Realmah

“You all know how fond I am of yachting: I do not know that in itself it is so very delightful, but one’s yacht is the only place in the world in which one is perfectly secure from letters and telegrams.”

Ellesmere. The abomination of desolation of the present time; I can only say I wish that we were back in the olden times,—that Milverton was a piratical baron (as I know he would be), devastating all these peaceful valleys, and levying black-mail upon all travellers that passed,—so that we were not plagued with these modern inventions. Now you all praise Rowland Hill, Wheatstone, Stephenson, Watt, and all those people who have made communication more rapid. I say, that they have been unbounded nuisances to the world. As to the man who invented the penny post, he ought to be put to a disgraceful death. By the way, I quite agree with that man of business who declared that he would only meet the great evil once a day. All his letters were collected for him during the day, and at ten o’clock the next morning he would face them; but as to anything that came in the meantime he entirely declined to look at it, whether it were marked “Immediate,” “Urgent,” “Pressing,” or “Most important.” When I was Attorney-General I used to hate the “Urgent,” “Pressing,” “Very pressing” letters that came from public offices. In general, they merely communicated some calamity which no human being could do anything to avoid or lessen.

Milverton. I once knew a telegram do some good.

Ellesmere. Once! and how many times has it done evil?

Cranmer. If you are serious, Sir John, your words strike a blow at all modern civilization.

10Ellesmere. Well, if they do, I don’t care. Modern civilization is no particular friend of mine.

Milverton. We have sadly interrupted Sir Arthur; and I am sure he was going to tell us something which would be very interesting.

Sir Arthur. We think we know the whole of the inhabited globe, but we are greatly mistaken. First, however, I must talk to you about yachting. I began in a very small way. I used to have a yacht which was manned by myself and one old man, and our great excursions were chiefly from Southampton to the Isle of Wight. But how delightful they were! You can hardly imagine the pleasure of sailing along on a moonlight night, the most common-place objects being suffused with beauty. All that Lord Byron has said about the Coliseum, as seen by moonlight, applies to the commonest and most ill-formed buildings on the Southampton waters; and then the talk of my old sailor used to amuse me so much. He, like many of us, had gone through a rough and severe life. He had lost children. He had lost a scolding wife, who, with all her faults, he used to look up to and reverence as a superior being. “My Betsy,” he would say, “knew a mort more than I do. Ah! you should have heard her talk; I wish she were here now.” I cannot say I entirely shared that wish, being contented with the views of life which my old friend could give me in his pleasant simple way.

Well, the great Godolphin case—which you have all heard of—was settled, and I became rich. Of course, on this change of fortune, my old man and I were not contented with our little yacht—not that I ever had such pleasures as in that little yacht—and we bought one which, as he used to say, “was equal to Portsmouth biscuit;” a yacht that did not fear the Bay of Biscay.

After a hard parliamentary session, Spraggs (that was the name of my old man) and I undertook an adventurous cruise. We had always a curiosity to see those islands that had been formed out of coral, and we lost our way amongst them, and came one day upon an island which I believe has been seen by no other civilized men. Menantra is its name. The natives rushed down to see us, and welcomed 11us with the utmost cordiality. They spoke a language which was a little like Basque, and as I had mastered that language, I was tolerably able to understand them, and to make myself understood. One young man especially attached himself to me. His name was Connarra. One evening I was talking about the chief town of the island with my friend Connarra, when he said to me, “Great stranger, it is nothing for you to see new towns and new people, but for me, ever since I have known you, my life has been a state of wild excitement. Although I am not very rich, I must go to the sleep-shop and spend my money in sleep. By the way, it is strange that you and your men never go to the sleep-shop.”

In my travels I have found that it is never desirable to ask for explanations about anything which you can see for yourself; so, though I had not the remotest idea of what he meant by a sleep-shop, I accompanied him to the shop in question as if it were a familiar thing to me.

Cranmer. There was a town, I suppose, of some magnitude?

Ellesmere. Pray give us some of those circumstances, Sir Arthur, which we know always attend a truthful narrative like yours.

Sir Arthur. The town was in the form of a cross. The constellation of the Southern Cross seems to have made the deepest impression on the minds of those who dwell under it. The town chiefly consisted of well-built huts or wigwams; but there are some buildings made of bricks dried in the sun. The town was always enlarged symmetrically. At the point where the two lines met which formed the cross, there was a square. This also was enlarged by pulling down buildings when the two lines that formed the cross were lengthened.

I will not trouble you with a description of the religion of these islanders and of their form of government, except just to mention that they were governed by a chief, who ruled eight years, having a council to assist him. The only curious thing about the council was, that the united ages of the councillors (there were ten) were always to equal if possible 530. Directly they exceeded this number by ten 12a councillor went out of office, and a man was chosen to fill his place whose age should make the sacred number 530 right. It was not always the oldest councillor who retired.

To return to the sleep-shop. It corresponded to our chemists’ shops. You know what intelligent men our chemists often are; well, in Menantra these sleep-shops were kept by men of much ability, who depended upon the Government, and took certain oaths to administer sleep righteously.

The sleep-shop to which my friend Connarra took me was the large one in the great square; in fact, the shop which had the chief’s custom. After that evening I never passed a day without visiting this shop, and also a very low one of the same kind at the extreme end of the long line of the cross—a shop which was much frequented by the lowest classes.

You may imagine what a mine of investigation was opened to me.

Cranmer. What was the sleep-medicine like? I mean, what did it look like?

Sir Arthur. I object entirely to the word “medicine.” It was not an opiate; it was concentrated sleep.

Well, what it looked like, or rather, what it was, was a soft, semi-elastic, pulpy substance, of the most beautiful blue colour; and the value and intensity of it was exactly measured by the intensity of the blueness. To the touch it was more like a sea-anemone than any other thing or creature I ever touched.

There were various kinds of this sleep substance. The lowest could only produce a troubled, dreamful sleep; and, from this degree, it went up to that choice cerulean blue which produced the most profound and absolute repose.

Cranmer. Did you bring any of it away?

Ellesmere (aside). What a literal fellow! just like a Secretary of the Treasury. I do think the man wants to put a tax upon it.

Sir Arthur. It melted away if kept long; lost its colour and its power, and became a white, gelatinous, unpleasant-looking substance. In that state, too, it was originally found 13in the centre of pieces of stone they called pompar. It turned blue on exposure to the air. There were mines of pompar worked by the Government, which possessed the monopoly.

But you all want to hear what I discovered from my long talks with these chemists. I will tell you, point by point; and you may depend upon it, each fact I have to tell you is to be explained by some corresponding fact of importance in human nature.

First, I very soon learnt that women bought much cheaper kinds of this sleep, and less even of those kinds, than men. How do you explain that?

Ellesmere. The explanation is as simple as possible. They want all their money for dress. By the way, have they money in your charming island?

Sir Arthur. Yes, called Saka, a transparently yellow shell.

Milverton. No; the reason is far deeper than that. A much larger part of the anxiety, vexation, and remorse of the world is felt by men than by women; and therefore the men want more sleep, and of the best quality.

Sir Arthur. That is how I read it.

Johnson (timidly). But love! Do not women suffer as much from disappointed love as men do, or even more?

Milverton. Perhaps so, my boy; but, when you come to our time of life, you will find that there are a great many worse things than disappointed love, requiring much heavier doses of high-priced sleep,—shame, poverty, impending bankruptcy, and remorse. The middle-aged man, gradually going down in the world—with lots of people depending upon him—who has undertaken some unfortunate enterprise, which, poor fellow, he meant to turn out so well, is a more pitiable object than the desponding or rejected lover. About this love there is always a sustaining power of romance.

Ellesmere. Amelia marries Jones. What consoles poor Smith, thinking over it at night? He says to himself, at first with some bitterness, “Ah, she will soon find out the difference,” and in a tenderer frame of thought he exclaims, “Poor thing! how happy she would have been with me; how happy I with her if it had not been for that confounded 14fellow’s property in houses at Mile End. D―⁠― Mile End!” And Smith goes to sleep, not so very miserable. His last thought is, “I should have been a better match, after all, than Jones.”

Compare this romantic sorrow with that of Robinson, who dreads rent and taxes, who humbles himself before the butcher, who fears to tell his anxious wife of this loss, and that bad debt; and has to smile and smile, and be a pauper perhaps with a brougham, which he is afraid to put down.

Cranmer. In what latitude and longitude is this island?

Sir Arthur. I will consult my master of the yacht, and let you know some day, Mr. Cranmer.

Ellesmere (aside, contemptuously). Some day! some day!

Sir Arthur. Oh, she was such a yacht, the Esmeralda! She would almost talk to you!

Ellesmere. But sleep, sleep, sleep! Go on, there’s a good fellow, with the pith of your story. I feel inclined to use naughty words, such as Smith used to Mile End, in respect to those indispensable but tiresome creatures, latitude and longitude, if they are to interrupt us.

Milverton. Ellesmere, who is the greatest of interrupters, is the most intolerant of any interruption but his own.

Ellesmere. Don’t get in a rage, Milverton. We shall have to buy the bluest of blue sleep-stuff for you, I see.

Milverton. I must give another explanation of the fact that Sir Arthur has told us. Women enjoy the present so much more than men do, that they are not fond of having it cut short, even by supreme sleep.

Sir Arthur. Now the next fact I arrived at was this, and it appears to me a remarkable one, viz. that the highest-priced sleep was not bought up so much as you would suppose. It was the fashion, however, to buy it; to use one of the slang words of our day, it was the “swell” thing to buy nothing but the choicest sleep; though, in reality, pretty nearly all the young girls, a great many of the young men, most of the widows, and the well-to-do people, generally consumed, on the sly, the lower-priced sleeps. On the contrary, young children almost always wished for an expensive sleep. Now, how do you account for that?

15Milverton. Obviously! the young men and the young women, the widows, and well-to-do people, liked to have their dreams. Dreams are frequently a choice part of their lives; whereas children, on the other hand, are often terrified by dreams. Perhaps it is that children have left the land of shadows later than we have; and so they fear the dark, the unknown, the invisible, more than we do. In fact, these terrors by night are some of the greatest sufferings of childhood, and we ought to be very tender to children about their fears, which often seem very unreasonable to us.

Sir Arthur. Good! I say good, because your theory agrees with mine.

Now, I will tell you another extraordinary thing. The doctors did not always use the highest-priced sleeps in their compounds.

Milverton. I don’t understand that.

Ellesmere. I do.

Milverton. I know what you mean, Ellesmere. You cannot help having your sneer; but you know as well as I do that doctors are about the best men we have in the world; and that they delight in healing, and not in protracting illness.

Ellesmere. H’m.

Sir Arthur. The explanation is clear, at least to my mind. But in order to work it out, I must talk a little about myself. I once had a brain-fever, brought on by insane application to work. By the way, was it Baxter or Bunyan, or some other considerable theologian, who spoke of “the lust of finishing?” It is a very just phrase; one has sometimes a mad desire to finish what one has once begun. Well, the doctors told me to be quiet, and especially to avoid all thinking. To give impossible prescriptions is the foible of doctors. I tried not to think; but, after a thoughtless day, my unwholesomely active mind would not be quiet. It even revived all sorts of mathematical work done at Cambridge, which I had long forgotten. I had not the least idea that I possessed, down in the depths of my mind, such vivid reminiscences of mathematical lectures. After an ill-spent night of this kind, I came to the conclusion that some new course must be adopted. The doctors had 16ordered me to travel, and a dear friend, who is one of our best linguists, had agreed to travel with me. I said to him, “Let us learn a new language,” and he readily assented. We will call him Bopp, because he often reminded me of that great grammarian. We set out on our travels, and this new language occupied a good deal of our spare thought without exciting us. Bopp, perhaps to look after me, generally slept in the next room. I would call out to him, in the middle of the night, “Are you asleep?” “No,” he would reply. “Well, after all, don’t you think there is something in this language like the Greek aorist?” Bopp would say, “Not at all,” and give reasons for it; and then he would turn upon me and say, “I should like to hear you go through that irregular verb which we learnt to-day, and which I maintain is not irregular at all, but the real old form of the conjugation.” Then I had to go through, as best I could, the irregular verb; and it is astonishing how soon it led to a comfortable sleep. So I think the medicine men in Menantra knew that they must give nature some play in the way of mental excitement, and therefore did not always administer to the sick the soundest sleep except upon urgent occasions.

Ellesmere. I declare that is a very sensible view, and I begin to believe that there is such an island, which we will call Arthuria Godolphinia, and that it lies in latitude 397°, longitude 486°. The minutes and seconds, which I forget, will be sent to Mr. Cranmer, at the Treasury in Downing Street, when the master of the Esmeralda consults his logbook.

Oh, Lady Ellesmere! Lady Ellesmere! (Lady Ellesmere was seen coming down the gravel-walk towards the summer-house.) You have lost such a treat (as women say, when one has missed, by pure accident, hearing their favourite preacher’s last hour-and-a-half sermon). Oh, such beautiful things said about women by me, and contradicted by Mr. Cranmer: how they want no sleep because they have no remorse, no shame, no vexation, for, as Milverton and Mr. Cranmer both maintain, they have no consciences. (How I have been fighting your battles, my dear Mildred!) And I say they have consciences, because 17the existence of the negative proves the existence of the positive, and if they had no consciences how could they be so unconscionable in the article of dress? Here is this young woman coming to take the whole of the summer-house from us, with those atrocious skirts of hers.

Ellesmere. Speak out, my dear, say your say to this choice company. This young lady has the graciousness and the modesty to observe, that there is only one woman in the world who would ever have believed anything that Sir John Ellesmere addressed to her, and that she is that unfortunate young person.

Ellesmere. But, my dear Sir Arthur, more about sleep. Attend, Mildred! Sir Arthur is telling us about an island at which he arrived in a yacht, that almost spoke to him, where they sold sleep, a clammy blue stuff, like a sea-anemone (lat. 470°, long. 590°, minutes and seconds omitted, to the great regret of Mr. Cranmer), and where women spend all their money in dress, and therefore cannot afford to buy good sleep. Doctors—the rascals—prescribe second-rate sleep: young men, widowers, and widows (young widows, Lady Ellesmere) will insist upon dreaming, and therefore buy low-priced sleeps. Heavy fathers of families buy the real stuff to console themselves against the evils which attend married life. I am sure I want some. Nothing but the best sleep for me, as long as I am plagued as much as I am. Bills again: a cheque wanted! Lady Ellesmere 18is so loving and affectionate on such occasions; and when she says, “My dearest love, I want to bother you about a little matter of business,” I know it means a cheque of three figures at least. Oh! I have forgotten; in this happy island children prefer high-priced sleep, because, as Milverton says, they come more recently from the land of shadows. I call that now a clear and sensible explanation, not at all built upon hypothesis.

And now, my dear, I have told you all about it, which these people have taken an hour and three-quarters to elaborate—Milverton perpetually interrupting, after his tiresome fashion. Now drive on, Sir Arthur; never mind their interruptions. I will back you up with judicious silence.

Milverton. This Ishmaelite; his tongue, if not his hand, is against everybody.

Sir Arthur. I come to the saddest part of my story. As I told you, I spent a great deal of my time at the sleep-shop in the grand square. After the sun went down, and the Southern Cross was wont to shine out in all its ineffable beauty (I don’t know how my crew felt, but that constellation exercised a kind of awful mysterious influence over me: I was never tired of gazing up at it), there used to come to the shop, in a stealthy manner, a wretched-looking man. His clothes (their clothes are chiefly made of the red and green mithral—a kind of rush) showed what we call genteel poverty, but he always bought a small quantity of the highest-priced sleep—the bluest of the blue. I talked to Alcathra, my chemist friend, about this poor man.

“Ah,” he said, “a man of his means cannot afford to buy such sleep. There is crime, or there is horrible disaster there. I do the best I can for him to cheapen it, and I lose by every sale I make to him.” (What good people there really are everywhere!) “I know the day will arrive when that man will come no more, and I shall hear that the officers of justice have my poor customer in their clutches. But let us give the poor wretch what easement we can. You know we are sworn to secrecy, we sellers of sleep, and so I am happy to say I am not bound to denounce him. To you, as a stranger, I may speak openly.”

I was quite sure that Alcathra was right, from two 19circumstances which I observed myself. This poor man always walked down the middle of the street, so as to be sure he was not followed by anybody; and just before he entered the shop I have observed him clear up his countenance, and try to look lively; fearing, no doubt, lest his habitual dejection should betray him.

Our surmises proved to be well founded. Two days before I left the port, this poor wretch was arrested on a charge of murder. It was not so very wicked a crime after all. He was a harsh, hard man, the criminal; but, in his rough way, he adored his wife. The wife was false, and he had slain her lover, committing the deed very artfully. It was done at the sleep-mines, where the murderer was a superintendent of considerable authority.

And now I hope you will not blame me when I tell you I saved this poor man from execution. We broke open the prison at night, an easy task to do, as the prison was a wooden building, and I carried him off in the yacht. He died, though, a broken-hearted man, before we advanced far on our voyage homeward, for he believed, whether rightly or wrongly, that his wife had secretly denounced him to the Council, and this thought was his death-stroke. His last look upwards was at the Southern Cross, which they regard with fervent religious worship. I had become attached to the poor man: and he was, in his way, a great thinker. Strange to say, all the most difficult questions of fate, free-will, and predestination—those questions which will torment even the most civilized people to the latest generation—were present in the bewildered mind of that semi-savage. I don’t know that it would have been possible for me to have kept the poor man alive, for the sleep-stuff I had brought with me was beginning to fade in colour; and I remember his mentioning to me during his later days, that his dreams were horrible.

I have not told you of some compound sleep-stuff which was also used in the island. I say compound, because I am sure it was mixed with some drug, though my chemist friend would never acknowledge that. It was, however, of a pink colour, and was used by those persons who had to attend public meetings, even by some of those who formed 20the great Council of Ten. Its effect was this: it put a man into a pleasing kind of stupor, in which state he did not care much how time passed, or what was said to him, and he could be in this state without betraying himself, for he could hear all that was said, and look sufficiently intelligent, and at the same time enjoy a semi-comatose condition, which made the length of speech a matter of indifference to him. There were rumours that the great chief himself was somewhat addicted to pink sleep, but, if so, he must have been very prudent in the use of it, for he always seemed to give an intelligent attention when listening at the great council, or receiving any of his subjects.

Ellesmere. I never have liked yachting. It is true you get rid of letters and telegrams, but then you are shut up with a few people, and what becomes of you if you quarrel with them? Besides, there is a want of space in all ships, even of the largest size, which does not suit me. I would, however, endure a long cruise in any yacht that would bring me to an island where I could buy pink sleep. You know, when I was Attorney-General, I was offered the appointment of judge, but I dreaded so much having to go through the necessary amount of listening that I refused it. Listening patiently is certainly not my forte.

Sir Arthur. I should not have liked to have stayed any longer in the island, though it was a most instructive place; but I knew that, whenever I should see a poor man buying continually high-priced sleep, I should be sure to suspect him of some deadly crime. Indeed, I had already begun to suspect several individuals who frequented the upper and the lower shops, and who always went beyond their apparent means in buying high-priced sleep.

And now, lady and gentlemen, my tale is told. I am afraid it is rather a sad one.

Ellesmere. How true are Goethe’s words, that a man cannot jump away from his own shadow! Sir Arthur introduces 21us to this strange, sleep-buying people. There his imagination ends. He makes them have just the same motives as people in our lands, who, unhappily, cannot buy sleep, be they ever so rich in Consols. For instance, the poor wretch whom Sir Arthur carried away did but partake the fate of men in well-known climes, and the source of his misfortunes was that which, for the most part, is the source of ours.

I, too, feel the impulse of genius upon me, and must tell my little story; but it will be one that you will all easily recognise.

“Who is she?” Thus spoke the Caliph, supremely wise in the knowledge of men and women.

“Who is she? I say.” And the affrighted lords said, “Light of the World, Consoler of the Faithful, Gem of Gems, Centre of the flowing Universe, there is no ‘she,’ but the poor man, who was working at one of the loftiest windows of your palace, fell down into the marble Court of Leopards, and is dead.”

“Who is she?” said the Caliph, wrathfully; “let me know her name.”

And the lords went out from the presence of the Caliph, feeling their heads loose upon their shoulders.

And there was dread silence in the divan, while the Caliph played with the jewelled hilt of his scimitar. And one little child, the son of Zobeide, dared to take off the slipper of the Caliph, and run away with it to the further end of the divan. Had it not been the son of Zobeide, the bastinado would have been liberally applied.

The lords returned, and the vizier said, “Efflux of Joy, Wisest of the Wise, Incomparable Master of the greatest of sciences, the human heart; she is Almeida, the Princess Zobeide’s favourite tire-woman, and the man said words to her, and she listened and yet would not listen; and he missed his footing, as most men do who dote upon a woman; and he is dead.”

And the Caliph smiled a grim smile. He rose, and the lords, who felt their necks strengthened, fell on their faces before him; and the Caliph went to his harem to tell his wives how wise he was, and that nobody could deceive him. 22For even a caliph likes to be thought wise by his women; whom he finds not so easy to rule, though he is Commander of the Faithful.

And the lustrous Zobeide shivered and trembled while the Caliph told her of his all-pervading wisdom, for she knew that the Christian slave, Azor (who had fallen into the marble Court of Leopards), adored her, and not Almeida; and that he had died for the love of her bright eyes.

But she did not fail to extol the wisdom of the Caliph; and the Caliph was convinced that he was the wisest of men, and that the praises of his lords were not flattery such as had been addressed, to his great disgust, to the late caliph, his father, but that they were the words of wisdom and sobriety, and were as true as the cries of the water-carriers when they cry, “Water, water, from the Fountain of Desire, in front of the palace;” for, indeed it was water that they had to sell.

And Zobeide mourned for the graceful Azor many days: and when, by night, she stood on his tomb, she said, “My heart is with thee for ever, O my beloved!”

