anyone with the singular courtesy of his manner. d.i.c.ky Doyle was necessarily a favourite with all who knew him. He was a frequent inmate of my house after I married, and was engaged to dine with me, alas! only eight days before he died. Motley was a singularly pleasant fellow. My friendship with him began over a volume of Sir W. Hamilton's Lectures. He asked what I was reading-I handed him the book.

'Ah,' said he, 'there's no mental gymnastic like metaphysics.'

Many a battle we afterwards had over them. When I was at Cannes in 1877 I got a message from him one day saying he was ill, and asking me to come and see him. He did not say how ill, so I put off going. Two days after I heard he was dead.

Merimee's cynicism rather alarmed one. He was a capital caricaturist, though, to our astonishment, he a.s.sured us he had never drawn, or used a colour-box, till late in life. He had now learnt to use it, in a way that did not invariably give satisfaction. Landseer always struck me as sensitive and proud, a Diogenes-tempered individual who had been spoilt by the toadyism of great people. He was agreeable if made much of, or almost equally so if others were made little of.

But of all those named, surely John Lawrence was the greatest. I wish I had read his life before it ended. Yet, without knowing anything more of him than that he was Chief Commissioner of the Punjab, which did not convey much to my understanding, one felt the greatness of the man beneath his calm simplicity. One day the party went out for a deer-drive; I was instructed to place Sir John in the pa.s.s below mine.

To my disquietude he wore a black overcoat. I a.s.sured him that not a stag would come within a mile of us, unless he covered himself with a grey plaid, or hid behind a large rock there was, where I a.s.sured him he would see nothing.

'Have the deer to pa.s.s me before they go on to you?' he asked.

'Certainly they have,' said I; 'I shall be up there above you.'

'Well then,' was his answer, 'I'll get behind the rock-it will be more snug out of the wind.'

One might as well have asked the deer not to see him, as try to persuade John Lawrence not to sacrifice himself for others. That he did so here was certain, for the deer came within fifty yards of him, but he never fired a shot.

Another of the Indian viceroys was the innocent occasion of great discomfort to me, or rather his wife was. Lady Elgin had left behind her a valuable diamond necklace. I was going back to my private tutor at Ely a few days after, and the necklace was entrusted to me to deliver to its owner on my way through London. There was no railway then further north than Darlington, except that between Edinburgh and Glasgow. When I reached Edinburgh by coach from Inverness, my portmanteau was not to be found. The necklace was in a despatch-box in my portmanteau; and by an unlucky oversight, I had put my purse into my despatch-box. What was to be done? I was a lad of seventeen, in a town where I did not know a soul, with seven or eight shillings at most in my pocket. I had to break my journey and to stop where I was till I could get news of the necklace; this alone was clear to me, for the necklace was the one thing I cared for.

At the coach office all the comfort I could get was that the lost luggage might have gone on to Glasgow; or, what was more probable, might have gone astray at Burntisland. It might not have been put on board, or it might not have been taken off the ferry-steamer. This could not be known for twenty-four hours, as there was no boat to or from Burntisland till the morrow. I decided to try Glasgow. A return third-cla.s.s ticket left me without a copper. I went, found nothing, got back to Edinburgh at 10 P.M., ravenously hungry, dead tired, and so frightened about the necklace that food, bed, means of continuing my journey, were as mere death compared with irreparable dishonour. What would they all think of me?

How could I prove that I had not stolen the diamonds? Would Lord Elgin accuse me? How could I have been such an idiot as to leave them in my portmanteau! Some rascal might break it open, and then, goodbye to my chance for ever! Chance? what chance was there of seeing that luggage again? There were so many 'mights.' I couldn't even swear that I had seen it on the coach at Inverness. Oh dear! oh dear! What was to be done? I walked about the streets; I glanced woefully at door-steps, whereon to pa.s.s the night; I gazed piteously through the windows of a cheap cook's shop, where solid wedges of baked pudding, that would have stopped digestion for a month, were advertised for a penny a block. How rich should I have been if I had had a penny in my pocket! But I had to turn away in despair.

At last the inspiration came. I remembered hearing Mr. Ellice say that he always put up at Douglas' Hotel when he stayed in Edinburgh. I had very little hope of success, but I was too miserable to hesitate. It was very late, and everybody might be gone to bed. I rang the bell. 'I want to see the landlord.'

'Any name?' the porter asked.

'No.' The landlord came, fat, amiable looking. 'May I speak to you in private?' He showed the way to an unoccupied room. 'I think you know Mr. Ellice?'

'Glenquoich, do you mean?'

'Yes.'

'Oh, very well-he always stays here on his way through.'

'I am his step-son; I left Glenquoich yesterday. I have lost my luggage, and am left without any money. Will you lend me five pounds?' I believe if I were in the same strait now, and entered any strange hotel in the United Kingdom at half-past ten at night, and asked the landlord to give me five pounds upon a similar security, he would laugh in my face, or perhaps give me in charge of a policeman.

My host of Douglas' did neither; but opened both his heart and his pocket-book, and with the greatest good humour handed me the requested sum. What good people there are in this world, which that crusty old Sir Peter Teazle calls 'a d-d wicked one.' I poured out all my trouble to the generous man. He ordered me an excellent supper, and a very nice room. And on the following day, after taking a great deal of trouble, he recovered my lost luggage and the priceless treasure it contained. It was a proud and happy moment when I returned his loan, and convinced him, of what he did not seem to doubt, that I was positively not a swindler.

But the roofless night and the empty belly, consequent on an empty pocket, was a lesson which I trust was not thrown away upon me. It did not occur to me to do so, but I certainly might have picked a pocket, if-well, if I had been brought up to it. Honesty, as I have often thought since, is dirt cheap if only one can afford it.

Before departing from my beloved Glenquoich, I must pay a pa.s.sing tribute to the remarkable qualities of Mrs. Edward Ellice and of her youngest sister Mrs. Robert Ellice, the mother of the present member for St.

Andrews. It was, in a great measure, the bright intelligence, the rare tact, and social gifts of these two ladies that made this beautiful Highland resort so attractive to all comers.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII

THE winter of 185455 I spent in Rome. Here I made the acquaintance of Leighton, then six-and-twenty. I saw a good deal of him, as I lived almost entirely amongst the artists, taking lessons myself in water colours of Leitch. Music also brought us into contact. He had a beautiful voice, and used to sing a good deal with Mrs. Sartoris-Adelaide Kemble-whom he greatly admired, and whose portrait is painted under a monk's cowl, in the Cimabue procession.

Calling on him one morning, I found him on his knees b.u.t.tering and rolling up this great picture, preparatory to sending it to the Academy.

I made some remark about its unusual size, saying with a sceptical smile, 'It will take up a lot of room.'