And Zobeide’s son did not fear to run away with the slippers of the great Caliph—Light of the World, Consoler of the Faithful, Gem of Gems, Centre of the flowing Universe, Discoverer of thoughts, and Azure Sea of Wisdom.

Milverton. Now has not Ellesmere contrived to darken that story by sarcasm? He told it very well up to a certain point, I must admit.

My dear Lady Ellesmere, do correct that husband of yours, for to the rest of us he is incorrigible.

Lady Ellesmere. My dear Mr. Milverton, I took him only upon your recommendation, as you well know, and not from any merit of his own. Is there not something I often hear you gentlemen talk of applied to horses, the word warranty or warrantry? You know I have something of the kind from you: it is your business to make him behave properly. This is an animal I should have had nothing to do with [here she pulled his ear] if you had not declared that he was safe and good.

Sir Arthur. In double harness? Did Mr. Milverton’s 23warranty extend to that? If it did, he was a very rash man.

(Hereupon Sir Arthur walked away in his lounging manner towards the house.)

Ellesmere. Now, Milverton, I have a very serious word to say to you. As to being beaten by this fellow’s invention, it must not be. You are the greatest ―⁠― amongst us: or to speak euphemistically, you have the most vigorous imagination. If you cannot tell a story which will beat his—that will require a pull at a more lengthened arc (I flatter myself that is a good expression)—I shall despise you for ever. Recollect the fellow is a Tory. He will go back to his party and laugh at our beards if we cannot beat him in invention. I cannot do it myself. I read a novel; I come to the end of the first volume. For the life of me I cannot see how Edwin is ever to marry Angelina. The difficulties are so tremendous. Edwin is already married: Angelina is about to marry the wrong man: the fathers have quarrelled. Edwin is a pauper, and is suspected of two murders. Angelina has sworn never to speak to or even look at Edwin; and really, without joking, I cannot imagine how Edwin and Angelina are to be happy at the end of the third volume.

But to fellows like you, who are born story-tellers—otherwise, highly imaginative men—it is all as easy as possible. It goes, as the Americans say, “slick off.” Edwin’s wife, a poor creature (I am glad to get rid of her), dies. Edwin has only committed one murder—a very innocent one, quite consistent with propriety—while Angelina’s intended has committed the other, a foul crime. Angelina’s papa finds that Edwin’s papa was the man who, when he (Angelina’s papa) was going to London to seek his fortune, advanced him 2l. 12s. 6d. upon no other security but his saying, “Oh heavens! my generous benefactor. How shall I ever repay you?”

Angelina’s intended (a nasty man, that) is the individual who has kept Edwin, by a forged will, out of the possession of Lorimer Court, an old house, with 7,000l. a year in land attached to it—no mortgages, no annuities for younger children—which, on discovery of the fraud, comes at once to Edwin without any trouble. At least 24there is no trouble to speak of. An old woman is to die, the old woman revealing everything that requires to be revealed at the most opportune moment. Angelina “clasps” (is not that the proper word?) Edwin to her bosom, saying, however, that 7,000l. a year is a very different thing from 700l. Ditto, says father; and all goes on as right as a trivet—but what a trivet is, I should be puzzled to say.

Milverton. And this is the man who says he is not imaginative!

Ellesmere. Ah, but you do not know what an effort this was on my part, and how exhausted I feel after it. In all earnestness, and speaking seriously, if you believe I ever do speak seriously, I am quite bewildered in endeavouring to see my way through the difficulties that accumulate in the first and second volumes of a novel.

I look upon you imaginative fellows with a kind of awe. I cannot think how you invent the things you do invent. I regard you with the same kind of dread that our friend Kingsley says savage men feel for savage women—a dread, by the way, I must own I largely feel for civilized women—if, indeed, there is such an entity as a civilized woman; and I am lost in astonishment in observing how to you people fiction is, for all practical purposes, the same thing as reality.

I must have my brief to go upon. Now if I had not had the main outlines of my caliph story, I could not have made anything of it. You don’t want any outlines. You invent from the beginning. I admire you fellows; entertaining at the same time a kind of disrespect and distrust for you.

Milverton. Complete admiration is not at all in your way, my dear Ellesmere. If I were to find you indulging in it, I should be sure that a serious illness was coming upon you.

But, to revert to our main point: I will have a story ready by the next time we meet—that is, if Alick here will help me;—one that I have thought over for years: a true one: at least one which I know has happened in the world’s history. But, if I agree to narrate such a story, will you 25promise not to interrupt? Such interruptions as you make are, no doubt, very droll; but, I assure you, they do embarrass a narrator. Sir Arthur bore your interruptions nobly. You know he is accustomed to be listened to with reverence. Great authors are not the mere temporary rubbish that eminent lawyers are, and must be treated differently.

Ellesmere. Well, I have heard insulting things in the course of my life, but never anything to equal your last remark.

Milverton (who could hardly refrain from laughing). You see, my dear Ellesmere, one must make you know your place, while Sir Arthur is here.

Ellesmere. And there is my wife following him up and down the lawn, like an obedient poodle-dog, listening, no doubt, to his sentimental nonsense, as if it were heaven-descended wisdom, thinking all the time what a rough pippin her Sir John is. If I once get away from here, no more of the society of authors for me, nothing but that of Masters in Chancery, solid merchants, and Under-Secretaries of State.

Sir, I abjure all vagabonds. But, Milverton, do pound Sir Arthur with a grand story, so full of daring fiction, that his inventions, in comparison with yours, shall seem to be crystal truths. The honour of our side of the House is at stake. Take Sandy [Sir John Ellesmere would always call me Sandy] into your confidence. As half a Scotchman, he has second-sight at his command. Good-bye: I am going to fish. Now do look at that deluded person, Lady Ellesmere! You see, from that respectful stooping of the shoulders, though they have their backs turned to us, how she is drinking in discourse about the “true” and the “beautiful,” and the “absolute,” and the “uncouth,” with a big U, which means her respected husband. I’ll pitch into that fellow after dinner.

Milverton. Come to my study, Alick; we will see if we cannot tell them something which will be new to them, and astonish their weak minds.

Milverton. Before I begin, Ellesmere, I must insist, as I told you before, upon having no interruptions from you. I have thought over this story for many years of my life. It is, as I told you, a real story, and a very serious one; and I have not the patience and good temper of Sir Arthur, to bear your interruptions.

Mrs. Milverton. Leonard, dear, I am sure I wish to hear your story without any interruptions; but don’t ask what is impossible. Lady Ellesmere and I pressed Sir John, when we were last in London, to come and hear with us that great preacher, the Rev. Mr. ―⁠―. I will never again ask Sir John to come to any sermon, for he behaved abominably:—“What does this prove?” “This is the third time he has made that statement, and nothing has come of it.” “Here, again, he is arguing in a circle.” And so he went on, worrying us in whispers with all manner of objections to the sermon: and even his wife could not keep him at all quiet.

Ellesmere. I hope you see, Milverton, that your wife (wives can say most uncomplimentary things) infers that your story will be very like a sermon. But now, let us make a bargain: let us enter into a contract. You are to prose on for one hour and a half, and during that one hour and a half I am only to interrupt twice, each time by a single sentence which is not to exceed fifteen words.

Milverton. I close at once with your proposition.

28The events of the story I shall have to tell will have occurred at a period of the world’s history when this very spot on which we sit was far down in the ocean, from whence it has been raised by gradual upheavings.

Ellesmere. My goodness, what an opportunity that will give this man for inventing things which cannot be contradicted; and it will be no good showing that he can know no more of those times than we do, for, of course, the imaginative man—the egregious inventor (I suppose I must not say a short, sharp, true word)—declares that he knows all things by the force of his predominant imagination. I, poor man, know, for certain, nothing that has not happened in my own time, and before my own eyes.

Sir Arthur. I would not advise you always to trust your own eyes.

Cranmer. But let us not delay; let us have the story at once, Mr. Milverton; only do not let it be placed in impossible latitudes and longitudes, for to me, a plain practical man as I am, that a story should have some semblance of reality is a great comfort.

Milverton. Mine is all real, and must have happened: in fact, I know it did happen.

[During Mr. Milverton’s narrative it was curious to watch the expression on Sir John Ellesmere’s countenance. It was profoundly attentive; but, at the same time, he had a bewildered look, and he did not make a single observation.]

Sir Arthur. I think the story promises to be most interesting. There is a very happy choice of subject, which I wonder has not been seized upon by some one else. You may know how interesting it was, for Sir John Ellesmere did not interrupt once: did not even take any advantage of the bargain he had made. The story, therefore, must be a very good one.

Ellesmere. I deny the inference. I was dazed, if you like. I felt out of my element. I know nothing of these fishy, half-under-water people.

Yes, the choice of subject is very skilful—that is, on the narrator’s behalf. If you say anything about the manners and customs of these people, Milverton would answer you with all his superior knowledge of wretched details. If you were to comment about the main current of the story, he knows for certain all about it: his nymph has told him. How, my dear fellow, do you invent all this?

Milverton. I do not invent, as you call it: I see how the things happened. I can hardly describe to you how distinctly the whole story arises before my mind: I do not invent; I merely describe.

Ellesmere. Oh yes, he evolves out of the depths of his self-consciousness, as the Germans would say, all he tells 40us. I do not see that it is made out to be more true on that account.

Lady Ellesmere. I don’t quite like the part about the three wives.

Ellesmere. That is the only part I am quite sure I do like. With this odd number one might always get a majority of one’s wives on one’s side. 3, 5, 7, 9, 11, are the numbers I shall aim at in another planet; and I mean always to have a majority on my side.

Mauleverer. I daresay it is all true. It is evident that men were as wretched then as they are now—the same low intrigues, jealousies, hatreds, and malice. So far the story seems to me perfectly consistent.

Ellesmere. Yes: so far indeed I am with you. Modern inventions have done but little, as I always maintain. Boring has become a fine art; and, somehow or other, in our highly civilized communities, it is so contrived that one never has a moment’s peace. You teach the people to write! What is the consequence? Innumerable letters of the most detestable description:—

“Sir, I have not the pleasure of knowing you, but from your general benevolence of character―⁠―”

Cranmer. Is that how the letters begin to you, Sir John?

Ellesmere. Yes, Mr. Cranmer. “From your general benevolence of character, I know you will not consider it intrusive if I venture to lay the following circumstances before you, and to ask for your assistance and advice.” Then comes some difficulty which it would take you an hour or two to write justly about, and the man, though he has said he is intrusive, does not think that he is so. I wish, sir, any one of these people would only ask himself the grave question, “Am I the only intrusive person in the world? Is it likely that my letter is the only one of the same character that will reach Sir John Ellesmere to-morrow?” If he did give a good answer to that question, he might perhaps omit to write his letter, or put it in the fire if he had written it; and Sir John Ellesmere would be a happier man.

Will any one of you be good enough to explain to me 41how rapid locomotion has increased the felicity of the world? For I cannot see it.

You observe that beetle there. He is making for the corner of this summer-house, and will arrive here some time in the course of the afternoon. When he does arrive, he will only be an ungainly, top-heavy creature, not of the first order of intelligence, and much given, as naturalists tell me, to strong drinks.

Now this beetle has wings; and he might take it into his stupid head to fly from the gravel-walk to the corner of the summer-house, and might do so in two seconds; but when he did arrive, I suppose he would still be the same kind of creature—ungainly, top-heavy, and too much given to strong drinks—prone, therefore, to lie upon his back in a very helpless and foolish manner. I leave you, gentlemen and ladies, to make the application for yourselves.

Milverton. How can you talk in that perverse way, Ellesmere? Do you mean to maintain that our modern inventions have not, upon the whole, been beneficial to mankind? Do you mean to say that having a city lighted with gas is not a great advantage? Do you mean to maintain that painless operations are not a huge solace to mankind? Do you mean to say that we have not improved in judicial matters—that, for instance, having got rid of torture, as a test of truth, is not an immense advance in the history of mankind? Do you mean to argue that there is not much greater liberty in religious matters than there ever was?

Ellesmere. These things you call progress are not all loss, certainly. However, you cannot say that government has so much improved.

Cranmer. I deny that.

Milverton. I admit that despotic governments are just as bad as ever. Thousands and tens of thousands of victims are still sacrificed to some dynastic idea.

Sir Arthur. In constitutional governments there is hardly such a thing as government at all. Nothing is done without such endless discussion; and what is done generally comes too late.

Ellesmere. There speaks out the old Tory.

42Milverton. No, no: we are not so bad as that, Sir Arthur. Of course there is great difficulty in reconciling perfect personal freedom with governmental action. But recollect that what is gained in constitutional government, after all this talk, that you so much disapprove of, is gained by the people for themselves for ever, and does not depend upon one man, or one set of men, but becomes a permanent improvement for mankind.

Mauleverer (sarcastically). Yes: the poor are so well housed, so well fed, so carefully instructed, they are so much better off than these fishy people, as Ellesmere calls them, that one must rejoice in the glorious triumphs of civilization.

Milverton. I wish any one of your grumblers could go back for a week to the state of things which existed in England in the fourteenth, fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries. I think you would soon summon modern civilization back again, and admit that we had made great progress, even in the well-being of the lowest classes.

Sir Arthur. I am not so sure of that.

Milverton. I am sure. I have a firm belief that the general improvement might be measured, by the relation that the cholera of the present day bears to the plague, or the black-death, or the sweating sickness of former days.

Ellesmere. Now, how can he know this? It is all simple assertion.

Mrs. Milverton. And so, Sir John, is your statement.

Ellesmere. Yes: of course your husband is always perfectly right. You would be one of the three wives, I see, Mrs. Milverton, and would always vote for your husband.

Your knowledge of the common people (let us see, what did he say?—in the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries) is so complete, Mrs. Milverton, that it enables you to give a final judgment in the matter.

Lady Ellesmere. Don’t be so rude, Sir John. We women know, by intuition, a great many things which you men only arrive at by study.

Ellesmere. It is well that you have some way of getting at knowledge different from that of study, for I do not see, 43after you are once married, you do much of that, any one of you.

Milverton. To go back to the question of government,—that is a question which has always had profound interest for me. That saying of the Duke of Wellington, “How is the king’s government to be carried on?” is perpetually in my mind.

Now, if you want to know what are the difficulties of government, I will, to the best of my ability, inform you; and I do really believe I have some experience in this matter: so, too, has Sir Arthur: and I will abide by his corrections in what I am saying.

I think, to put the matter briefly and frankly, that there is not sufficient intellect brought to bear upon the affairs of government. From my earliest years I was very much struck with that admirable work of Henry Taylor’s, the “Statesman;” and I have always found that practical conversancy—to use one of his favourite words—with government has led me to think more and more highly of his views.

The truth is, the public offices in this kingdom are undermanned as regards “Indoors Statesmen,” as he calls them. Reform has gone too far in the way of retrenchment.

Ellesmere. Oh! oh!

Milverton. Yes, it has; in the way of retrenchment, as regards providing intelligent officers for the public service.

Ministers are worked to death by their double functions—parliamentary and official.

Law officers, and all the other lawyers connected with Government, are also terribly overworked.

The permanent officials of the highest class, upon whom Government for the most part depend, are likewise greatly overworked by the mere routine of their offices; which work, I must confess, has not been diminished by the increased power of reading and writing, to which Ellesmere (I thought he was a Liberal) has so great an objection.

Ellesmere. An elaborate sneer at me! If I had but admired the story of Realmah, the sagacity of Sir John Ellesmere would have been much applauded by the story-teller.

44Milverton. I am not judging by my prejudices as an author; and I will not be diverted from the main subject.

I have no doubt millions a year might be saved to this country by an increase of the intellectual power of the official staff. The least instance of injudicious management on the part of the War Office or the Admiralty—a tax unwisely retained, or unskilfully imposed—an error as regards the currency—will produce more outlay than would be expended in twenty years by such an improvement of the intellectual force of the public offices as I contemplate.

If I were despotic—if I enjoyed a mental despotism—the first thing I would persuade the people to do, would be to increase the intellectual power of Government. I have no fear of bureaucracy. We are too free to be led by any set of official men, however clever.

Then, again, look how the House of Commons is overworked. Consider the vast amount of private business thrown upon it, and how some of the best members are necessarily absorbed in the management of that business. Consider what an imperfect thing our modern legislation is: so much so, that an Act of Parliament is often, at first, utterly unworkable. I despair, however, of bringing men round to my opinion upon these matters, for I know that it requires to have been behind the scenes for many years before a man would thoroughly appreciate the views which I venture to put forward.

Ellesmere. I suppose this fishy government was perfect, for Milverton has had it all his own way there.

Milverton. No; it was not perfect. No doubt it was the best thing they could invent for the time; but I think you will find that Realmah, if he ever gets to power, will make a great improvement in the government of the Lake City.

Ellesmere. What I do admire in authors, and what gives one so much respect for them, is that their heroes always partake so much of their own character. One knows, from the beginning, that Realmah will do exactly what Milverton would have done; which gives one so much confidence as to Milverton’s sublime insight into the doings of these past times.

45Mrs. Milverton. Why should people be so very different now to what they were then? Is there not a family likeness amongst all great statesmen?

Ellesmere. Yes, Mrs. Milverton, they are all men penetrated by some idea, which they think a great one, and that the course of nations ought to be shaped according to that idea. Count Bismarck is no doubt a great statesman in your eyes.

Mrs. Milverton. No man is a great statesman in my eyes, Sir John, who needlessly promotes war.

Sir Arthur. I am by no means sure, Mrs. Milverton, that your censure will apply to the great Count.

Ellesmere. You will see, Mrs. Milverton, what Realmah will do. You may depend upon it that all his fine sayings and doings will only lead to war. Is he not an interfering young fellow, who I foresee will endeavour to impress upon the great council his own juvenile ideas—probably most preposterous? I wish I had been a member of that council: I would have made that young man know his proper place.

Sir Arthur. It is a great comfort to think that the conduct of this story does not depend upon Sir John Ellesmere. I can only say that I look forward to the coming chapter with the greatest possible interest; and I do hope, Milverton, that you are ready, and that we shall have another reading to-morrow.

Milverton. You shall. I do not despair yet of making Ellesmere a firm believer in Realmah’s valour and sagacity, which I know to have been unrivalled at that period of the world’s history.

Mauleverer. To-morrow, then, we meet in the summer-house at the same hour.

The company then separated; but not before Ellesmere had said to Milverton, “You inventive scoundrel; I believe your nymph to be an utter impostor. However, to-morrow I am not going to be so silent as I was to-day. I believe it was understood that my liberty of interruption was accumulative: to-morrow, therefore, I have a right to interrupt you four times; each time with a sentence of about fifteen words. A great deal of truth may be conveyed in fifteen words.”

Ellesmere. There is one advantage of a wet day—namely, that we do not have our meetings in that stupid summer-house. There one sits up, very uncomfortably, on 47a hard board, leaning against some out-jutting piece of rustic abomination, which is meant to be very picturesque, and which certainly does possess that element of the picturesque which consists in ruin and decay. The whole thing partakes of the nature of a pic-nic; and pic-nics are my abhorrence. A meal is too serious a thing to be treated in that light manner.

Lady Ellesmere. What a hard, sensual man you are!

Ellesmere. Oh yes! women like these foolish things, it gives them an opportunity for fuss and bustle; and, after all, they are sure to forget the salt, or the vinegar, or something or other which is an essential element to human happiness during dinner-time.

Mauleverer. I am quite of Sir John’s opinion. No sensible man, after he has attained the age of twenty-two—if he is not in love—cares about pic-nics.

Ellesmere. You look very miserable, Milverton. I know what is worrying you. What is the good of fretting about these turbulent and foolish people? If they will go to war, they must; and I suppose it is necessary, for some good end or other, that they should do so.

Milverton. I cannot get over it. War horrifies me. On all sides, loss, destruction, waste, turmoil, cruelty, sickness, horses slain, olive-trees cut down, bridges blown up, roads obliterated.

Ellesmere. Don’t go on. We know all that. It needs no ghost to tell us that.

Milverton. Yes: but there is something you do not know. There is not only the active mischief of war, but all the preparation for war, which is perhaps the greater evil, in the long run, of the two. Did it ever enter into your mind to consider what an unproductive creature a soldier is, and what an immense difference it makes to the welfare of the human race, whether you have all these stalwart men employed in producing, or in merely consuming and destroying?

Ellesmere. Yes: now you talk like a sound political economist and sensible man.

Milverton. Then, you know, it does thoroughly dishearten one to find that Christianity during all these years, 48has been able to do so little towards the prevention of war. Nobody seems to see the beauty of renunciation. Nobody seems to see the merit of being content to be second or third instead of first in the great game of life. But I am unjust: private persons do sometimes see this beauty and this merit. I do believe that the first impulses of jealousy, of revenge, and of injustice, are constantly restrained by Christianity in the breasts of private individuals; but in nations, never. Honour! glory! rights! claims! balance of power! these are the words which still dominate nations. Statesmen are like lawyers, who often give their clients advice which is harsh and self-seeking, telling them never to give up their rights and their claims—advice which, if the case were their own, they would not give themselves—being more generous, as they think it right to be, for themselves, than for their clients.

Ellesmere. Yes: we lawyers are very good people: it is our clients who make us wicked, whenever we are wicked; which is very rarely.

Mauleverer. Man is meant to be miserable, and he always will be.

Ellesmere. I do not see that. Paley’s argument is better than yours; but people who are fond of fishing are always wiser than other men. As Paley justly says, “Teeth were made to eat with, and not to ache.” If we injudiciously contrive to make our teeth ache, it is our own fault; and the same thing applies to all our conduct. I have just as good a right to say that men were meant to be happy, as that men were meant to be miserable, Mr. Mauleverer. But do not let us interrupt Milverton: he will not be endurable until he has had his full moan over the present state of European affairs; which, however, are enough to make anybody moan.

Milverton. There is one point connected with this matter that I often blame myself for not having spoken about. It is the use that we Britishers make of our capital. How we send it out to the most distant regions, often to be used against ourselves, and indeed against the dearest and best interests of mankind. I think that upon this subject—to speak without arrogance—I am really an authority. I am 49the last surviving commissioner of foreign claims,—that means, of the claims of British subjects against foreign nations for injuries done in the wars that were closed by Waterloo. It may appear strange to you that I should ever have held such an office, for I am not yet, I trust, a very aged individual; but there were several commissions before I was appointed, and the commissioners died out, leaving us, the last set, to wind up the affairs. I had, of course, to look into all the old papers; and I found that there was no form of confiscation which had not been adopted with regard to British property. For instance, a foreign merchant owed a British merchant money: in his books it was a book-debt. The Government of the country said, “Pay us that debt which, according to your books, you owe the Englishman, and we will give you a receipt, so that you cannot be molested for the debt in any of our courts.”

Well, then I will pursue the subject further. Is it not lamentable that, with the fields of England not half tilled, with the poor people of England not half housed, with every branch of industry that England possesses requiring capital, we should ever send our money out to be invested in Congo Fives or Timbuctoo Seven per Cents., or whatever other tempting but foolish investment is offered to us by some distant country or colony? I believe I should have fulfilled my part in the world, if I had only persuaded my fellow-countrymen never to invest in anything which they cannot go and see, and respecting which their own laws do not give them a remedy, if any wrong is done them. I know it is of no use attempting by any legislative measures to prevent the efflux of capital. It is only to be done by persuasion; but, really, if men would only look to their own interests, they would be very shy of foreign investments. Now, I would ask the question, has any man ever invested, twenty or thirty years ago, in land on British soil, and has not that investment increased at least forty per cent. in value? However, I have said my say upon this subject, and you may believe me, or not; but I am quite sure that the increased interest never balances the increased danger which is to be found in making foreign investments.

Sir Arthur. To return to the main question of war: you 50cannot say, Milverton, that we have not gained a great deal of wisdom upon this point—that we are not wiser than other nations as regards it—for we have come to the conclusion that extension of territory is nearly always bought at too high a price.

Ellesmere. This has arisen from our insular position. You must not give us any great credit for being wiser than any other nation.

Milverton. There you are unjust. I would not exactly say that we are wiser than other nations; but I do honestly think that we are more conscientious. There is no doubt that we are a very warlike nation, and that the great bulk of every people delight in war: but we have come to the conclusion that it is a very dangerous thing for our future welfare—I mean not temporal, but eternal welfare—to indulge in any war that is not a war of defence or a war of protection to some oppressed people. I think that the religious movement which commenced in the latter part of the last century and the beginning of this—of which Wilberforce may be chosen as a representative—had a great effect upon the minds of the British people. It cancelled slavery; it improved our criminal code; it made all men, even statesmen, obliged to refer their conduct to the highest religious principles; and, you may depend upon it, it has proved a great check upon our naturally warlike instincts. This is what I think foreign nations do not understand, when they contemplate our sedulous observance of neutrality. They think it is shopkeeping which restrains us, whereas it is a fear of violating the highest moral and religious principles. I may be mistaken; but I sincerely believe what I say.

Only let some foreign nation attack us, and see what Berserkers we should become. I do not believe that the fighting element has gone out of us, but only that we are terribly afraid of fighting, except upon some thoroughly righteous cause—some cause which we believe would be approved of in heaven, as well as upon earth.

Sir Arthur. I am entirely in accordance with Mr. Milverton.

Mauleverer. I am not. Did you ever know the bulk of any nation ruled by any great, or humane, or religious principle?

51Ellesmere. I think you all go too far in your respective theories. I think that, partly from a view of their interests, partly perhaps from religious principles, partly perhaps from their just contempt of the frivolous causes which often provoke war, the British people have come to a conclusion against it; but I am not inclined to give all the weight that Milverton does to Wilberforce, and the Wilberforcians of the last generation.

Milverton. At any rate, Ellesmere, you perceive the great change that has taken place in the minds of the British people about war.

Ellesmere. Well, there is a great change in the French people; and to whom is this due?

Sir Arthur. The French people have received great lessons in political wisdom. Count Daru, I believe, told them that he had made calculations, by which it appeared that the height of men in France had been lowered one inch and a half, or two inches, by the wars of the First Napoleon. You see how this happens; the taller men are perpetually chosen for war, and are carried off to be slaughtered before they have produced any progeny.

Ellesmere. And do you think that the arguments to be derived from such facts as these have any weight against “national glory, national honour, and rectification of frontiers?”

Milverton. I do. Besides, the French are the most industrious people in Europe, and they love to see the fruits of their industry. I may be sanguine, but I believe that the French are rapidly entering upon the same platform as ourselves; and that, if our statesmen manage well, we might yet have them nearly always on our side for the maintenance of the peace of Europe.

Ellesmere. Well, we have had enough of foreign politics: let us go to the men who, untold years ago, dwelt upon the Swiss lakes. I will bet anything Milverton makes them talk, and think as if they were profound political economists of the present day; and if Realmah does not talk to these fishy men much as Milverton would talk to us, my name is not John Ellesmere.

Milverton. I can only tell you what I know to have 52occurred. I may use modern terms, and sometimes modern modes of thought in speaking of the lake-men; but what I know is, that I shall give a most true account of the thoughts and doings of the great Realmah.

Ellesmere. What a delicious odour of mud! How gratifying it is to have exchanged our own poor atmosphere for this invigorating air!

Milverton. I always think when I see this place at the time of the receding tide, which gives somewhat of an ungracious aspect to the landscape, how like it is to a person of a fitful temper. The present state represents a sullen mood; but soon you will see the pleasant tide come up again, and all the scenery about you will become most beautiful—as the human being does, when he has thrown off his sullenness.

Ellesmere. I think I have heard you indulge in this simile before. I should be very sorry to show that it does not walk on four legs; but I cannot help observing that the tide ebbs and flows with regularity, whereas the temper, if I may judge from Lady Ellesmere’s, is apt to be a little uncertain in its movements.

Lady Ellesmere. It cannot be said, my love, that your temper partakes of uncertainty.

Ellesmere. A truly conjugal remark, and as true as it is conjugal.

Milverton. All political prophecy is so difficult. Ellesmere owns that he cannot foresee what will happen in the course of a three-volume novel. Now, I do not feel such difficulty in that. No: I do not feel that difficulty about novels. There you have only to watch the mind of one man, the author; but, as regards political prophecy, it is a very different thing. Now I wish, for the sake of making a curious experiment, that any one of you, at the outset of any political movement, would write down (it must be in writing) what you really think will happen. You will, I believe, be astonished to find how mistaken your prophecy will be. Where men are so deluded, and think that they foresee far more than they do, is in this way—that they keep on modifying, from day to day, their prophecy, in correspondence with the daily changes of events. I have watched this matter for years—at least, as regards my own mind—and have often found how wrong my prophetic anticipations have been. I remember hearing one of the shrewdest ministers of our time say that he joined a ministry, thinking it would only last seven weeks. “You see,” he said, “they were old friends of mine, and they had asked me to join them. And I felt that, being old friends, I was quite willing to partake their downfall; and here I have been years in office with them.”

No one can see how a ministry will fall, or how a war 65will end, or how any series of political events will come to a conclusion.

I declare I never knew a ministry go out upon the exact questions they were expected to go out upon.

Sir Arthur. We are thrown back to the old French proverb, “Nothing is certain but the unforeseen.”

Ellesmere. I hate proverbs; they are such bumptious things: they are like boys of sixteen; they all want taking down, not one peg, but many pegs.

Sir Arthur. I must say I delight in French proverbs. Now, what can be better than the celebrated proverb, “Nothing succeeds like success?”

Milverton. The opposite is quite as true, “Nothing succeeds like the want of success;” or, to put it in another way, “None are so successful as the unsuccessful.” It all depends upon the meaning you give to the word success. Do you remember how the late Lord Carlisle, good man, used to delight in a saying (where it originally came from I do not know) which ran thus, “Heaven is a place made for the unsuccessful?” You may depend upon it there is, even in this world, nothing in the world so dangerous for a man as to be for a long time supremely successful. I think on this head that the First Napoleon’s career is one of the most instructive that the world has ever seen. If he had had but a little less success before he made that fatal blunder of invading Russia, he might have acted with something like wisdom, and an uninterrupted dynasty of his might still have been upon the throne of France.

By the way, I was reading the other day another account of that invasion of Russia (a portion of history which I am never tired of reading), and I observed that one division of the army—I think it was Murat’s—had been reduced before it returned to Wilna to 400 infantry and 500 dismounted cavalry, without any guns, or any materials of war of any kind. Now, that division probably started with 60,000 or 70,000 men. But the most instructive thing of that campaign is to observe the wonderful pedantry and perverse obstinacy, in ignoring the most obvious facts, which that great man Napoleon manifested to the end of the campaign. He would draw up the most admirable orders of the day, 66but unfortunately facts were against him; and it was no good ordering that 20,000 men should go here, and 30,000 men go there, when the division in question was almost annihilated. From the first opening of the campaign, however, there was the same want of skill manifested, and the same abjuration of facts. Now, it was thought a wonderfully clever thing throughout Europe, that the Emperor should have arranged his 5,000 wagons in military fashion; but any man, who knows anything about wagons, carters, and oxen—Wren Hoskyns or Mr. Mechi, for instance—could have told him that a transport of this kind could not be arranged in a purely military fashion.

Ellesmere. For goodness’ sake do not let Milverton get upon the subject of war. At all hazards he should be stopped in talking about it.

Let me see, what were we talking about before? Oh! proverbs: well, I say a proverb is like a rule in grammar. I remember there was a detestable Greek grammar, which was the torment of my early days, and which used to lay down some rule, and then there used to come pages of exceptions. In my perverse way, I used to make one of the exceptions the rule, and throw the rule into one of the exceptions. I hate grammar!

But to return to proverbs: as I said before, they are such bumptious things. It may be said of them what the late Lord Melbourne said of dear Macaulay, “They are so cock-sure about everything.”

Cranmer. I wonder to hear you say “dear Macaulay;” I should have thought that, being such a great talker, he would have interfered with you, Sir John.

Ellesmere. Do you? you are quite mistaken then. Who was it said of Matt Lewis—

so I being by nature a poet, say—

Whenever I was invited to meet him, I always went. It is true he was a great talker, but who talked so well? There 67was no vanity in his talk. There was simply an exuberant knowledge and an exquisite enjoyment of the subject he was discoursing about. I can tell you, I did not interrupt him. I was always too glad to hear him talk. He would lay hold of a particular author, and in a short time (say twenty minutes) give you the whole pith and marrow of that author. I remember his doing so once with Cobbett, and one had, I believe, in this brief twenty minutes all the best things ever said by that most vigorous writer.

Then if any of the less prominent characters in history were mentioned, he had anecdotes about them which were known to no one else.

I remember his once describing to us the character and sayings of Lord Thurlow; and he told a story of that large-eye-browed personage which I never heard before, and each of you ought to give me half-a-crown at least, if I agree to tell you. Are the half-crowns forthcoming? (We nodded assent.)

Well, those were days when we had not the infliction of railways, and when barristers, even on the Northern circuit, travelled in post-chaises. It fell to the lot of a very saintly, good man, to have to travel with Thurlow, who was then Attorney-General. A journey to the North was a serious thing in those times, and my saintly friend dreaded the long journey, with the blustering Attorney-General, who he was sure would utter many naughty words before they arrived at York.

They had hardly left London before the good man remarked, “We shall have a long journey, Mr. Attorney, and so I thought I would bring some books to amuse us. I daresay it is a long time since you have read Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost.’ Shall I read some of it to you? It will remind us of our younger days.” (In those days men read great works; for there were not so many books of rubbishing fiction, to which the reading energies of the present day are directed.) “Oh, by all means!” said Thurlow; “I have not read a word of Milton for years.”

The good man began to read out his Milton: presently he came to the passage where Satan exclaims, “Better to reign in hell than serve in Heaven.” Upon which Thurlow 68exclaimed, “A d―⁠―d fine fellow, and I hope he may win.” My saintly friend in horror shut up his “Paradise Lost,” and felt that it would be no good reading to the Attorney-General, if he was to be interrupted by such wicked expressions of sentiment.

Milverton. Did you ever read Macaulay’s poem on his defeat at Edinburgh? It is a most noble production. I am ashamed to say I cannot recollect it correctly; but the next time we meet I will read it out to you.

Cranmer. I really cannot understand how Sir John could have endured the enforced silence which Lord Macaulay’s talk must have imposed upon him.

Ellesmere. I am a misunderstood man, not only by Secretaries of the Treasury, but by all people who come near me. I am un homme incompris. Now, I ask you all, did I interrupt Milverton when he was going on with his “Realmah” story? If a talk or reading is good, I am the last man in the world to interrupt it. I only interrupt folly, irrelevancy, inaccuracy, and incomplete logic. I am the best listener in the United Kingdom when there is anything worth listening to; but I am, I repeat, a misunderstood man. Poor dear Charles Lamb complains that he was in the same plight. Nine-tenths of the world do not understand a joke; and no official man, Mr. Cranmer, ever does. Why even my wife does not understand me.

Lady Ellesmere. No, my dear, it would take nine of the cleverest women in England to understand you, and they must pass the chief part of their time in interchanging notes about your character.

Ellesmere. Let us enumerate the nine—only, for goodness’ sake, do not let them be nine Muses.

Let me see, what should be their functions?—

• 1. The arch-concoctor of salads.
• 2. The sewer-on of buttons.
• 3. The intelligent maker of bread-sauce.
• 4. The player of Beethoven’s music.
• 5. The player of common tunes,—“Old Dog Tray,” “Early in the Morning,” “Pop goes the Weasel,” and “Paddle your own Canoe,”

all of which tunes I think beautiful; but, of course, because 69the populace approves of them, which populace is the best judge of such things, my Lady Ellesmere must needs turn up her nose (and a very pretty one it is) against any one who admires these tunes, and she declines to play them to me.

Lady Ellesmere. I can well imagine you do admire these “tunes,” as you call them. It is certainly worth my while to get up Beethoven for you, when “Early in the Morning” satisfies you quite as well.

But pray go on with your list of wives, Sir John.

Ellesmere.

• 6. The consoler under difficulties.
• 7. The good reader.
• 8. The one beloved wife (dear deluded creature) who always believes in her husband, and takes him to be the discreetest, most virtuous, and most ill-used of mortal men. I do love her!
• 9. The manager of the other wives.

By the way, has there not been some talk of a tenth Muse? Well, if I am to have a tenth wife, she shall be the noble and rare creature who can cook a potato. My list is now complete. My polygamic nature is satisfied with these ten adorable beings.

Sir Arthur. Which will you be, Lady Ellesmere?

Lady Ellesmere. The sewer-on of buttons. I do not feel equal to the bread-sauce, though that would be the lighter work of the two if one’s mind could master it.

Ellesmere. But, come, let us go on with Realmah, alias Milverton—the Milverton who existed when that ground which is now at the bottom of the Swiss lakes was at the surface. I do like a story!

Mrs. Milverton. Is it not somewhat of a confession of weakness on the part of Sir John Ellesmere, that he likes a story? And was he not a few minutes ago abusing fiction?

Ellesmere. No, it is not a confession of weakness, Mrs. Milverton. And as for inconsistency—to be consistent, one must be dull; and nobody can accuse me of that.

From the earliest ages of the world, when men dwelt in tents, and looked out upon the stars at midnight, delighting in them more than in any other created thing, men and women would gather round a fire, and listen entranced, 70through the dark hours of night, to any one who would tell them a story; however absurd, however inconsistent, however improbable, that story might be. Not that I mean for a moment to say, Mrs. Milverton, that your husband invents absurd, inconsistent, and improbable stories. Doubtless all that he says is absolutely true, and must, as he assures us, have happened. Did not his nymph tell him?—By the way, I wonder you are not jealous of that same nymph: women can contrive to be jealous of any thing, or person, or animal, or even insect—and you see how she inspires him with a higher degree of inspiration than can be gained from yourself, or any other person who exists upon this solid earth.

Mrs. Milverton. I do not know what jealousy is, Sir John.

Ellesmere. Happy woman! I observe that Milverton is silent: he knows very well what jealousy is, at least on your part. Why, if I were to poke the fire in his study, you would be jealous that you had not done it: you are all alike, and jealousy is nine-tenths of your love. Whereas, with us men, jealousy is almost a thing unknown.

By the way, which of the three young savage ladies, that we are introduced to in Realmah, do you think you most resemble? Is it the prudent Varnah, the beautiful Talora, or the incomparable Ainah (with large hands and feet), that you are willing to be classed with?

Milverton. Mrs. Milverton possesses the merits of all the three in her own person—the beauty of Talora, the prudence of the Varnah, and the sympathetic nature of the Ainah.

Ellesmere. You have not a few shillings about you, have you, Mrs. Milverton, that you could give your husband for that speech? for I am sure it is one that requires to be paid for.

Now, Milverton, do go on: I declare seriously I am thoroughly interested in your story, and will not make a single interruption, until those shining waters desert their charming mud, and the stars come out, and we order our horses, and return to the solid comforts and second-rate arm-chairs in Milverton’s smoke-dried study.

Ellesmere. Sir, I did nothing of the kind. Dunsford thoroughly understood me. I never gave him an unhappy hour, or an unhappy five minutes. It was impossible to admire a man more than I admired Dunsford; and of course he knew it. These simple, unselfish, transparently good people, like Dunsford, are the salt of the earth, and happily they are to be found everywhere. You cannot enter into any small portion of society, but you find them there, believing in the good of everybody, and bringing out the good points of every character. Sir, I am not such a fool as not to have known how far I could go with dear old Dunsford. I never provoked him more than such a man ought to be provoked, in order to show forth the full beauty of his character.

Cranmer. Crushed herbs are very sweet.

Ellesmere. Sir, he was never crushed by me. He was not one of those men who require to be trepanned in order that a joke, or a jesting objection, should be inserted into their dense brains. He was a good clergyman, and not an obtuse official man.

Cranmer. Oh, of course I am very obtuse, Sir John. I am sure I did not mean any offence.

Ellesmere. Now don’t be angry with me, there’s a good fellow: we shall be famous friends when we understand one another better; only it is rather hard upon one to be obliged to explain that one does not mean any harm by one’s foolish 82talk. Don’t imagine, Mr. Cranmer, that I don’t appreciate you. Didn’t I listen to you most patiently, and vote with you too in all emergencies, when you were fighting the estimates the last session when you and I were in office together? and I declare no man could have done it better than you did, and I sympathised with you thoroughly. [Turning to us, Ellesmere continued:] What a hand at explanation he was! Some foolish person wished to understand something about an estimate, and presumed to ask a question. Cranmer rose to explain; he was lucid, frank, candid, especially candid; and when he sat down, the House felt that something had been well explained, and yet one understood less about the subject generally than one did before. Now I take this to be a triumph of skill on the part of a great Government official.

Moreover, it is not a delusion impressed upon us by him, for really one does often find that when an explanation is given of any complicated matter, one understands less about it than one fancied one did before; and that the question one had asked was silly and irrelevant. I can assure you, grave official men on both sides of the House used to nod approval when Cranmer was giving any of his clear and candid explanations.

Cranmer. It is impossible to be angry with you, Sir John; you make such pleasant fun of all of us.

Ellesmere. It does me good to hear you say so: we will never have a dispute again. Quarrels are such vulgar things; and you are the last man in the world I should like to quarrel with. You are made to be in office; and does not one always want some little job or other done, which the Secretary of the Treasury can further?

Ellesmere. I must show Cranmer that I can be very serious, and I declare I am really much interested in this history of Realmah.

But is it not asking too much from us to believe that this semi-savage was such a great politician?

Sir Arthur. Mr. Milverton has been making me read that epic he talked to us about—namely, the “Araucana;” and I do assure you that there are speeches in that epic which show us that some of those savages—as you call them—possessed a high kind of political wisdom. “Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona;” and I do not see why there should not have lived considerable statesmen in the earliest times of the world’s history. You must remember, too, that their statesmanship was of a much easier character than ours: that they had not the complicated questions arising out of a state of high civilization to deal with.

Ellesmere. You have been in high office, Sir Arthur, and you might really tell us whether Milverton speaks truly and justly, when he asserts that there is so much to be done in the way of improving Government action, even amongst ourselves, who imagine that we are the best governed people upon the earth.

Sir Arthur. If I understand Mr. Milverton, I think he is quite right. I can see that he wants more intellectual power brought to the aid of Government. You and I were at college together, Ellesmere; though I am sorry to say we saw very little of one another.

Ellesmere. I was a poor man, a sizer, and had to make my way in the world; you were a rich one; and people do not often meet who live at different poles of the pecuniary world.

Sir Arthur. But I have no doubt you knew Alwin?

Ellesmere. Oh yes: the cleverest fellow I ever did know.

Sir Arthur. Well, when I came into office, one of my first thoughts was whether I could get Alwin into the service of the Government; but he is a married man, and has a large family, and is making a lot of money quietly as a consulting counsel. There was nothing I could offer him. What would the Treasury have said to me if I had asked 84them to give 3,000l. a year to what Milverton calls an “in-doors statesman?” It would have been no good pointing out to them that such a man might save us 30,000l. a year. Mr. Cranmer is not on my side of politics, but he knows very well what an enormous difficulty I should have had, to persuade any Secretary of the Treasury to give 3,000l. a year to such a man.

Well, there is nothing hardly that that man does not know, besides being a good lawyer. He is a man of the greatest general knowledge that I ever met with; and it happened that he was especially skilled in matters relating to my department. But I might as well have tried to have got the man in the moon to work with me as to have got Alwin.

Ellesmere. Milverton’s nymphs are very valuable personages; and they never charge any money for their advice.

Milverton. Do not sneer at my nymphs; they are as useful to me as Pope’s sylphs were to him in the “Rape of the Lock.”

But to talk seriously about Government. Do look at the difficulties; consider that at every step that a Government takes it is beset by importunate and powerful interests. Then look at the overwork of the principal men connected with the Government. Then see how the House of Commons is absorbed, not in its own proper work so much as in that which scarcely belongs to it, in executive as well as in legislative business. Giving Parliament credit for immense ability, we must admit that it is a body not fit for every kind of business.

Ellesmere. Bureaucracy! bureaucracy! Milverton always associates himself in imagination, and probably in reality, with whatever is bureaucratic.

Milverton. I do not admit that. But I want to bring before you another matter bearing closely upon this subject, and that is the unpleasantness of the capital as a place of residence. This will some day exercise a most malign influence over public affairs.

Ellesmere. This is a new idea: but I really do not see exactly what it means.

85Milverton. I almost despair of making you see it; but I can tell you that the permanent officers of State—those men upon whom every Government must mainly rely—would well understand what I mean. No sooner does any opportunity arise for getting away from London, than all important people quit it.

But I return to Ellesmere’s attack upon me respecting my bureaucratic tendencies.

I maintain that there is not a person in England who has a greater horror of bureaucracy than I have. I only want to point out to you, that there are certain things which can only be done by bureaucracy. I have talked all this over before, and therefore I am aware that I am only repeating myself. Do you remember that passage in Aristophanes, where some good citizen resolves to make peace or war upon his own account simply, and to deal with the enemy himself?

Ellesmere. I never read that improper book Aristophanes, but I am willing to take for granted what you say.

Milverton. Well, you see how absurd it is for a private individual to talk of making peace or war by himself alone. But perhaps you do not see that there are many other matters in which also he cannot act alone. What I am driving at is, to establish a wide distinction between those things that can be done by a private individual, and in which he ought not to be interfered with, and those things in which the State must act for him.

Take sanitary matters—take education; these are things in which a private individual cannot act very forcibly. They must be transacted by Government.

Ellesmere. True: speaking as an individual, I decline to have anything to do with main drainage, or the Conscience Clause.

Milverton. Then you admit that there are some subjects in which the bureau must act for the general community; and I am quite willing that the bureau should be confined to this action.

Ellesmere. I was greatly struck, Milverton, by the remark you made a little time ago, that the aversion to 86London on the part of men of importance is a serious injury to public business. Do you hold to it, and is it really your own?

Milverton. I do hold to it, but it is not altogether my own. A late Under-Secretary of State used often to talk over the matter with me, and we thoroughly agreed upon it. I maintain that the celebrated Chancellor Oxenstiern’s maxim, “Quantulâ sapientiâ regitur mundus,” is only partially true, and that “Quantulo tempore regitur mundus” would be a much more valuable maxim. The truth is, most men of average ability are very capable of estimating good arguments, pro or con, about any matter; and for my own part, I would rather have the attention of an average man for two hours, when the business really requires that time for discussion, than the attention of the cleverest man in England who will only give you one hour.

Ask any person who has really mastered the details of any great subject, and who has had to lay them before other people for decision. You will seldom find that he complains of any want of apprehension on their part, but that he will bitterly complain that he was not allowed time enough to lay before them the whole matter with all its bearings.

Now, the time to be given for considering a great subject is sure to be very much limited when people are very anxious to get away from the spot where the discussion takes place. And so it becomes a matter of great importance that the capital of every country should be a pleasant place for residence, as the main business of the country must be transacted there.

In all committees and councils, it is to be observed that the man of endurance and perseverance, who may, after all, be a very inferior man in point of thoughtfulness, will ultimately have too much power and influence. And it will be putting additional leverage into his hands, if he knows that the cleverest men amongst his opponents will be anxious to get away at a certain time, and that he can gain his point by outstaying them, whether he outreasons them or not.

Sir Arthur. I want to bring another branch of the subject before you. I think there might be a better division 87than there is of the functions of government. For instance, I would have a Minister of Justice, who should attend to matters of justice only. I would at the same time have a minister whose sole duty it should be to attend to the physical well-being of the community. I am not sure that I would not also throw upon him the business of education. And then, to make room for this important minister, I would cancel those offices which are becoming obsolete, I would, for instance, cancel the Privy Seal, in order to make room for a Minister of Health and Education.

Milverton. I entirely agree with you, Sir Arthur. Then there is another thing I would do. I would certainly make more use of the men who hold second-class places in Government. I think it is very hard upon them that, for the most part, they have their tongues tied, and that they are distanced in public estimation by those who are called independent members, who, being free from official trammels, have opportunities of distinguishing themselves which are denied to official personages of the second class.

Sir Arthur. This is very difficult, Milverton. You see, it would be a very serious thing for an Under-Secretary of State to be speaking in a contrary sense to his chief.

Milverton. I know all that, but I would occasionally give him an opportunity of distinguishing himself. I would entrust him, for instance, with the sole conduct of some great measure.

Ellesmere. How true men are to themselves and their old positions! Sir Arthur cannot forget that he has been a Secretary of State.

Milverton. But where the greatest opportunities for improvement in government lie, are in Colonial affairs. We really must come, before long, to some definite principles as to how we are to deal with our Colonies; and in any change of Government, the minister about whose appointment I feel the most anxiety is the Minister for our Colonial affairs. No father ever had a more difficult problem put before him, when he has growing-up boys to deal with, than we have in the management of our Colonies. It would be very hard upon England to be dragged into an expensive war for any of these Colonies.

88Sir Arthur. And, on the other hand, it would be very hard to desert them in the time of need.

Milverton. How to reconcile, in a just manner, these two lines of policy is, you may depend upon it, the greatest question of the present day.

Ellesmere. Don’t hurry on in that way, I see a buried lake city.

We will change the venue from Switzerland to Hampshire; and here is the city. How clear the water is! I declare I see at the bottom a dead cat, an old spade, and a decaying basket. Here are quite enough remains to indicate a lake city. What would not Milverton deduce from a dead cat, a spade, and a basket? Intercourse with Persia, abundant iron foundries, and the textile arts carried out to perfection. If osier twigs can be woven into baskets, why not silk, or cotton, or linen thread, into their respective fabrics? I do believe there is a bit of rag attached to the basket, and, if so, what a field of civilization lies before his imaginative mind!

Sir Arthur. What a beautiful thing even this small lake 92is! Look at the exquisite roundings off of all corners of the land.

Then the water weeds, the water insects, the lazy, happy fish―⁠―

Ellesmere. The water-rats too—those engaging little creatures! How Fairy would like to get at them! For my part, I should like to be a fish. Fishes seem to have so little bother with their relations and their families. Now what a life Fairy led us, as long as she had that pup of hers!

She was always bringing it in her mouth, and introducing it, saying as plainly as possible, “My son, sir,” “My eldest son,” “Quite a genius:” and, in fact, she introduced it so early into good society, and so overwhelmed the poor little creature with her attentions, that it died prematurely.

Johnson. It was a most curious thing to see how, if you asked her, “Where is your pup, Fairy?” she led the way at once, wagging her tail like a pendulum all the time, to her kennel. Now, how could she know what was the meaning of those words?

Ellesmere. Some wit has said, “Good Americans, when they die, go to Paris.” I should like to invert the Darwinian theory, and to say that all good men and women, when they die, have, for a time, the honour of becoming dogs. On second thoughts, the women never: they become cats.

But, to return to my ambition to become a fish. You see, fish fathers seem never to have anything analogous to paying college debts for their eldest sons; but that is not all. Oh, the life Lady Ellesmere led me, after little Johnny was born, about his teeth! Nine times a day at least did she drag me up to the nursery, to show me the advent of two little teeth. Never before, I was informed, had any child been known at that age to have two teeth. I was obliged to swear that I felt them, otherwise I saw that Lady Ellesmere and the nurse would declare that I was a perfect brute. Now, you know, if you were a fish father, and had about a million of children, the mother could not be lugging you about for ever to feel for the teeth of the little darlings, and compelling you to swear that you felt these interesting molars, whether you did or not; but I must say that Fairy 93was quite as tiresome as Lady Ellesmere, and you see the consequence.

Ellesmere. Let us have a cigar. Mrs. Milverton and Lady Ellesmere are very like ordinary women. Womanity is strong in them. They scold like the rest of their sex; they delight, in a delicate way, to show forth the weaknesses of their respective husbands; they can, both of them, pout and look injured; and they can cry at you. At least Lady Ellesmere can; but I do not care now a bit about women’s tears, since I have ascertained from Faraday^[8]—a glorious fellow that—that tears are merely chloride of sodium, carbonate of lime, and general folly. I do not know whether I have the chemicals quite right; but, at any rate, since I have heard of this chemical analysis, I do not care for tears.

Lady Ellesmere. I never cried at you but once, John; and then you know you were most cruel to me. We were travelling abroad, and though I was tired to death, he would not stop at a particular place where I wanted him to stop. He said it would interfere with his arrangements, and that I must go on. I never knew him, before or since, to be so hard-hearted, and I confess to having cried.

Ellesmere. Now, my lady, I am not going to be thought a brute by this intelligent company. You know, if you have a weakness in the way of fear, it is being afraid of the cholera; and I had heard that they had the cholera very badly at the place where you wanted to stop.

Lady Ellesmere. Well, really, John, you might have told me that afterwards, and not have allowed me to think you so very unkind.

Ellesmere. You see the form that gratitude takes with women. But where was I? Oh, that Lady Ellesmere and Mrs. Milverton are not angels in a general way, but ordinary women—except in the article of smoking, and there they are regular angels, for both of them pretend to like it.

You do not know what I offer you in this lighted paper: a possible Ellesmerian fortune. This paper is good enough to inform me, that if I will take any of the numbers from 3,142 to 4,296, all of them lucky numbers, in the Vienna Lottery, I might get a chateau in Styria. I really believe I should take some tickets, for the fun of the thing; but the awkward part of it would be, if one were to get the prize. I am sure I should not know what to do with a chateau in Styria. I should feel like Winkle in “Pickwick” with a dreadful horse, possessing a property which I was obliged to retain, but could neither make use of, nor govern.

Cranmer. You would not really encourage the wickedness of lotteries?

Ellesmere. I don’t want to quarrel with you, Mr. Cranmer; and, in fact, it is agreed that we are to be fast friends—if, indeed, Mr. Cranmer can be fast in any way. I must, however, deny your main proposition about the wickedness of lotteries.

Milverton. So do I. I remember I was once condemning lotteries in the presence of one of the wisest and best informed men of the day; and, to my astonishment, he put me down effectually, and showed me that I had never considered the subject.

But let me take you away from lotteries for a moment, and talk to you about this man, for he always offered to my mind a problem which I have never been able to solve, and which I should like to submit to this worshipful company. We will discuss lotteries afterwards.

95Well, what I want to lay before you is, how some men know so much as they do about books, and how they retain in their minds such a quantity of information, upon all manner of subjects.

I don’t speak to you about your Macaulays, Hallams, Carlyles, Grotes, and Milmans, but about men who attain no great eminence in the world, yet who are as full of information upon all human subjects as an egg is of meat.

Now, this man—we will call him Carrick, for he is such a modest person that he would not like me to tell you his name—I assure you one never found him at fault upon any subject of conversation that came uppermost; and his knowledge was of the most accurate and minute kind. He knew everything that anybody had said about the currency. If you were to talk to him about the telescope, he would trace it from its earliest beginning, and give to every inventor and improver his due share of the great work. Upon all questions of history he was unrivalled. I don’t think he cared much about art, but he knew what every great painter had done, and how his works ought to be classified.

I remember once having got up some subject in history very carefully, having to write about it. Now, you know what pains one takes with all the details of a subject, when one is getting it up not merely for the sake of study, but to express one’s own opinion about it. I happened accidentally to talk to this man upon the subject. He had not studied it for twenty years, but there was not a point with which he was not familiar—how the King adopted a certain line of policy, while the Prime Minister opposed it—how, in the campaign that followed, the general, misled by false intelligence, most injudiciously threw forward his right wing, enabling the enemy to cross a river without resistance, &c. &c.

Now, how does any one ever acquire and retain accurately such a vast amount of knowledge?

Sir Arthur. I think I can do something towards explaining the phenomenon. Dr. Johnson let us a good deal into the secret of judicious reading. You know that he said he had never read a book through in his life. Of course, he understood the art of consummate skipping.

96Well, then, the physical part of reading is an art in itself. Some men seem to read half a page at a time. And then again, as to memory, we know that some men possess memories such as can hardly be imagined by other men. Consider such a phenomenon as the calculating boy.

Ellesmere. I think a great part of the explanation rests in this, that the great readers know how to get at what we lawyers call the charging parts of a Bill in Chancery. I am quite sure that I could, in twenty minutes, get up a case that would take any of you people two hours and a half, because I know where to look for the charging parts.

Sir Arthur. That is only another way of putting the explanation I have given.

Cranmer. I want to recall you to the subject of lotteries. I should like to hear anybody maintain that they are not very culpable transactions.

Milverton. Have you any hope of abolishing that spirit of speculation which is innate in mankind? If it does not break out here, it will break out there. You have horse-racing and roulette-tables. Now lotteries are much better than these, because they take up much less time, do not necessarily bring one into bad company, and require no knowledge of the subject.

Sir Arthur. Despair is the worst thing that can befall a human being. The heaviest stone that Fate can throw at a man is when she contrives that he can see no possible outlet from his misfortunes. While we are talking to-day, there are thousands of persons who do not see any way out of their troubles, even with all the aid of the sanguine imagination which has perhaps led them into those troubles. Every letter must bring additional difficulties and additional pressure; but give them a lottery ticket, and they have something to hope for which fortifies them for their real work.

Ellesmere. Poor Martha Broom; she loves the green-grocer’s man: he loves her; but the marriage cannot take place unless she can obtain some money. If she has put 1l. 10s. into a lottery with a chance of gaining 200l., she sweeps the steps before the house with an air and a grace, resulting from concealed hope. The ticket, in all probability, 97turns out a blank. On she goes, however, and invests a portion of another quarter’s wages in another lottery ticket. “Hope springs eternal in the human breast.” She abridges her crinoline—no great harm in that—and the steps are still swept by a not utterly desponding person.

Mauleverer. Nothing can show more clearly the misery of the human race than that such intelligent people as you are should make such a defence for lotteries.

Cranmer. What do you say, Sir Arthur? Do you really mean—for you are a statesman—to vote with these gentlemen?

Sir Arthur. I am afraid I must lose somewhat of your good opinion, Mr. Cranmer. I am rather of Sir John’s way of thinking. You see such good incidents for plays and novels may come out of a system of lotteries: it adds another element of romance in the way of sudden changes of fortune.

Ellesmere. Mr. Cranmer respects the Stock Exchange and the Liverpool Cotton Market; but if a poor maid-servant, or a poor ex-Attorney-General, makes her or his little venture, it is an enormous crime. Clear your mind of cant, sir. If Dr. Johnson had said nothing else but that saying, it ought to have immortalized him. By the way, acting upon this principle of clearing our minds of cant, shall we cease to pretend to be interested in the fortunes of Realmah, and take the reading as having been read, and enjoy ourselves upon the lake?

Lady Ellesmere. Oh, no!

Ellesmere. Now, if I were a parson going to preach a charity sermon, and had calculated that the sermon would produce, say, on an average, three shillings and sixpence a-piece from every member of the congregation, and I were to say to them, “Make it five shillings, and I won’t preach the sermon,” don’t you suppose the congregation would close at once with this kind and judicious offer?

Well, if you will have the reading, let us get it over quickly. Look at Fairy. Consider her feelings at being obliged to keep quiet, and the bank close to us alive with water-rats! Those are my sentiments, too, my dear Fairy; however, the sooner a thing is begun, the sooner it is over; so let us be quiet, Fairy, and listen to our master.

Cranmer. I wish to make a remark.

Ellesmere. Silence, silence, for half an hour. Mr. Cranmer wishes to make a remark.

Cranmer. This is too bad, Sir John. I am sure that for every word I utter in this good company, you utter one hundred and seventy-six. Why should I occupy half an hour with a single remark?

Ellesmere. The calculation is exact. Have I not heard you say in the House, “I should wish to address a very few remarks to the House upon this subject,” and has not your speech generally lasted for one hour and a half? Now, I take a “very few” to mean three: one remark of yours, therefore, if I do the sum rightly, will occupy half an hour.

Cranmer. Well, we shall see. I was going to say that one great merit of Milverton’s mode of telling us this story is, that he never breaks off abruptly and leaves us in suspense. 121If he brings his hero into trouble, he brings him out again, in the same portion of the narrative.

Now, I daresay you will all despise me, and think that I am a dull, prosaic being; but I must own that I do not care much for fiction. It does not amuse me. Laugh as much as you like, but I prefer a blue book to any novel.

My daughters, however, make up for my want of imaginativeness, and they devour novels. You know these serial things: they are always reading them. Sometimes they rush up to me, and exclaim, “Oh, papa, how I wish it was the beginning of next month!” Now you know when one comes to a certain age, one is not so anxious for it to be the beginning of next month, when it is only the second or third of this month. But young people think that they have such a large balance in the Bank of Life, that they can afford to draw upon it in the rashest manner.

Ellesmere. I declare that is a very pretty financial simile.

Cranmer. Thank you, Sir John; you are very encouraging. I have not exhausted my half hour yet, and so I will proceed.

Well, I venture to suggest to these dear daughters of mine that I am not so anxious for this rapid passing away of time, to which they reply, “But oh, papa, he is in such difficulty; he must be killed. There is nobody near to save him.” This “he” is some fellow in a novel.

Ellesmere. My dear Cranmer, I will restore peace and concord to your household. Teach your daughters the true doctrine of Indispensables.

Cranmer. What do you mean, Sir John, by Indispensables?

Ellesmere. Why, don’t you know? They are the fellows who, if you get rid of them at one part of the story, must re-appear in another.

Now, Cranmer, you are to be a villain in a novel. I assure you it is a very creditable part to assign to you. I always like the villains best. They are the only business-like people in the concern. I will be the Indispensable.

Now try and get rid of me if you can.

You stab me to the heart, and leave me on the ground. I assure you it is of no use. An Indispensable’s heart is quite differently placed from that of any other man. The 122desperate wound you gave me was in fact the best surgical treatment that could be devised for a slight internal complaint which I labour under; and you will find me as lively as ever in the third volume, and ready to unmask your wicked designs.

Or it is a dark, gusty night. We two are walking the deck alone. You politely edge me over the side of the vessel, and go to sleep in your hammock, feeling that you have done a good stroke of business. What do I do? The ship is only going nineteen knots an hour. I therefore easily swim to her, and secrete myself in the stays, or the main chains, or the shrouds, or the dead lights, or some of those mysterious places in a ship, which Sir Arthur knows all about. There I stick like a barnacle, and you carry me into port with you. I can tell you that when you are just about to make a most advantageous marriage, I shall put my head in at the church-door, and say “Ha!” with a loud voice, and the whole affair will be broken off.

Or you poison me. Bless your heart, poison has no more effect upon my Mithridatic constitution than ginger-beer—probably not so much.

You bury me. No: you don’t. You don’t bury me, but some intrusive fellow who has thrust himself in, to take my place; for an Indispensable has always about him obliging persons who do that kind of work for him.

Or you hurl me down from a cliff, 300 feet high, and go away thinking you have now really got rid of me for good and all. But, Mr. Villain, you are much mistaken. I, as an Indispensable, inevitably fall upon a sea-anemone, rather a large one, three feet square and two feet thick, very common, however, in that part of the coast.

The poor anemone is somewhat injured, and I am a little shaken; but I shall appear again at the right time, with my fatal “Ha!” and upset your marriage.

By the way, there is one thing which has never been tried upon the Indispensable. Take him to the House of Commons, Cranmer, and make him attend, for three nights following, from half-past six to nine.

123The mixture of irritability and comatoseness which might thus be produced, would bring on what doctors call, at least Dr. Ellesmere does, an apoplectic paralysis.

And then you see, Cranmer, if you did not quite kill him, you could reduce him to idiotcy, which would be nearly as good for your purpose, and enable you to carry on your villany undisturbed.

Oh, how I wish that good people in real life were as difficult to kill as Indispensables in fiction!

Sir Arthur. I am not so sure that I agree with Cranmer. I rather like to be kept in an agony of suspense, and I cannot praise Milverton for being so considerate to our feelings.

Ellesmere. Quite true. Praise is nearly always wrong. However, I am not going to indulge much in it. I see that Milverton makes this rogue Realmah, a perfect politician. Now, is that natural?

Sir Arthur. Well, why not? Do you suppose that all policy is confined to civilized people?

Ellesmere. No; but Realmah, I contend, is an official man of the nineteenth century.

Mauleverer. Then, indeed, he is a rogue.

Ellesmere (who laughed heartily). It is a comfort to find that one always has Mr. Mauleverer to back one up in any attack upon any class or portion of the human race.

But to return to the story. I must say I rather like the Ainah; and Milverton has had the courage to make her not too beautiful.

Milverton. I have never been able to do the Ainah justice. You know that, for the most part, when one endeavours to describe a man or a woman, either in history or in a novel, one is obliged to make it seem like the description of a runaway slave. Who can portray the delicate lights and shadows, the smiles and dimples, which go to make a beautiful, or, at the least, a most expressive, countenance?

By the way, you must not suppose, when I have spoken of the Ainah’s hands as being rather large and plebeian, that they had not a beauty of their own; and oh, what an expressive thing the hand is!

Sir Arthur. Very true. The other day I was sitting 124near one of the greatest men in England (perhaps it was in the House of Commons, but I shall not tell you where exactly), and he was suffering from suppressed anger, and was being bullied from all directions. The man maintained his part admirably: he was calm and equable in reply: when he sat down, he put on an air of repose; he kept himself still, he governed his eyes, he governed that organ difficult to govern, the mouth; but his hands quivered with the emotion he felt, and the veins stood out upon them in stern relief. He little imagined he betrayed to me by those hands all that he felt.

Milverton. I have always noticed that great men, without a single exception, have great hands. I do not mean large hands, but expressive hands—hands that indicate greatness. The late Lord Melbourne almost talked with his hands, and so I must say of the Ainah. She had not a small hand: she had not hands with tapering fingers, which we admire so much in women; but she had expressive hands, which possess a beauty of their own.

Ellesmere. I do declare, Milverton is in love with the Ainah; and, as Mrs. Milverton has such very pretty hands, according to the usual type, I wonder she is not jealous.

Lady Ellesmere. Don’t make mischief, sir. You can do very little good in your generation, and you might therefore avoid doing harm.

Ellesmere. There we have again a truly conjugal remark. No great conqueror, who is a married man, has any occasion, when he is taking his triumph, to have a slave with him in his chariot, to remind him that he is mortal. His dear wife and children—who, by the way, are anything but slaves—will be sure to give him sufficient discouragement (of course for his good), and to convince him that he is anything but a divinity.

I cannot comment much upon this story of Realmah. I am thoroughly puzzled by it. There are many pretty points about the story: the courtship is amusing; the prosecution for impiety is not without its slyness; and it is evident that Milverton has thrown his whole force into the depicting and drawing out of the Ainah. But what puzzles me is, that I cannot see the general drift and purpose of the story. Now, 125I know the man to be full of purpose, and that he is sure to have some scheme in his head,—some wonderful theory which he wishes to impress upon us all, and upon which we are to begin to act to-morrow morning; but I cannot discern what it is.

Sir Arthur. I admire the story very much, and think that great things are yet to come out of it.

Ellesmere. Oh yes, we all know that. That is the regular kind of thing for one author to say to another. It is the fashion of the day for all members of the same profession to speak most respectfully of each other. Sir Robert, my successor, does so of me; I do so of him: what we really think of each other’s knowledge of law is best known to ourselves.

The same with the medical profession. Dr. B. is called in to assist Dr. A. What does he say? Nothing could have been more skilful than Dr. A.’s treatment hitherto of the case. He should now, he thinks, begin to throw in a little assafœtida, say 1 drachm, and hydrarg. 3 oz., instead of opii tinct. 9 scruples,—that is, if this slight change in the prescription meets with Dr. A.’s entire approval.

As for authors, they are generally in ecstasies (honest ecstasies!) when talking to one another of each other’s performances. Have I not seen a number of serpents in a cage as civil to each other as possible, upreared upon the penultimate parts of their tails, and bowing affably to one another,—in process of time to become quite fond and fondling? I think nothing of Sir Arthur’s praise of Realmah.

Milverton. I think it is one of the pleasantest things of our time to see―⁠―

Ellesmere. Don’t go into it seriously. I only meant an eighth part of what I said, but you are all so matter-of-fact and so stupid.

126But what I say about “Realmah” I really mean. The author is a man unwholesomely full of purpose. He would not care to write the most interesting story in the world, not the “Vicar of Wakefield” or “La Petite Fadette,” which I think the prettiest story I ever read, except he had some distinct purpose in writing it. It must prove something, or illustrate something; but what that something is in the present case, I cannot for the life of me make out.

By the way, I must make another remark, and that is, that I do not see anything so very clever in the little stories and fables which your lake-men, Milverton, are so fond of. I could invent fables by the dozen.

Sir Arthur. Could you, Sir John? Perhaps you would favour us with one of the dozen this morning?

Ellesmere. With pleasure, in a minute or two: just give me time to think.

A man and his dog were walking along a straight road, chatting pleasantly together.

The road was straight, because it was in the good old times of the Romans; and the two companions understood each other well because in those days the dogs talked dog Latin.

“Yes,” said the man, “you certainly are a very clever creature. You make good use of your nose, and your eyes, and your ears. What a pity it is you have not hands like we have!”

“Oh,” said the dog, “you don’t know, then, that we once had hands like yours, and how fortunate we were to get rid of them? You see even now in the streets that there are some of us who, attended by Helvetii playing musical instruments, walk upright, and gain many denarii.

“But this is how we came to lose our hands. Diana, much pleased with our skill in hunting, resolved to ask great Jupiter to confer some signal boon upon us. We consulted 127together as to what our kind mistress should ask for us. Some said that men should not be allowed to pick the bones quite so clean before they tossed them to us; others that hares and rabbits should not be so fleet; and others that we should not be called by such mean and foolish names as men are wont to give us. But one prudent old dog said, ‘Jove is wiser than we are; let us ask him to take away from us whatever we have now which is most dangerous for us to have.’

“Our prayer was heard, for suddenly our hands became paws, and henceforward we went upon four legs.

“Many of my brother dogs grumbled at this change, and howled to Jupiter that he was mocking us; but Jove replied, ‘My good friends, I have done the best I could for you; you might hereafter make as bad a use of your hands as men are making of theirs, and thus in time become as dishonest and wicked as they are.’ We acknowledged the wisdom of Jupiter; and so the monkey was left to be, in form as in nature, the creature most resembling man.”

The poor Roman could not make any reply, and the dog trotted on by his side, wagging his tail approvingly at his own wit.

Lady Ellesmere. Where is the moral, John?

Cranmer. Yes; where is the moral?

Ellesmere. Moral! Why, my good people, the fable is as full of moral as a pigeon-pie at an inn is—of tough beefsteak.

Moral Number One:—

People are proudest of what they should be most ashamed of; i.e. man of his hands, which he makes such bad use of.

Moral Number Two:—

Attend, Lady Ellesmere. It is always better to get rid of a plague or an evil, than to acquire a new good.

Moral Number Three:—

Attend, Fairy. Dogs are better and much honester creatures than men.

Sir Arthur. The fable is clever enough, and has plenty of moral in it—indeed too much—but it lacks simplicity. Who would ever think of quoting it, to illustrate anything?

Milverton. Let me now try my hand at a fable.

128The sun was setting; the moon was rising; and one solitary traveller was plodding his weary way across the Libyan desert.

“Madam, my sister,” said the sun, “how is it that men are so much more grateful to you than to me? All day long have I warmed that poor traveller, and guided him on his way, yet not a kind word did I receive from him; whereas, no sooner do you make your pale appearance above the horizon, than he breaks out into a song of gratitude, celebrating your goodness and your loveliness.”

“Sir, my brother,” replied the moon, “your benefits are too manifest, and you take care that all you do for men shall be seen in broad daylight.

“What little I can do for them, how I keep their oceans sweet, is known but to few of them.

“Men try to be sufficiently grateful to you, but they love me, not only for my gentleness and my loveliness, but also for my great reserve.”

The great god of day did not deign to make any reply, but went down red and angry into the western waters.

Sir Arthur. This is much better, still there is the same fault, it lacks simplicity; and the moral, namely, that to insure gratitude you should conceal your benefits as much as possible from the eyes of others, is a modern idea, not belonging to the age when fables were best written.

Milverton. I will try another. I will not be beaten.

The Pacha rested by the fountain, the flowing waters of which made an oasis in the desert.

His horse and his camel cropped with delight the green herbage near the fountain. Their shadows lay strongly and darkly upon the grass.

“How beautiful,” said the horse, “is that dark form which moves as I move; what grace, what symmetry it shows! I can hardly eat for looking at it.”

“It is well enough,” said the camel, “but look at this one which moves with me. It has all the symmetry and the grace of the other; and then, too, it has that pretty little hump on its back.”

A dervish passing by, who knew the language of all beasts, exclaimed, “How good is Allah, who gives to every 129creature its due share of vanity, so that defects seem to their owner especial beauties and merits!”

Sir Arthur. That is a hundred times better; but, at the risk of appearing captious, I must still say that there is an air of subtlety about it which does not quite befit a good honest fable. However, I will admit that in time, my dear Milverton, you might perhaps write a fable.

Ellesmere. Well, at any rate, he can write a history, for I suppose we must not call “Realmah” a story; and indeed, for my part, I believe it to be as true as almost any history I ever read.

There is one more observation I have to make about it, which has just occurred to me. It is a personal one, and it is that Fairy [here the dog looked up sharply]—Don’t look at her: she does not like to be looked at, or talked about; and it would be more delicate if I were to put in French what I am going to say, for she does not understand as much of that language as she does of English. So put yourselves into a Gallic state of mind, and listen to me.

Je trouve que Madame l’Ainah et Madame le Fée se ressemblent beaucoup.

Madame la Fée—(I hope she is not looking at me, is she?)—avec son peau—(is it “son peau” or “sa peau?” I always forget those confounded French genders; oh, “sa peau!” thanks)—avec sa peau blanche, ses yeux rouges, et sa lèvre inférieure un peu développée, est d’une beauté extrême, pas si séduisante, comme réellement rare et remarquable.

Madame l’Ainah, avec ses petits yeux enfoncés dans sa tête (comme nous a dit M. l’Auteur), ses cheveux presque rouges, et ses mains et ses pieds très larges et prononcés, mais, en même temps, très expressifs—est aussi d’une beauté extrême, mais aussi pas si séduisante, comme bien rare, et bien remarquable.

Elles jouissent, toutes les deux, d’une sensibilité très-douce, d’une intelligence très-exquise, et d’un je ne sais quoi, qui laisse beaucoup à l’imagination.

Johnson. Do not be quite so sure of that, Sir John.

Ellesmere. Oh, Sandy, Sandy! It is your fault, then? You exercise a malign influence over your master, I can see. I really did think that Realmah, having got his wonderfully beautiful, but very disagreeable Talora, his work-a-day Varnah (I like that young woman best, and wish that a certain “party” with whom I am distantly connected bore more resemblance to her), and his subtle Cinderella (with a large glass slipper, though), the Ainah, would now be contented.

Lady Ellesmere. It is a great comfort to me that John does not sometimes take the place of Mr. Johnson, although it might relieve me from much of his company, for he would refuse to take down all the nice sentimental bits we women like so much.

Ellesmere. Now, look here: suppose we were to have 132biography written after the fashion of novels, it would be something of this kind:—

I will give you the life of a distinguished Jones. It will not take long.

Silence! The Biography commences.

As a boy, Jones was much like other boys. He was good at ringtaw, bad at Greek grammar; and he abominated those truly abominable things called decimal fractions. With that vivacity of expression and that sincerity of feeling which in after-life were always conspicuous in him, he one day, when quite a boy, observed to his friend Master Smith, that Homer was “a regular beast,” and he wished “the beggar” had never been born.

As a youth, he was much like other youths. He was justly proud of his peg-top trowsers; thought the governor a good fellow, but rather slow; spoke his native language with a laboured incertitude which was the fashion amongst the gilded youth of the period; and he used the word “awful” on all occasions, informing those who cared to hear that Smith (observe how true he is in his friendships) was awfully jolly, while Robinson was awfully green. At this period of his life, his opinions did not admit of any nice differences of colour. His black was the blackest of blacks; his white the whitest of whites; and he always thought, and generally said, a fellow was a fool who did not see things exactly as he saw them. That nice appreciation of character which had enabled him to describe so tersely and so faithfully the nature of old Homer, was extended now to sundry other personages, and embraced Aristotle, Tacitus, John Mill, Sir William Hamilton, Paley, and Colenso. It is but justice to Jones to conjecture that he had already perceived a want of orthodoxy in that last-named personage, although his depreciatory remarks upon that divine chiefly applied to him as an author of certain arithmetical and algebraical works.

When Jones arrived at the age of twenty-three, he was seized with a fever, not uncommon at that age, called the Febris amantium.

Then come a hundred and seventy-three pages in which there is nothing but a minute description of the symptoms 133and progress of the disease. We are spared none of the details. The only thing that in the least degree relieves this painfully medical description is that another person, in the next street, of the other sex, is smitten at the same time with the disease, and the symptoms of the patients are frequently contrasted.

At last they both get over the disease by means of a potent medicine found very efficacious in such complaints, and called marriage.

Then come a few sentences like the following:—

He was a great lawyer, and therefore naturally—indeed I may say inevitably—a great, good, and humane man. His study of the law, the greatest of all studies, had opened his mind for the reception of all arts, sciences, and literatures, including poetry, political economy, metaphysics, theology, and the science of book-keeping by double-entry.

That the human race has advanced to its present pitch of comfort and civilization, to which no one but Mr. Mauleverer can do full justice; that our streets are rendered beautiful by lovely works of art in the shape of statues, fountains, and columns; that smoke is banished from our towns; and that war, according to Mr. Milverton, is a thing unknown amongst the European family of nations—are benefits greatly owing to the labours of this incomparable man.—End of the Biography.

Now a dull prosaic person such as I am would like to hear a few details about the manner in which the incomparable Jones accomplished these great objects. But Lady Ellesmere maintains that the fever was the only interesting thing in his life, and would not have a page omitted from that part of the biography.

Cranmer. I suppose, Sir John, that as Realmah’s love affairs are over, or nearly over, he is now to become an inventor; and you have shown such a sympathy for inventors that you will delight in that.

Ellesmere. I never said, Mr. Cranmer, that the lives of inventors were uninteresting. The more mischievous the man, the more interesting in general is his life. Witness that of any great conqueror. It is not easy, let me tell you, to catch me in an inconsistency.

134Sir Arthur. I did not meddle much the other day in your talk about modern inventors, and modern inventions, but I had a good deal to say about telegraphic communication. Only I am half afraid to say it, for anything seems dull after the sparkling fun with which Sir John always enlivens our conversations.

Cranmer. I really should be glad to hear you upon this point, Sir Arthur.

Ellesmere. Cranmer means to say that anything is a relief from Sir John Ellesmere’s nonsense. But proceed, Sir Arthur, to instruct us. Conversations should be instructive. See Pinnock, Mrs. Barbauld, and Mangnall, who doubtless confirm this maxim.

Sir Arthur. There are four drawbacks at present on telegraphic communication. 1. A telegram is often inaccurate, and you are in the greatest state of doubt and bewilderment as to the exact meaning of the thing to which you are very likely asked to give an immediate answer.

2. This mode of communication throws a great additional burthen upon those who most require rest, as being the chief directors of the world’s affairs. Now they can never feel that their work is done for the day. Telegrams pursue them to their homes, and rout them out of their beds.

3. (And this is most important.) It dwarfs the powers and diminishes the energies of distant agents, who, feeling that they can always throw the responsibility and the difficulty upon the Head Centre (to borrow an expression from the Fenians), cease to think or act for themselves; and yet often they are the persons who, from intimate knowledge of the circumstances, could act more wisely than the Head Centre.

4. (This fourth I did not learn from my own experience, but from a man who receives more important telegrams than almost any other person in England.) That having heard the main result by telegram, the despatches and reports when they come to hand are comparatively uninteresting. “You think you have heard it all before,” he said, “or at least you do not know what your knowledge really is about the matter; or at any rate you are confused with partial knowledge. The result is that you do not take 135things up in their right order, and that details have not their proper interest for you.”

Ellesmere. All this is admirable. What good sense my poor foolish sayings do sometimes elicit!

Cranmer. Sir Arthur’s words are weighty. I may be permitted, however, to remark, that all his objections rest upon the abuse and not the use of telegraphic communication.

Ellesmere. If I dared to be so singular as to do so, how often I should protest against that play upon the words “use” and “abuse!” Moreover, it seemed to me that a great deal of what Sir Arthur said applied most closely to the use, and not to the abuse. But, there, we shall never agree upon this subject of telegrams. Let us pass to other great inventions, and their inventors. I will engage to name an inventor in whose favour not one of you, not even Cranmer, can say anything.

By the way, I did not know that official men, like our friend Cranmer, were so fond of inventors, and so much inclined to take their part. When I was Attorney-General I used to see a good many inventors, and the ungrateful dogs did not burst out into raptures of praise, either of the Admiralty, the War Office, or the Treasury.

But to return to this particular inventor. I have read private Commination Services over him—not using the strong word “cursed,” but merely saying unblessed.

Milverton. Who can this unfortunate man be?

Mauleverer. He will not be found to be much worse than the others. I dislike all of them. The fact is, the more you elevate and beautify human life in one direction, the more you render striking the sordidness of it in other directions, and so magnify the painful contrast.

Ellesmere. That is cheering, certainly. I am glad to have brother Mauleverer on my side. But I am not prepared to say ditto to everything that he says.

Sir Arthur. I should say, or at least I should say that Sir John Ellesmere would say, that it was the man who invented superlatives.

Milverton. Ellesmere is a very mischievous person. I have observed that when anybody has been much in his 136society, and they want to say a severe thing, they are very apt to put it as a quotation from him.

That puts me in mind of an anecdote which I must tell you, for it is a very droll one. There was a great musician who had a dreadful habit of swearing. But he was very much ashamed of this habit, and so, to excuse himself, always put it as a quotation from the manager of the theatre, who at that time was Mr. Bunn. The great musician would exclaim, “I’ll be d—d (as Mr. Bunn would say) if I will be led by that fellow;” or “D—n the thing (as Mr. Bunn would say), there’s not a single good note of music in it.” I never heard that Mr. Bunn was in the least given to swearing, but the great musician thought that if he quoted his manager, whom he considered the greatest personage in the world, it would keep him harmless from the consequences of this evil habit of swearing.

In like manner, people father their severe sayings upon Ellesmere. You remember that some man said (I think it was a judge), “David said in his haste, I say deliberately, All men are liars.” Had Ellesmere lived in that judge’s time, the sentence would have run thus:—

“David said in his haste; I say, with brother Ellesmere, deliberately, All men are liars.”

Ellesmere. Commend me to an intimate friend—he must be very intimate—for saying the bitterest things in the softest manner about one. But I’ll pay it all off some fine day upon Realmah.

Mrs. Milverton. But we have never heard who is this inventor so odious to Sir John, for whom we are not to be able to say a good word.

Ellesmere. I will not keep you longer in suspense.

I say then “deliberately,” Unblessed be the man who invented starch.

Has he not been an unbounded nuisance to mankind? What shirts, what collars, what torturing neckcloths he has made the human race endure! It will be ninety years before we get rid of his detestable invention. Everything about the human body should be loose, flowing, soft, and curvable; and this wretch has made us to some extent, and our poor forefathers entirely, like hogs in armour.

I often picture to myself the kind of man he was. I am sure he was an official man, Mr. Cranmer, who had vexed a department for thirty years, and then, retiring into private life, spent his remaining years in considering how he could best curb, and oppress, and stiffen up the whole human race.

His life would be interesting, Mr. Cranmer, especially during the inventing period, when he narrowly escaped strangulation from his newly-invented neckcloth, which he first tried on upon himself. But you must admit that he was a villain of the deepest dye.

Milverton. I have nothing to say for him.

Sir Arthur. Nor I.

Mr. Mauleverer. I have. These minor miseries are very useful in diverting men’s minds from the contemplation of their great afflictions.

Ellesmere. For my part, I prefer contemplating my great afflictions without having to wear a collar that is both stiff and jagged—such a one as Lady Ellesmere sets for me when we have quarrelled. I assure you that this collar does not make me think less of her.

Lady Ellesmere. Will anybody say anything sensible, and prevent John from going on, and talking his nonsense?

Sir Arthur. I rush to the rescue like a gallant knight. I want to say something about the Varnah in “Realmah,” who is Ellesmere’s favourite. It is very characteristic of such a woman that she should be always wishing “poor Realmah” to be like other people, and that she should be always thinking what people will say.

Ellesmere. Now we really will be serious. I have always maintained, Sir Arthur, that “what people will say” is the one great tyrant, and that the united tyrannies of kings, 138priests, newspapers, and kaisers, sink into insignificance when compared with Mrs. Grundy’s.

Sir Arthur. Mrs. Grundy is an ill-used woman. Long before her time people were ruled by the thought of what other people would say.

I have been always very much struck by the fact that some great baron, ages ago, put up, as a motto, upon some place he built, I suppose his castle,^[14] “They have said: let them say.”

Milverton. This certainly goes to show that the tyranny, that this good baron stood up against, is not of recent origin.

I suppose it existed in all ages, till we get back to the early days of Paradise, when Adam and Eve had no neighbours to comment upon them.

Ellesmere. Perhaps you are mistaken about that, Milverton. In those early and innocent days there might have been much more communion between man and the lower animals than there is now; and perhaps our first parents said to one another, “What will the jackals say?” or “This will be unpleasantly remarked upon by the spotted snakes;” or coming home, after a long sweet ramble, to their bower, and seeing a good many toads about (taking care, however, not to hurt them), one spouse would observe to the other, “We will come home earlier to-morrow, dear; I know that the toads comment severely upon our always being out so late of an evening.”

Lady Ellesmere. (To Mrs. Milverton.) He is becoming irreverent as well as silly. I think we will leave the gentlemen, dear.

Ellesmere. Now I believe that when Realmah made his speech you were all called into council. At any rate there were four of you—Milverton, Sandy, Mrs. Milverton, and my wife. I know it was so, because Lady Ellesmere was very mysterious and kept me out of the study, though she went in herself; and in the distance I heard a pompous noise of rolling, rumbling sentences.

There were four of you, then, besides Realmah, and two or three attendant nymphs. Notwithstanding this agglomeration of sagacity, you contrived to make a most egregious blunder. In the first part of the speech Realmah treated external observance as if it were most unimportant: the devotion of the heart was everything.

In the second part of the speech, external observance was of the utmost importance. There were not two right ways of doing a thing, &c. &c.

Mrs. Milverton. I do believe that Sir John is jealous of Realmah’s powers of speaking.

Sir Arthur. As to an inconsistency of this kind, I think nothing of it. Show me any great modern speech, and the chances are that I will point out a similar inconsistency. In good public speaking the audience make half of the speech. The orator discerns what pleases them, and, to influence them, dwells upon that topic which he sees takes their fancy, and gains their applause, even if it militates somewhat against what he has said before.

140Mauleverer. Very true! I want to return, however, to the point from which Sir John started, when he spoke of the delusion manifested by imaginative men in over-praising the past.

There is nothing so foolish as the praise of men, except it be their censure; and the man who thinks that the past has been better than the present, is, if possible, a greater fool than he who expects that the future will be better than the present.

The life of man is, I tell you, one dead level of stupidity and error. There may be slight inequalities at different periods of the world’s history; but these need no more be taken into account than the trifling inequalities in the earth’s surface, which, when compared with its main bulk, are absolutely inappreciable.

Ellesmere. Let us have the reading immediately. A stop must be put to Mauleverer’s dreary sayings. I believe he is hired by Milverton to reduce us to the proper state of depression for listening submissively to his story.

Besides I foresee that Realmah will fall into great trouble. That meddling sort of prematurely wise young fellow always does fall into trouble; and then we shall not be too much agitated by his misfortunes, Mauleverer having convinced us that a dead level of misfortune is the normal condition of mankind. There are no cheerful rapid rivers, bright up-springing fountains, merry cascades, resounding waterfalls, pellucid lakes, breezy, boisterous, jovial seas: but it is all one dull, turbid, changeless, level line of canal waters that we behold, and upon which we travel, towed by horses lean as Death, angry-eyed as Passion, and conducted by Fate as a bargeman, whence we know not, and whither we know not, except that the whither and the whence are alike abodes of misery and gloom. I believe, though, there are some good dinners to be had on the road.

Milverton. Do you know, Ellesmere, that was rather a fine sentence—that last but one of yours?

Ellesmere. Thank you, patron. I rather think it was: I meant it to be. I am not the rose, but I have lived near the rose, at any rate near the sweetbriar and the dog rose. I cannot write much myself, but I have my own poor ideas 141of what writing should be. I have even a scheme of what a sentence should be like—I do not mean an ordinary sentence, but one which is to convey some considerable meaning, and to do some work. I am not sure that even my good friends, Sir Arthur and Mr. Milverton, always fulfil my ideal; but then, we romantic men form such high ideals.

Sir Arthur. Pray lay down the lines for us, Ellesmere. We will endeavour henceforth to build our poor vessels in accordance with them. Pray tell us what a weighty sentence should be.

Ellesmere. It should be powerful in its substantives, choice and discreet in its adjectives, nicely correct in its verbs: not a word that could be added, nor one which the most fastidious would venture to suppress: in order lucid, in sequence logical, in method perspicuous; and yet with a pleasant and inviting intricacy which disappears as you advance in the sentence: the language, throughout, not quaint, not obsolete, not common, and not new: its several clauses justly proportioned and carefully balanced, so that it moves like a well-disciplined army organized for conquest: the rhythm, not that of music, but of a higher and more fantastic melodiousness, submitting to no rule, incapable of being taught: the substance and the form alike disclosing a happy union of the soul of the author to the subject of his thought, having, therefore, individuality without personal predominance: and withal, there must be a sense of felicity about it, declaring it to be the product of a happy moment, so that you feel that it will not happen again to that man who writes the sentence, or to any other of the sons of men, to say the like thing so choicely, tersely, mellifluously, and completely.

Ellesmere. You may now, Milverton, proceed in your reading, and I trust that there may be a sentence here and there to which I may conscientiously give my approval.

Milverton. I have no such hope. To make such killingly complete sentences is far beyond my power.

Ellesmere. Come here, Sandy, and be flat-ironed—I mean morally and metaphysically. Mr. Mauleverer is telling a story which is to show convincingly that all young men are nincompoops; all middle-aged men mere beasts of burden; and all old men fools.

Mauleverer.—some nine miles out of town. I always came up to town with him, in the four-horse omnibus. It was before the days of many railways. He was a stout, comely, serious-looking man, who invariably wore gold-rimmed spectacles, to which he paid great attention, often polishing the glasses with a bit of leather, and looking at the sky through them.

“Good morning, sir!” I said to him, after he had settled himself in the omnibus, “I think I had the pleasure of seeing you at the play last night. And those two pretty little girls are your daughters, I suppose? How they did enjoy it!”

“Yes, sir, they did, the dears! I am afraid, though, they disturbed some of our neighbours by their merry laughing.”

172“How inimitable Keeley was,” I said, “after he had got hold of the talisman! What fun it was when he wished for all his little brothers and sisters; and they came pouring in through the walls in their nightgowns, and throwing their little arms about him; and then when he said, ‘Oh, how I wish they were gone!’

“I could not help thinking, though, all the time, what each of us then present would wish for, if we had such a talisman, that would only grant us one of our wishes. Now, I wonder, sir, what you would wish for?” It was rather an impertinent question on my part, for I only knew the man as an omnibus acquaintance. I did not even know his name.

“I have not the slightest objection to telling you, sir,” he said. “May one wish for anything for one’s children? because, of course―⁠―” “No,” I said, “it must be a purely personal wish.”

“My wish, then, sir, would decidedly be that my spectacle-glasses should always be clear. You have not come to spectacles, sir. You have no idea of the trouble of keeping the glasses clear. If it is frosty, a mist comes upon them; if it is too hot, a mist comes upon them; if you only wink your eyelids, the glasses suddenly seem to become dim. Spectacles are the greatest blessing, and the greatest plague of one’s life. Yes: that is what my wish would be.”

“Rather different, I suspect, from what it was when you were younger, sir?”

“Yes, sir, my wish then was to be an Arab sheik, galloping about Arabia Petræa on an Arab steed, with a lance in my hand. I had always a mania for the East; but it has gone off considerably since I have married, and lived at Upper Tooting.”

“By the way, have you looked, sir, at the debate of last night? I agree with the Times—not that I always do agree with the Times, sir—that both the Ministry and the Opposition played their respective games very badly.”

Ellesmere. Now Mauleverer tells us this anecdote with his usual spirit of malice against the human race. He means, no doubt, to show how we come down, in the course of years, from grand ideas to small and household ones—from 173Arab sheikdom to an anxious care for the clearness of our spectacles.

I read the anecdote quite differently. I say that the man’s ideas had expanded. You see he took an interest in politics. He declared (I don’t believe him) that he did not swear by his Times. He delighted in taking his little daughters to the play. He had the good sense to prefer Upper Tooting to Arabia Petræa. In order to maintain his clearness of vision in these matters, he naturally wished to have his spectacle-glasses clear. This anecdote seems to me to put human nature and human life in a very favourable point of view.

Milverton. You have not heard my story, Ellesmere, which I told Mauleverer before you joined us.

I was with an eminent man of letters the other day, and he received a proof-sheet. “Here is this beast of a thing,” he said; “full of printer’s errors, I have no doubt!”

“Oh, dear, dear, how well I remember my first proof-sheet, which I received when I was quite a youth. It was a divine moment! I had written something which somebody was foolish enough to think worth printing, and I was expecting the first proof-sheet.”

“My good father, as I had just gained a prize at college, had given me a horse a few days before; and, to employ the slowly-moving hours of expectation, I had taken a fierce ride, resolving not to return until after the time when the post came in, and when the proof-sheet must have arrived.”

“The benevolent printers (how I blessed them for it!) had not disappointed me; and there was the delightful packet on the table when I did return. What a beautiful invention printing seemed to me! How my poor thoughts seemed to gain in force and clearness, when they were clothed in this charming dress! I should be sorry to say how many times I read over that proof-sheet, each time admiring it more. And yet there was a feeling of humility mixed with my exaltation. Were my thoughts really worthy to be put in this fine garb? I said to myself. But this did not damp my joy much. Worthy or not, there they were in print, and would be ‘in a book, with kivers to ’un.’”

“And now, when I have one of those things,” he said, 174pointing to the rather dirty proof-sheet, “‘I have neither a sense of exaltation nor of humility, but there is simply before me a bit of disagreeable work to be carefully done.’”

Ellesmere. I see nothing in all this. You men of fine sentiments are always duped by your sentimentality. The man has now an assured reputation, which is a permanent source of pleasure to him. Of course, the novelty of proof-sheets has gone off; and, moreover, he knows by this time that he cannot do so much by criticism and correction as he thought he could when he was younger. Would he be younger? Ask him that. That is the question.

Mauleverer. No: he would not, because he has found out what a miserable thing life is.

Ellesmere. Come and find out your nursery-tea: a great and wise institution this, of nursery-tea! Do I not see Mrs. Milverton at the window, making imperious gestures to us, signifying that the tea is getting cold? When shall I ever make these men, wise men?—more like myself, and more willing to take life comfortably, instead of interchanging their respective drearinesses, and making melancholy out of anecdotes which are really pleasant and encouraging. Come along!

Ellesmere. Oh! I am so glad to see you all again!

Lady Ellesmere. Why? What? Has anything happened? Have you met with any accident, John?

Ellesmere. Don’t be so fussy, my dear. If anything had happened, if I had tumbled down a precipice, it would be a mark of ill-breeding to make a fuss about it, especially at breakfast. But here I am, safe and sound; and as for His Vastness (Sir John often called Mr. Mauleverer “His Vastness,” or “His Amplitude”), he is about half a mile away, at the bottom of the hill. I ran off, saying I wished to warm myself, but in reality to make my escape from him. He has been awful this morning. What a clever man he is, though!

You see the kind of day it is—not superabundantly cheerful. Well, we went to walk under “the beeches.” I am not a man particularly subject to mournful fancies; but if ever they succeed in oppressing me, it is when I am walking upon damp, rotting, autumn leaves. There is a passage in Alfred de Vigny’s celebrated novel of “Cinq-Mars,” in which, previously to the hero’s downfall, the royal cavalcade of heavy carriages goes crunching through the dead leaves of the forest, on just such a day as this, and everybody feels a foreshadowing of some calamity. That passage made a great impression upon me when I was a boy. Mauleverer saw that I had not my usual life and spirits this morning, and shamefully abused his opportunity. Of course he 177preached upon his never-failing text, the misery of human life.

He told me that fees were a mistake. I did not see that, looking at the question from a recipient’s point of view.

He told me that Lady Ellesmere was more of a plague than a pleasure. That I denied, maintaining that in this particular case the plague and the pleasure were about equally balanced.

Lady Ellesmere. Thank you, John, for your noble defence of your poor wife.

Ellesmere. He then mentioned that virtue was dull, and vice despicable, disgusting, and dyspeptic. You must have noticed how fond he is of alliteration. Meanwhile I kept singing a song of Beranger’s—

But nothing would stop him.

Lady Ellesmere. John singing! Ye Powers of Time and Tune, what ye endure!

If he should have the misfortune to survive me, instead of the usual things that men say in epitaphs of their dear wives, he need only inscribe this line—

And, indeed, I rather like it, for, though it is murderous in the way of music, John is always in an especial good humour when he sings, as he calls it; but the autumn leaves and Mr. Mauleverer were evidently too much for him this morning.

Ellesmere. You are very witty; but you waste precious time, my dear. I have lots to tell you before he comes.

Well, then, he deviated into a discussion about the minor miseries of human life, and here he made a simile which I think you will say is one of the strangest you ever heard. 178He compared these miseries to the crumbs in the bed of a sick man, who is too ill to rise for his meals. The poor wretch, he said, does what he can to brush them away; thinks, after great labour, and many painful twistings and turnings, for he can hardly move, that he has accomplished it; but when he settles down once more, he is sure to find some of those detestable crumbs molesting him again, and he never gets rid of them till he is taken out of bed—perhaps for the last time. It is one of the homeliest of similes; possibly the homeliest that was ever made; but it is really a very tolerable one, and it certainly cannot be said to be far-fetched.

You should have heard him dilate upon it in his grandiloquent way. “The man who lives but on applause finds ever, in his hard couch, the crumbs of an unsatisfied vanity molesting him. The jealous, sensitive man may brush away at these unpleasant fragments ever so diligently, but some of them (the hard little daily annoyances caused by an over-craving affection, or by a nature ‘misunderstood,’ as he is pleased to called it) remain to plague him. And to every man these relics of his incomplete and misspent life return to torment him, let him be nursed ever so sedulously.” Now, did you ever hear such a simile as that? Sometimes, of course, one did not make out which were the physical, and which the metaphysical, crumbs; but that sort of confusion is indulged in by all simile-mongers.

Sir Arthur. I should have thought, Sir John, that you would not have―⁠―

Ellesmere. Yes, I know; you think, because you see me now so boisterously well, that I am never ill, and cannot appreciate this crumb-misery; but I suffer from a fit of sciatica about once every other year. The domestic persecution I undergo on those occasions!—but there is no time to tell you about that now. I have a good deal more to say: and His Vastness, though he moves but slowly, never stops, if you observe. “He will be here anon,” as they say in plays.

Now I have something very serious to tell you. You would all be utterly oppressed by that stout gentleman—I know you would—if it were not for me. The women would 179go over to his side at once. They like a melancholy man; and then he is so charmingly polite. Sandy, too, would go over to his side: the Scotch have rather a turn for melancholy. As for Cranmer, His Amplitude would soon win him. He would do it by simple syllogism. Thus—

All men who do not pay their taxes cheerfully are wicked and miserable;

Nobody does pay his taxes cheerfully;

Therefore, everybody is wicked and miserable.

Cranmer could not resist that piece of close reasoning; and would go over to the other side of the House—that is, to the side of dumps and dolorousness.

I believe if I were to go away for three days, and come back again here, this is the state of things I should come upon. I should find Mauleverer at dinner alone. I should ask for the rest of you. With a smile of serene satisfaction, he would conduct me to the trees which are your especial favourites in the garden, and there I should find each of you pendent from your favourite tree. I can see the air of polite contempt with which, having persuaded you to get safely away from the miseries of life by hanging yourselves, he would offer you your choice of a tree. His contempt would be for human beings having any likings or dislikings in such an insignificant matter as hanging themselves.

Mark you, he is the soul of honour. Without joking, there is a touch of real grandeur in that man’s character, and I am beginning to like him very much. But he is the dreariest mortal that ever lived. I’ll bet that the story of his life, if we could ever worm it out of him, is very remarkable.

Well, as I was saying, he is the soul of honour; and he would not have persuaded you to do a thing which he would not do himself. He also would have been an interesting pendent from a tree; but is there any branch of any tree in Hampshire that could sustain his weight? Of course he would have come to the ground at once, only half-hanged. Then he would think that he would have one more dinner—a dinner that he could order for himself without Mrs. Milverton’s well-meant but half-instructed interference; and there I should find him enjoying one 180of his favourite dishes, at the production of which he would have assisted.

But stay, one thing I have forgotten. I have shown how he would win over the ladies, and Cranmer, and Sandy, but there still remain Sir Arthur and Milverton. They would make something of a fight. But they have no sound basis of animal spirits to go upon; and melancholy, steadily applied, conquers everything but animal spirits. I am the only pièce de resistance, to use one of his own favourite phrases, which would not be devoured by him. Take care of me—I am your safeguard against him. He is in immense force to-day. I am sure something very unfortunate for the human race must have happened somewhere, and that he has a mesmeric consciousness of it. But hush! Don’t you perceive the room shake a little? His Ponderosity has entered the hall, and here he comes.

Mauleverer. I am sorry, Mrs. Milverton, to be so late.

Mrs. Milverton. I have kept these warm for you at the fire, Mr. Mauleverer.

Lady Ellesmere. And so, Mr. Mauleverer, you have been telling my husband that I am more of a plague than a pleasure to him.

Mauleverer. I, Lady Ellesmere? I never said anything of the kind. Something, I believe, I did say about women in general; but every woman I know is an especial exception to the rule I laid down. How can you be so treacherous, Sir John, as to repeat sayings intended only for your own discreet ears?

Sir Arthur. Do not ask Mauleverer any more questions, Lady Ellesmere. Do let the poor man have his breakfast in peace.

I want to ask Ellesmere something about his illnesses. I cannot picture him to myself as a sick man.

Lady Ellesmere. He will tell terrible things about me, I know.

Ellesmere. There I am, in bed, unable to move, and Lady Ellesmere comes and talks to me in this fashion by way of comforting me. “I told you it would be so, John; 181you never take an umbrella, never change your damp boots, you will always walk home from the House, and you would go out to dinner the day before yesterday with that under-secretary, who gives such exquisite dinners that you are dissatisfied with mine for a month afterwards; and this is the result.” Now I call that comforting. There is a consoler for you.

Milverton. Of course, Mildred, I don’t believe one tithe of what he says. I have no doubt you are an excellent nurse; but that kind of talk which he describes is much affected by our nurses, and certainly it is not very consolatory.

I have often wondered that there is not, in any language that I know of, an especial word to designate the person who always goes back from the present to dwell upon the mistakes and errors of the past. We have not even any great personage in history or fiction to whom we can compare such a person. Now, when we want to describe a person who is always prophesying evil, we liken him, or her, to Cassandra; but when we want to describe the other thing, namely, the person who always goes back to the evil of the past, saying this was wrong, and that was mistaken, and that everything would have been very different if everybody had acted differently, and had foreseen the event, we have nobody to whom to liken him. I suppose, mathematically speaking, we must say Cassandra with a minus sign.

Sir Arthur. Well done, Milverton! You have really pointed out a great want in language. Suppose we call him a “backwardiser,” and the process “backwardising?”

Ellesmere. These are not very pretty words, Sir Arthur. I would rather say an “afterteller” and “aftertelling,” just as we say foreteller and foretelling. But I was going to discourse to you more about illness—I think I know a great deal about it, and what I can say would be worth a Jew’s ransom if people would only attend to it.

You hear of people dying of this disease, or of that disease, but what they really do die of is of questions. I believe I have a pretty strong will—some people would say it amounts to wilfulness; but when I am unwell I lose all strength of will, and cannot bear to be bothered with 182questions. “Will you have your gruel made of grits or barley? Will you have your vapor bath now? When will you take your medicine?” These weighty questions—and they are weighty to the poor sick man—thoroughly overcome me.

Now I am quite serious. An invalid ought to be treated mentally and morally as he is physically; namely, with gentleness, yet with perfect firmness. Don’t give him any choice about anything: don’t burden his mind with decision: remove from him all responsibility, which is so fatiguing a thing. I have no doubt that the excellent Miss Nightingale has said all this in her way, but I venture to say it in mine. A person in health can hardly have a conception of the helpless irritability of a real invalid. The most difficult case does not disturb my equanimity when I am well; but when I am ill, the question of grits or barley is an overpowering one, and raises the pulse seven beats at least.

Lady Ellesmere. You may imagine what a monster of impatience he must be when he is ill.

Sir Arthur. His words, though, are the words of wisdom, Lady Ellesmere. I have no doubt that a judicious moral treatment of the sick has saved many a life.

Sir Arthur. Some time ago I went into a part of the country which is celebrated for its romantic scenery. Our friend J―⁠―,—whom we used to know and to like at college, Milverton,—invited me to his place, and I accepted the invitation. The morning after I arrived at his house I felt very unwell. Now the first thing when you are unwell is to get a fire made in your room. I rang the bell early: it was answered by a rather clownish, but not unintelligent-looking young fellow.

“Light me a fire, please.”

“A fire?” said he, and looked despondingly at me, and then at the fireplace.

“Yes; I must have a fire: I don’t feel well.”

Then he set to work to light the fire, taking great pains with his work.

In a few moments the fire began to smoke furiously.

185I jumped up in bed, and remarked, not in the mildest terms, “that it smoked.”

“Yes, I knowed she ’ud: she almost allus does. She’s smoked this twenty year, as I’ve heerd say.”

The door was put open; but “she” was one of those vicious chimneys which do not care a bit whether doors are open or not.

“Have you got such a thing as a pair of bellows?”

“No, we han’t got such a thing as bellusses.” And then the good-natured youth lay down on the floor, and performed the part of a bellows with a goodwill and a vigour that it was astonishing to behold.

By the way, I may remark that our friend J―⁠― is not a poor man. He has a magnificent collection of gems and medals; and household gods of every variety of strange hideousness adorned every disposable corner of his dwelling. I really mean “household gods”—Roman, Chinese, Peruvian, Mexican, Japanese. These quaint little monsters (J―⁠― has no children) were doted upon by himself and Mrs. J―⁠―.

The boy went on puffing and blowing.

“Goethe was quite wrong,” I remarked, thinking aloud for myself.

“Were he, sir? I dare say he were,” replied the youth, looking up for a moment. “Master’s allus complaining of them people at the Bald-faced Stag.” This was the inn I had taken horses from to come on to J―⁠―’s.

“Yes,” I continued; “he said, ‘Always take care of the Beautiful, for the Useful will take care of itself.’ I would say, ‘Always take care of the Useful; for the Beautiful will take care of itself.’”

Mauleverer. And it does not much matter whether it does or not.

Sir Arthur. And the youth said, “Eh, dear, the gentleman didn’t know no better, I suppose.” But whether my puffing friend understood the question, and really sided with me, or whether he agreed with me from complaisance, I am to this day in doubt.

Milverton. Goethe is as right as possible.

Ellesmere. Sir Arthur is certainly very unjust in this 186instance. It is not the Beautiful but the Curious and the Grotesque that J―⁠― cared for.

Milverton. Of course.

Ellesmere. And Sir Arthur’s error was in visiting a collector. Collectors are a race of men by themselves. They are the most dangerous form of misers—I mean dangerous to live with. They are very useful fellows, I admit. But my reply to any invitation on their part would run as follows:—“Sir John Ellesmere presents his compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Collector, and regrets that a previous engagement prevents his having the pleasure of accepting their kind invitation.”

Mauleverer. You have both set upon Sir Arthur, and have treated him very hardly, I think. His remark was one of general application; and, just because he happened to mention that this J―⁠― was a collector of little household monsters, you have directed your attack upon this point—ignoring the fact, as I say, that Sir Arthur’s remark was of a most general character. I think the story a very valuable one. Bellows absent, gems present; smoky chimney suffered to exist; comfort of guests utterly neglected, but “household gods” affronting you everywhere. That is the way to put it.

Ellesmere. I maintain that the great duty of a host is not to be a bore, and not to show people anything which he may fancy they might like to see. Indeed I have come to the conclusion that the host, to be a perfect host, should be blind and a cripple—I even think it would be better that this perfect host should have an impediment in his speech, and be slightly paralytic.

Ellesmere. Oh! you think me a monster!

We are all to tell our sad experiences of what is fondly called hospitality; so hear one of mine.

I was once invited by a host whom I thought to be perfection. He was very learned: he was very witty: he was partially blind: and always either in a fit of the gout, or threatened with a fit of it. “Here is the man for me,” 187I said. “I will accept his invitation. We shall only see him at dinner, when he will be most agreeable.” I went to his house. The next morning after my arrival, to my utter amazement, he ordered horses for all of us, and took us to see some drainage works on his estate. There were 27 degrees of frost that day. As we sat on our horses, surveying the common process of draining,—about which I thought I knew something, and did not want to know any more,—we were nearly statuefied. As the old women say, you might have knocked me down with a feather; for hands, arms, feet, and legs were entirely without life. As we rode back, I could not help saying, “My dear sir, don’t take me indoors, I am entirely frozen; just throw me into your ice-house. I shall be very useful there next June.” I don’t believe he felt the reproof.

Now look at Milverton: perhaps he is the best host in this kingdom. I have never met with his equal. He complains of fatigue if he walks with you more than 200 yards: he is ever anxious to be back at his work again; he will “almost allus” leave you alone, if you will leave him alone. Considered as a host, he is a beautiful creature—unrivalled. But I would not trust even him.

I maintain my first proposition, that a man to be a perfect host should have nothing to show you, or, if he has, he should be too ill to be able to show it.

Sir Arthur. What an awful thing it would be to behold the conflagration of a star! Such a thing has occurred recently, has it not, Mauleverer?

Mr. Mauleverer. Yes.

Milverton. There are two things that appal me whenever I consider them. One is, the immense amount of complicated misery which any one human soul can endure without going mad.

Ellesmere. And the second is?

Milverton. The idea of illimitable space that is to be derived from the contemplation of these innumerable worlds around us.

I don’t know whether you remember a theory I once propounded to some of you, that the stars are as close to one another (relatively speaking) as the ultimate atoms of the wood in this boat; and that to the vision that could embrace such a scene, the heavenly bodies would appear to be solid bodies, or, perhaps, one solid body.

Ellesmere. That is an idea in respect to which I would rather not pledge myself to say anything.

Milverton. Well, then, I imagine that all matter is in motion; that the motion is analogous to that of the heavenly bodies; and that chemical combination is merely a disturbance and re-formation of the orbits of the ultimate atoms of matter.

Mauleverer. In fact, that all chemistry is but astronomy?

Ellesmere. I hope your theories may be true for this reason: that we should then only have to learn one science instead of two, which would be a great convenience to half-educated persons, such as I am.

Sir Arthur. I like to dwell upon the moral aspect of such a scene as this. The contemplation of these innumerable worlds really ought to make us a little less fussy and tiresome about our own small affairs.

If I had to comfort a disappointed man, or to soothe an 189angry man, or to console a bereaved man, I should like to have him in the open air to talk to, on a starry moonlit night.

I think I should have far more chance of prevailing with him if I could direct his attention occasionally to the stars. I wonder more use has not been made of this situation in the drama, and in fiction generally.

Ellesmere. Well, you see, in these northern climes, when one has any great business to transact,—a murder to plan, a ministry to upset, a rival in love to circumvent, a large sum of money to get,—one likes to be in a comfortable, warm room, if possible with a fire, and not to be amongst gnats and insects, (how they do plague one now!) staring up at these heavenly bodies about which we know next to nothing, and the contemplation of which does not make us practical and business-like.

Mr. Mauleverer. As we drove down here, we passed the telegraph wires. I saw a sparrow comfortably perched upon one of these wires; and I said to myself, “As much as that sparrow knows of the urgent haste, and the sorrow, and the suffering which are expressed in the messages that are passing under its claws, which do not perceive the slightest tremulousness as the messages speed on, so much does the poor human being know of what is being transacted in this universe, and of what it all means.” And while I was thinking this thought, Mr. Sparrow chirped an affectionate little chirp, and Mrs. Sparrow came and perched beside him; and they doubtless thought that they were the masters of the situation, and the lord and lady of the whole scene.

Ellesmere. Just as Mrs. Milverton believes that the wild theories that Milverton has just put forward, are in exact accordance with scientific truth and wisdom.

It would be an amusing thing (if one dared to think of amusement in a future state) to imagine how most of the greatest thinkers will prove to have been utterly wrong.

But let us quit these dangerous themes for those which are humbler and safer.

You said some time ago, Sir Arthur, that stars have not been made enough use of in the drama and in fiction generally. Have you ever read Alexander Smith’s works? They 190are really very good, and he makes immense use of the stars. But there is an obscure author, a friend of mine, who is also very fond of making good use of the sun and the stars.

The next thing to being a poet is being a person who can remember poetry; and I am not sure but that the man who takes the trouble to learn by heart large quantities of poetry has not a more poetical soul in him than the poet.

I know it is so in the present case.

Milverton. Ellesmere’s memory for poetry is extraordinary. He can quote you 70 lines at a time from Pope or Dryden.

Sir Arthur. Nothing would be more appropriate, Sir John, than that, amidst this beautiful scene, you should quote poetry largely to us. We are coming near the swans’ nest too, which would make such quotation more suitable.

Ellesmere. Well, it is from a drama that I am going to quote. There are two lovers (of course there are. When shall we ever have a good story without these tiresome lovers?). The hero tells of his travels: he comes to the South:—

Then he describes a thing I once saw myself somewhere on the Mediterranean, a part of the shore where the sand is wholly black:—

Then, of course, the lady says:—

Then comes the starry bit, for the gentleman exclaims:—

Then he gives a description of the ruins of some provincial amphitheatre, saying that of all he saw, that was the thing which haunted his memory most closely:—

Then there is a description of some of the arrangements for the spectators, especially for the ladies:—

Then I suppose there is some stupid love-making; but I forget. At any rate the gentleman resolves to go on with his story, and he does so in these words:—

I suppose it is Verona that the dramatist alludes to, where you see a modern boarded theatre occupying some portion of the old amphitheatre.

By the way, when I saw Verona, I was in company with another friend of mine, named Leonard Milverton, and I never saw a man so entranced with a picture as he was with one of those said “daubs.” You could not arouse him from his contemplation of it. Now I could always get him away from a Titian. I so soon become tired of pictures. That reminds me of an omission in our talk about hospitality. Should it not be set down as one of the greatest breaches of hospitality when a man will show you his pictures? And there are fiend-like hosts who absolutely insist upon showing you books of prints, and making you go right through them; but such men never have my company more than once.

Well, but I left Milverton contemplating this daub. You never saw a man so fascinated by a work of art. So, quoth I, “What can you see in that thing, Milverton? It is only a magnified representation of the pictures ‘fast’ men at college in our time (I suppose there are no such things now) used to have in their rooms of favourite dancers.”

“No,” he said, grasping my arm, and looking at me with a fierce seriousness, “it is perhaps the greatest stride that Christianity has ever made—from gladiators to dancing maidens.”

193Let me give you another passage from my drama; it is my favourite, and it will delight Mauleverer. In fact, I think he will send a 10l. note anonymously to the author, as a proof of his entire satisfaction. I think he will give me what the vulgar call a “fiver,” for having quoted it. This is the passage:—

Then he dilates upon the horrors that have been perpetrated on this earth.

Not bad lines, are they, Mrs. Milverton?

Mrs. Milverton. I think they are beautiful, Sir John.

Sir Arthur (who had evidently an inkling of the authorship). They certainly are, Mrs. Milverton. Where is this poem to be found?

Ellesmere. Trunks or butter, Sir Arthur. The linings of old trunks, or the wrappages of butter, are to be examined carefully if you would recover this charming work.

Milverton. My dear John, you must have had a great liking for the author, or you never would have cumbered your memory to such an extent with his rubbish.

Ellesmere. Well, honestly, I did not think it was rubbish, though it was written by a friend. (Here Ellesmere put his 194hand for a moment on Milverton’s; and I certainly never saw Mr. Milverton look more pleased.) Moreover, the tyrant of an author laid hold of me, and made me copy out some of the drama for the printers; and that is how I came to know so much of it by heart.

How about the ten pounds, Mauleverer, which you were to send to the poor author?

Mauleverer. You do not quite understand me, any of you. I am not disposed to indulge in the munificence which Sir John has kindly suggested for me, and I shall not send that anonymous author ten pounds, or give Ellesmere five, because the author merely dwells upon cruelties and horrors of all kinds committed by men, whereas I should have liked him to have dwelt upon their littleness and their baseness.

Ellesmere. My dear Mauleverer, do you really think that a poem should be something like the proceedings of the Central Criminal Court?

Sir Arthur. Mauleverer thinks that poetic description ennobles, and so disguises, human suffering.

Cranmer. Prose is the proper thing. There is nothing of any importance that can be described adequately, except in prose.

Ellesmere. A noble sentiment!

Mauleverer. I am very much obliged to Sir Arthur for explaining what he thinks I mean; but I decline to accept my kind commentator’s version of my meaning.

The poet, as quoted by Ellesmere, has just told his story to show the sufferings of mankind. I could tell you one to show its ineradicable baseness. You think that you learned and imaginative men, Sir Arthur, are the only persons whose nymphs inform them of strange stories; but I have my story, too.

Ellesmere. Pray let us have it. Do not be modest, Mauleverer: modesty would not sit well upon you.

Mauleverer. Well, then, you shall have it.

To a planet, not very far from us, but which I shall not mention, because one ought to be confidential as regards the doings in neighbouring planets, the souls of capitalists, men of business, and well-to-do people are transferred. 195Now the law in this planet is that these people shall be endowed with certain portions of their dear money, according to the use, judicious or injudicious, which they have made of it in this world. The form of the endowment is this—

They all have to pass, one by one, in front of a colossal statue. It would tax the utmost powers of any mortal to describe this statue. I have ever loved statues beyond all other works of art, and therefore may be permitted to attempt a description of it. There have been great statues made even in this world. Who has not heard and thought of the magnificent Memnon with his unseen lyre trembling into music at the rising of the sun? Who, that has seen it, has not been awed by the Sphinx, cruellest of maidens, daughter of Chimæra, propounding riddles harder to understand than her own mixed nature of lioness and woman? Need I dwell upon the god-like grandeur of Michael Angelo’s Jupiter? And, to come down to the statues of ordinary life; who that at night, alone, has paced up and down long galleries enriched with statues, has not felt that these statues have spoken awful words to his soul? Perhaps there has been a row of mighty wicked Roman emperors; and Neros, Caligulas, and Domitians have frankly acknowledged their colossal wickednesses to the horror-stricken mortal contemplating them.

But all these, the works of men, sink into insignificance when compared with the statue which, with humility and fear, I venture to describe.

It was golden: not that it was of gold, but that it produced in your mind the idea of gold. Its robes were of jasper, onyx, and opal: not that these earthly materials were there, but that it produced the ideas of them in your mind. But the transcendent quality about this statue was this—that you were fully conscious that it was alive, and yet that it was a statue. Its face was downcast; its attitude bending: it held its clasped hands in front of it, the elbows resting on its curule chair. Not anger nor pity, nor joy, nor sorrow, was imprinted on its countenance, but only intense thought. It did not give you the idea of a Being petrified into a statue, nor as if any hands had wrought at it and 196fashioned it. It seemed as if only supreme thought and judgment had taken form.

One by one those who had been mortal defiled before it, and its ministers awarded gifts according to the dread thoughts of the Statue, which they alone could interpret. I need hardly say how different its judgments were from those which Fortune had pronounced in this world. The struggling man who had hardly known how to keep soul and body together here, but who had a great heart that might be trusted, found himself, to use a French phrase, “at the head of” large revenues; while he who had been a millionaire here, found himself condemned to live upon the merest pittance. Not that it was always so, for envy had dwarfed the just receptiveness of some poor men for money, while there were men who had been rich in this world, and remained rich in my planet too, because they had been great in soul, as well as abounding in substance.

The curious thing was that all went away, if not satisfied, at least unmurmuring, and supremely convinced of the absolute justice of the Statue’s awards. I noticed one man who had possessed three millions of money while he was on earth, of which sum it could not be said he had used one hundred wisely or usefully, and he went away, not joyfully, but unmurmuringly, when he was awarded by the ministers of the Statue one ducat per week.

But now comes the strangest thing. I could not help watching this man, whom I had known in life, to ascertain what would be his social state in his new sphere. Strange to say, other men were willing to partake their fortunes with him, though there were many more deserving than he. But men liked to be seen walking and talking with this man, for they said, “He was once so rich—so very rich—in the other world; and it is still a credit and an honour to be acquainted with him.” Such is the ineffable, ineradicable baseness of mankind.

Ellesmere. Has not the air suddenly become chilly, or is it that Mauleverer talks chilliness into our blood?

It does not seem to have entered into Mauleverer’s head that man might naturally feel some pity for this quondam rich man; but, upon the whole, the story has a very pretty 197moral to it—very superior, Sir Arthur, to what can be found in Milverton’s fables or mine, or even in yours.

Ellesmere. I must at all hazards interrupt: Milverton once quoted those lines before; and, after long and anxious consultation with Ainsworth’s Latin Dictionary, I furnished a translation which has been much admired by great scholars:—

“Whether she wears a bonnet that is like a coal-scuttle; or whether she claps on a little platter that is attached to the back of her head: whether, gracefully, she trails after her in the muddy streets an ample sweep of flowing drapery; or whether, succinct and neat, she trips along in Bloomer costume: whether she allows her beautiful hair to fall in corkscrew ringlets round her enchanting face; or whether she throws it all back, and, with the aid of alien hair, forms a huge and overweighting lump behind:—she is equally fascinating, equally tiresome, and equally disposed to look in at all the haberdashers’ shops.”

Mauleverer. This is as it should be. Some truth is told us here, or at least some portion of truth. Men, as Milverton well says, make their highest and best exertions simply to escape from themselves.

226Milverton. I really do not think I said that.

Mauleverer. Well, you implied as much; but I go much further, and I say that when you see a man do anything very splendid you may look upon it as the result of disease, acted upon, and brought into full play, by unfortunate circumstances.

There is not a person here present, except perhaps Mrs. Milverton and myself, who is not a victim to some of the especial diseases which make men famous.

I am afraid I cannot even make an exception for Mrs. Milverton. She cares too much to please people’s tastes, and to make them comfortable. I could see how vexed you were yesterday at dinner, Mrs. Milverton, at the hare being overdone. By the way, I must impress upon you once for all, that if you will have a hare for dinner, you must take care that one person’s mind is solely devoted to the dressing of it. No person is skilful enough, or watchful enough, to dress a hare and attend to other things.

Ellesmere. For goodness’ sake, stop this man! Milverton upon the subject of war, Mauleverer upon cookery, Cranmer upon finance, Johnson upon the merits of the Scotch, are public nuisances. I must call you back to the subject, which is very interesting. What is the nature of my disease?

Mauleverer. You have two of the worst diseases known—restlessness and argumentativeness. Those two diseases brought into full action by unfortunate circumstances have made you the distinguished lawyer that you are.

Sir Arthur. What is the matter with me, Mauleverer?

Mauleverer. Oh, you labour under a horrible disease, Sir Arthur. When I think of what you might have been, I feel the tenderest pity for you. You might have been a quiet, comfortable English gentleman devoted to yachting. And then to think of what you are, a great author and a distinguished politician!

Cranmer. But his disease—tell us what that is. Something horrible, you say.

Mauleverer. Yes; Sir Arthur is a man full of imagination, before whose mind there come all manner of beautiful ideas and fancies. He can’t leave them alone, or enjoy 227them quietly by himself, but must put them into form. This passion for form is his disease.

Milverton. And mine?

Mauleverer. Yours is lamentable, deplorable; you are victimized by pity. You look around you, and see hundreds of things that might be improved, and you fondly think that it is your business to set to work and improve them. A more fatal disease cannot well be imagined. You must be an unhappy man, and yet you might have been so happy if you had attended only to metaphysics, and immersed your mind in the doctrine of “contradictory inconceivables.”

Mr. Cranmer. And what is my disease?

Mauleverer. The dot-and-carry-one disease. A painful love of accuracy, and a joy in doing long sums, possess your mind; and these disorders you carry into public life.

But when I say all these things you must understand that they are a mere playful way of putting it. I mean something much more serious.

Ellesmere. Mauleverer playful! A hippopotamus festive! Did I not tell you all that he would be dreadful to-day?

Mauleverer. No; but what I really mean is, that there is in each of you too much, or too little, of some important component of the human body, and that this excess or deficiency is the source of disease. There are too many, or too few, carbonates, or sulphates, or sulphites, or sulphides, or some of these chemical things. Now, in poor Ellesmere, for instance―⁠―

Ellesmere. Don’t “poor” me, sir. Nobody ever “poored” me before. It’s actionable.

Mauleverer. I will run the risk of damages. In poor Ellesmere, for instance, there is evidently too much phosphorus. Little as I know of chemistry, I know that. Hence the superabundance of excitability.

Ellesmere. I never wished so much to be a chemist as I do now. What are the component parts of adiposeness? Will anybody tell me?

228Sir Arthur. I say, Mauleverer, this is really taking too material and physical a view.

Mauleverer. I cannot help it. That is what it seems to me. All greatness, I repeat, is but disease developed by unfortunate circumstances.

Consider what pre-eminence is amongst mortals. It is generally success in a particular thing, occasioned by the development of the man’s character and powers in one direction, to the great detriment of the man taken as a whole. Now, again, let us take Ellesmere for an instance.

Ellesmere. The malice of this man is inconceivable. Why can’t you take some one else as an example? Take Sandy—he is not married. Lady Ellesmere will never cease quoting the things you say against me.

Mauleverer. Now, take Ellesmere, for instance. The unfortunate circumstances of his being bred to the Bar, acting upon his phosphoric restlessness, has developed his powers of objectiveness to the uttermost. He is always ready with some point to be taken against you, whatever you may say. How far this prevents his taking a large and just view of any question it is not for me to determine. You all know the kind of little dog which lives at a suburban villa, and scutters out, as hard as its little fat legs can carry it, to bark madly at every in-comer, and even at every passer-by. It makes no distinction between the good dogs’ meat man, who brings it its own food, and the prowling area sneak. The barking powers of that dog I admit: its judgment I deny; and it does occur to me that its barking powers have been developed at the expense of its judgment. I can say no more—that’s my poor view of the case.

Ellesmere. For goodness’ sake, let us have some more reading. Our characters are slipping away from us under this man’s cold, calm, cruel scrutiny. I have always heard it observed that very stout gentlemen are, as a rule, much better fellows than men of an ordinary size; but that when they are ill-natured, they are far worse than the leanest of men. The reason is that they are so far advanced in wickedness that they have come to take a pleasure in malignity. It agrees with them: they grow fat upon it. The lean and hungry Cassius is a pleasant fellow compared 229with Mauleverer. I shall go. Call me back, Sandy, when the conversation returns to a proper state, and Mauleverer is either silent or polite.

Mauleverer. Forgive me, Lady Ellesmere, but Sir John does sometimes require a little putting down, and you are all too much afraid of him to do it. The unpleasant task, therefore, remains with me.

Lady Ellesmere (who did not look very much pleased). When John is talking seriously, I believe there is no one who takes a larger and a broader view of his subject.

I have heard that the late Lord Chancellor used to say―⁠―

Mauleverer (taking Lady Ellesmere’s hand in his). Yes, my dear, yes; we all know what a clever fellow your Sir John is; but a little attack upon him will do him no harm. Do you think I didn’t know by intuition what fun he was making of me this morning when I was toiling up that hill, and that he ran off on purpose to do so? Never fear, Lady Ellesmere; he will come back soon, and be more brilliant than ever.

Cranmer. There is a great deal of truth in what Mauleverer says. Sir John is always down upon one in a moment with an objection, sometimes before one has time to explain oneself.

Lady Ellesmere. He keeps you all to the point. I am sure that John is really one of the most tolerant of men.

Ellesmere (who had entered while she was speaking). That’s right, my dear, always stick up for your husband, especially when he is in the wrong. So you have all, except my wife and Fairy, been talking against me during 230my absence; but, as the heavy villain at the Surrey Theatre would say, “I will a-a-have my r-r-r-revenge.”

Mrs. Milverton. I wish to make a remark.

Ellesmere. After Cranmer’s celebrated remark, which lasted three-quarters of an hour, we all adopt this form, and say, “I wish to make a remark.”

Mrs. Milverton. I am very much displeased with all of you. You have been discussing nothing but characters and chemistry, and have been talking in the most cold-blooded and heartless manner about all manner of things, and not one of you has said a word about the death of the Ainah. I had read it all before, and I am not ashamed to say that I had a good cry over her death. I cannot think how Leonard could have been so cruel as to kill her so soon.

Milverton. My dear, I cried too—as much as men ever cry; but it could not be helped. The fact stared me in the face, for it was a fact to me; and I was obliged to tell the story as it happened.

Sir Arthur. I do think, Milverton, you might have let her live a little longer.

Ellesmere. I repent me bitterly of all the jokes I ever ventured to make about her.

Sir Arthur. Nobody can accuse me of being too much given to moralizing; but I must draw forth a moral now. Ellesmere is sorry now, he says—now that the Ainah is dead—that he said anything against her, even in jest:—

I have no doubt that Realmah thought with remorse how little he had appreciated the poor Ainah, even when he had appreciated her the most.

Ellesmere. I always rather liked the girl; but, of course, when I made that remark―⁠―

Sir Arthur. Now don’t explain away what you said, Ellesmere. It may be absurd to feel in that way about a 231character in a story; but, for the moment, you really did feel what you said.

Ellesmere. Well, upon my word, I really think I did.

Sir Arthur. I need not work out my moral, but may just venture to remark that real, living people have their feelings too; and if we were sometimes to think how soon they would die—even the halest of them—that thought might restrain us from many a depreciating remark.

Mrs. Milverton. Ah, indeed it might, Sir Arthur.

Lady Ellesmere. Yes, John. Listen to Sir Arthur, and become a more kind and considerate person.

Ellesmere. It is all very well talking, but people in books do not tread upon our toes, whereas real flesh-and-blood people sometimes do, and that rather heavily.

Milverton. But you see, Ellesmere, they too might draw the moral, and not tread upon your toes quite so heavily, reflecting that, after all, even great lawyers―⁠―

Mauleverer. Though the toughest of human species.

Milverton. —do eventually take their departure from this vale of tears and trouble. By the way, why should we always make it a vale of tears? Are there no sorrows on the hill-tops?

Sir Arthur. Ruskin, in his eloquent way, would show you that there really is less sorrow on the hill-tops, and that mountaineers, living in closer amity with nature, are better and heartier people than the money-making inhabitants of valleys.

Cranmer. The way in which you have been talking about imaginary people is to me astonishing.

Sir Arthur. You cannot ignore facts, Cranmer; indeed you love them too much to do so. I maintain that most people’s minds are fully as much filled with thoughts and feelings respecting persons in fiction as they are about persons in real life.

Mauleverer. Perhaps so: especially if you add the personages in history to the personages in fiction.

Ellesmere. That is where Cranmer has such an advantage over us, and is able to do his sums without any foolish interruption.

Di Vernon (to me far the most loveable of all Scott’s 232heroines), and Mignon, and Margaret in “Faust,” and Beatrice, and Laura, and Mary Queen of Scots, and Medea, and Medora, and Rosalind, and Helen, and Cleopatra, and dozens of other fair women, never disturb the equal current of his thoughts.

Upon my word, I do not know whether it would not be a good thing to banish them all. Good heroes and heroines are an especial nuisance. They are apt to make us discontented with ordinary mortals. I dare say though, the Ainah, poor dear, was peevish sometimes, and allowed her superiority to the other two to be plainly perceived, at least by Realmah, and that sometimes she was even intolerant of him. But I am very sorry she is gone.

Sir Arthur. You seem to forget, Ellesmere, that the portraying of these heroes and heroines makes people strive to become like them, and so tends to improve the world.

Ellesmere. So it may; but I think this does not compensate for the mischief of setting up a high ideal.

Milverton. I do not agree with you, and would venture to contend that no writer has been able to depict people so good as good people really are, for the truth is no writer’s canvas is large enough to do so. It is in length of patience, and endurance, and forbearance, that so much of what is good in mankind and womankind is shown; and you (the writer) have neither time nor space enough to show forth those high qualities as they are shown in life.

Mr. Cranmer. I wonder what is to become of Realmah now? We have seen him as a lover, and as an inventor; I suppose he is to rise into some higher sphere.

Ellesmere. Cranmer thinks he will become a man of business, the highest form of which human nature is capable.

Mauleverer. You see in this story what you see in most stories that are truly told—what a mistake it is to love anybody very much.

Lady Ellesmere. I do not see anything of the kind, Mr. Mauleverer. I would a thousand times rather be Realmah now, than Realmah before he made his escape from Abinamanche, and when he did not know that the Ainah loved him.

Sir Arthur. You were not really angry, Ellesmere, were you, when you left the room?

Ellesmere. Not I. Do you think anything which that fat man could say to me would disturb my peace of mind? But he is right in what he says about my phosphoric restlessness. We had had a long reading, and a very long conversation, and I was scheming how to get a little change, and a little fresh air under the stars; so, from the moment he began to attack me, I began to prepare to get into a huff, and to make my escape for a few minutes, which I think I accomplished rather neatly. Our serious Falstaff thinks he has crushed, smashed, and pounded me to atoms. Depend upon it, he has gone to bed to-night much happier than he has for many of the preceding nights, and that he has acknowledged that the world is not so wretched a place as he supposed it to be. There is some pleasure in crushing Ellesmere. I thought the likeness he was pleased to discover between my poor self and a yappetting suburban poodle was not bad at all. I do not think I shall ever do any great good in the world, except in opposing, and, if I may presume to say so, curbing men like you and Milverton, and so keeping you within bounds.

When I am here I always take up that objective line, because I think it amuses Milverton, and keeps him alive. There is such a vast amount of melancholy in his disposition, that he requires all the aid we can give him in the other direction.

Sir Arthur. Dear me, I should never have thought it. He enters into everything with spirit, from the most trivial game to the most serious conversation.

Ellesmere. Ah, but you do not know him as I do, or as Sandy there does. In the background of his mind, there is gloom all the time. There is no knowing what mischief Mauleverer would do to him, if they lived much together.

234Moreover his is a mood of mind which you cannot answer nor satisfy. Mauleverer made a great hit when he attributed all Milverton’s misfortunes to pity. If you were to make everything on this earth comfortable, and were to arrange the world as he pleased, he would still sit down and mourn over the past, like Marius amidst the ruins of Carthage, or Rachel for her children.

Was Mauleverer equally successful with you, Sir Arthur?

Sir Arthur. Yes, he was. That passion for form which he attributed to me is one of the things which has given me more trouble, and led me into more work, than any other motive power in my nature. I brood over an idea; I suddenly think how it may be expressed, or rather rendered, generally adopting in my mind some extraordinary form—and I am haunted by the thing until I have succeeded in putting it into that form. I believe the desire to accomplish that part of the work which depends upon form is stronger with me even than the desire to give vogue and furtherance to the idea. I always had a notion that this was an important part of my intellectual character; but I never saw it so clearly as when Mauleverer charged me with it in that forcible manner.

Johnson. What a remarkable thing that was that he said about the sparrow and the telegraph wires, when we were on the lake!

Sir Arthur. Yes. That was very good. One felt that it must have been said before. That is one of the first thoughts that occur to one when one meets with any fine passage in almost any work. By the way, it strikes me now that that is one of the reasons why, as Carlyle has pointed out, there is generally considerable disappointment on our first reading of a great work.

Ellesmere. To return to Mauleverer. He certainly is a very remarkable human being; but still he is terribly monotonous. I declare, without exaggeration, that I do not think I have heard him, while he has been here, make one single remark that had not the tendency to depress human effort, and lower our view of human prospects. I mean henceforward to take the other side.

235In order to do so with effect, one must be particularly well, and have good long sleepful nights—without the aid of your blue “sleep,” though, Sir Arthur. So, good night.

Ellesmere. Mind, you must all be “as civil as an orange” to Milverton to-day. If he gives us a reading, you must swear that it is excellent. He has been in such a rage with me.

Lady Ellesmere. How wrong it is of you, John, to vex Leonard in this way.

Ellesmere. I assure you I did not mean it. Unfortunately we began talking about the Ainah; and I reminded him of his original description of her. Now you know he has been getting more and more enamoured of her; and, if he had to describe her again, she would be a perfect beauty. You will see that he will add all manner of beauty to her countenance, if he talks about her again. There will come charming smiles and dimples, and I know not what besides.

Milverton. I see that Ellesmere has been telling you of the nonsense he has been talking. I did not mean, I did not say, that her hands were extraordinarily large; but, contrasting her in my mind with the high-bred Talora, I was obliged to confess that there were some drawbacks upon her beauty. Hers was one of those countenances which require nice and loving observation to perceive all the merits and the beauties in them. There was a constant play of beautiful expression; there were exquisite dimples; and―⁠―

242Ellesmere. Ha-ha! Did I not tell you so? Am I not a true prophet?

Milverton. This dancing dervish is not always wrong when he gives us a taste of his prophetic powers.

In one word, the Ainah’s was a very marrying face.

Cranmer. What do you mean, Milverton?

Milverton. Why, don’t you know, or didn’t you know, Cranmer, when you were younger?

You went into a ball-room, and saw two or three great beauties. Haply your eyes fell upon a cosy young couple in some corner. You asked about them, and were told that they were engaged. The girl was not beautiful; but you said to yourself, “The man is right. He is a sensible man: that girl will make a good wife. She will always―⁠―”

Ellesmere. Make marriage somewhat less painful and disagreeable than it is its nature to be. Now here is a face

which would insure a happy marriage. You see in it that assurance of perpetual provocation which will not allow a man time to think whether he is happy or not, for he will be in a constant state of warfare. And that is one form, perhaps the best, of happiness for some men.

Milverton. I cannot agree with you, Cranmer, about the irreverence you assign to these fancies. If we are never to fancy that we might here, or hereafter, be endowed with other gifts than those which we now possess, we must close our eyes completely to all the forms of life which surround us, and which are so suggestive.

I have been very fortunate in life as regards friends and acquaintances. I have known poets, historians, philosophers―⁠―

Ellesmere. Observe where the fellow puts historians, because he happens to dote upon history.

Milverton.—poets, historians, philosophers, statesmen, men of science, artists, doctors, lawyers, and merchants, but I was never fortunate enough to know any man who had made the insect world his study. I am sure I do not know what is the proper name for such a man—I suppose an entomologist. Well, I was never fortunate enough to know an entomologist.

If we had such a man with us now, what interesting things he could tell us about the myriads of inhabitants of this rushy streamlet. I believe there are creatures below us there, which can both crawl and hop, and fly and swim; which possess eyes by the score; can weave 245and spin, and build nests, in water; which, in short, embody all the vagaries of the most fanciful person; and about which, by the way, if they were familiar to us, fables and stories might be written having much more pith and diversity in them than those about dogs, bears, wolves, elephants, and foxes, which, after all, are poor simple creatures like ourselves, being seldom able to do more than one thing very well.

Ellesmere. I do not think much of your entomologist. I do not want him here at all. He would merely shy barbarous words, half-Latin, half-Greek, at us, and bother us about “genus” and “species,” and other things, for which we should not really care one solitary dump.

Besides, we should have to hear all about his grand discovery of the onomatoscylax, some pestilent little creature that hops, and runs, and bites, and wriggles, and turns up its tail spitefully at you. No; give me the man who can talk well about anything if you only give him a rough bit of a brief to talk upon. Just read to me, or any other lawyer, a little chapter in any book about insects, and we will argue their case in a manner that will bring round any jury to think whatever we are instructed to make them think on behalf of our clients. There are creatures, are there not, who pop out of their shells to take the air, and then other creatures pop into the vacant shells; and when the softies come back, they find their houses occupied, and the doors bolted against them. What a good case for an action of ejectment!

Milverton. Mark you, I do not mean to say that I have not known men such as Carlyle, Kingsley, and Emerson, who have been able to talk admirably about all forms of nature, from the highest to the lowest. As I think I have told you before, I never heard a more exquisite conversation than one in which Carlyle and Emerson, both of them nice and patient observers of all natural objects, discoursed upon the merits and beauties of common grass. A walk, too, in the country with Kingsley is something to remember; but still I say, as I said before, I should like to know a real entomologist, a man who had lived a great deal with insects―⁠―

246Ellesmere. The Patronage-secretary of the Treasury!

Milverton. —and who could tell me all about the onomatopylex, which Ellesmere―⁠―

Ellesmere. No, no; if you are scientific, be accurate—onomatoscylax.

Milverton. —which Ellesmere affects to scorn, but which I have no doubt, if well studied, would afford the human race many a good lesson in the arts of life. Very probably he is a great architect. The arch was constructed by insects long before it was known to man.

Mauleverer. Talking of men who have studied these minor creatures, there is Mr. G. H. Lewes. You know him, Milverton?

Milverton. Yes; but he is too gelatinous. He describes admirably; is as clear as the sky at Avignon; but his talk is of molluscs, sea-anemones, jelly-fish, and other flabby, pulpy creatures, squeezable as Ministers of State. I want a man who has lived with well-developed, shrewd, masterful, designing insects.

Sir Arthur. I do not say we wander from the subject, because the fact of these insects possessing multifarious powers is very suggestive. But I want to know why it is irreverent to imagine men to be endowed with other powers or means than those they now possess. I feel rather guilty in this matter, if there is any guilt, as I was the first to tell you a story of the kind which Mr. Cranmer must disapprove of. I mean my “sleep” story. I intended that to convey some sound doctrine.

Ellesmere. Yes; that pleasant tale was nearly suffocated by morality. It was far too moral to be interesting. And observe this, Cranmer, that in almost every story in which extraordinary powers are given to a man, that poor man is sure to come to grief.

Even in that dear “Arabian Nights,” the unfortunate “gins,” or genii, always get the worst of it, being bottled up for a thousand years, or otherwise maltreated. We make a point of pouring misfortunes with a liberal hand upon the head of any creature whom we admit for a moment, even in fancy, to be a more gifted being than man.

247Milverton. Well, I have a fanciful idea which, indeed, has been in my mind for many years, and which I fear Cranmer would blame, for if realized it would give a great and, as I think, a most delightful increase to human power.

Ellesmere. Let us guess. The philosopher’s stone? The power of always reasoning rightly? Long life? A knocker that would knock down all disagreeable people who came to visit you—the postman and telegraph-boy included? A power of eating three dinners a day? A self-upholding umbrella? A supernatural knowledge of trains, so that you could defy Bradshaw and all his books? A perfectly well-built house, built after a model of some insect establishment? A winged paper-cutter that would always fly to you when you whistled for it?

No; I have it! It is never to be sea-sick!

Milverton. No; you have not. You certainly have imagined sundry very delightful appurtenances, such as your discriminating knocker, self-upholding umbrella, and flying paper-cutter.

Sir Arthur. Is it the power of seeing clearly into other men’s minds?

Milverton. No; you will never guess it.

Ellesmere. Tell us, then.

Milverton. I shall have some difficulty in explaining. I mean that there should be a double soul, taking the word “soul” to include all powers, both of thought and feeling, so that you should be able to give one of these souls perfect rest. They should be so intimately in unison, that what one thinks, or feels, or says, or does, should be admitted to be thought, and felt, and said, and done by the other which is absent. There must be no separate interest, no possibility of reproach. There should be a spare body, so that the one soul could go and recreate itself while the other was fighting the direst battle.

Lady Ellesmere. There must be a woman equally gifted to correspond with this man. Conceive a double Sir John! when one is enough to drive a poor woman distracted.

Ellesmere. As the soundest theologians and metaphysicians have proved conclusively that women have no souls, it will be doing a very handsome thing if we give them one. 248But this new possession would embarrass them very much. They would lose all that power of governing, so dear to them. Unreason always governs. Nothing prevents your having your own way so much as being at all amenable to reason.

Lady Ellesmere. Women have just that small portion of irrationality, and only that, which enables them to understand the immense irrationality of men, and so to steer clear of it, or to guide it.

Sir Arthur. Well said, Lady Ellesmere! He does not gain much by attacking women in your presence.

Milverton. But think of the advantages of my fancy, if it were realized:—all the regrets, and vexations, and remorses being partaken by another soul which would occasionally come fresh to the work, and bear the burden which its exhausted compeer and partner was almost fainting under. Such a man, so gifted, would rule the world. Observe the lives of all great men, who will go on working at a moment when the powers are enfeebled. Imagine Napoleon the First with two such souls. Send one of them to vegetate in the country, while the other is conducting the retreat from Moscow, and you would find that the total Napoleon would never have been sent to Elba. Mark you, the two, when combined, are not to have double power.

Mauleverer. I am delighted with Milverton’s idea of a double soul. It proves to me that he sees that the single soul cannot possibly bear up against its misfortunes.

Milverton. No, Mauleverer, you press my words too far. It is but an occasional, and even rare, relief that I imagine is so much wanted for the soul. Have you not known occasions in which you have said to yourself, “I would give anything to have another me—to take up the burden for this day only—to attend this funeral—to meet those men upon that painful business in which my feelings are so likely to overcome my judgment—to fight that battle which I could fight so well, if the gaiety of heart which is requisite were not altogether wanting, while I could, as it were, retire into private life, and collect my thoughts, my energies, and my hopefulness, which, at this critical moment, have deserted me?”

249Sir Arthur. Really, Mauleverer, I agree with Milverton that you have pressed him too hard. It might not be more than twenty times in one’s life that one should want to be absent in the spirit though present in the body; and when one should be so glad to have another soul, a second self, to represent one fully.

I wonder, by the way, whether any of you feel with me that you would like to have been in a different sphere of life.

Ellesmere. The life of a sweeper at a crossing used to be my ideal. But I have changed my mind. I should like to have been a waiter at an inn. “Coming, coming, coming.” One would thus see a good deal of life without much trouble. I should observe the different tastes of our customers: how this old gentleman likes to have his mutton-chops well done; how that customer rejoices in baked potatoes; and how the other is offended, if, when he calls for a newspaper, one does not give him the paper which is his paper.

I would be very kind, too, to the young people, who are always a little afraid of waiters.

I would be unmarried, because my ideal would be to be free from all responsibility.

Gradually I should have amassed a large sum in savings—say two hundred and seventy pounds—and then my plan would be to retire, with my sister, a housekeeper in a good family, to our native village of Mudby Parva, which, by the way, would be intolerable to us from the alterations that had been made in it, and from the railway that would pass through it.

But, in reality, we should never realize our great plan of retirement, and I should die in harness, or rather in white tie and seedy black dress-coat.

Mauleverer. Think of Ellesmere as a waiter, with no power of interrupting the conversation of the customers! How little men know of themselves! What a miserable mortal he would be!

Sir Arthur. And what would you have been, Mauleverer?

Ellesmere. Let me answer for him, for I know. He would like to have been the chef in a great kitchen—at 250some club, for instance—where he could have wandered amidst groves of beef-steaks, and forests of mutton-cutlets, followed by a legion of cooks, giving them orders fraught with culinary wisdom.

Sir Arthur. And you, Cranmer?

Cranmer. I should like to have been a mail-coachman in the olden times.

Ellesmere. Of course he would choose something official. How punctual he would have been! How fussy and important about His Majesty’s Mails! He would have insisted upon being guard and coachman too.

Sir Arthur. And you, Milverton?

Milverton. Well, I am not so humble as the rest of you. I should like to have been a colonist—to have conducted a body of settlers to Paraguay. That part of the earth, from what I have heard of it, and read about it, takes my fancy more than any other. Almost every known product is to be found there.^[18] Then there are great rivers, 251and vast parks reminding one of English scenery; and withal, a charming climate. Moreover, one would get free, I think, both from European and North American disturbances. Insects, I believe, are not intolerable there. Volcanoes are unknown; and, in fact, it seems to me that it fulfils the idea of an earthly paradise.

Then I think I should like the business of managing a settlement. I should not take out any lawyers with me—only a notary or two. I should try and get a good many young doctors, and a few very carefully selected clergymen. Carpenters, sailors, and navvies should form the bulk of the common people I would bring with me.

Mauleverer. Should you take out a newspaper editor? Because I should rather think that would interfere with the paradise.

Milverton. No: I should be my own editor, so that I could represent my own quarrels (for quarrels there would be) in my own paper, the only one in the colony, in my own way.

Sir Arthur. Would you have an architect, Milverton?

Milverton. Yes: I should not object to having one. We should overpower him, and compel him to make plans to please us, and not according to his own preconceived notions.

Ellesmere. Should you take out any women?

Milverton. Yes: thirty cooks, who would, of course, marry off like wildfire. The rest of the men must marry the women of the country, so as to secure alliances.

Lady Ellesmere. And what would you have been, Sir Arthur?

Sir Arthur. A painter.

Ellesmere. House?

Sir Arthur. No: history. You see there is such a happy mixture of manual and mental work in a painter’s career. I learnt that long ago from one of Hazlitt’s essays. And then, too, what a pleasure to see the work grow under your hand! A book is a thing much further from you than a picture. I look with peculiar tenderness upon a picture, the work of any great painter. I think how it has lived with him—with what fond and anxious looks he has regarded 252it in early morning and late evening—what joy and sorrow have gone into it—what great men, his friends, have come to look at it.

Suppose it to be a Titian: Charles V. has come to look at his friend’s work; and has given anxious, judicious, and affectionate criticism about it. Then, too, the painter’s loving wife and daughters have given, from day to day, their criticisms, being most careful to give at the same time due encouragement and admiration. In fact, the thing which we see now, has been, for the time, a sort of domestic idol.

Yes, I should like to have been a painter, even if I had been one of only moderate endowments.

Ellesmere. Sentiment, sentiment, sentiment! Think, on the other hand, what you would have suffered from art critics.

Mauleverer. It is idle talking of what we should like to have been. There may be some wisdom to be gained from contrasting different situations in life—comparing what one is oneself with what another person is, and so deriving wisdom from the contemplation of the contrast. But I rather agree with Cranmer, that these imaginations lead to nothing.

Ellesmere. I don’t agree with Cranmer; but I do see, with Mauleverer, that it may be a wise thing to consider what good qualities are developed in positions in life different from our own, and adopting them into our own.

Milverton once said a shrewd thing. Years ago, he remarked to me, that a man generally fulfilled best that position in life for which he was apparently most unfitted by nature. He illustrated it by numberless instances. He said that Lord Althorp was a most successful minister, and primâ facie he had none of the qualities for a minister. Milverton added, I remember, that the best clergymen were those who had some qualities that were somewhat unclerical. I quite agree with him.

You see, old fellow, if you ever do say a good thing, I make a point of remembering it.

Sir Arthur. Talking of contrasts of situation, I will tell you the most remarkable instance that ever occurred to me.

253I went to see one of the most notable personages in Europe, not on any political errand, but merely as a private friend. Now I shall veil what I am going to tell you as thoroughly as possible, for it is wrong to betray a friend’s moods to any stranger. You will conjecture; and your conjectures will most probably be utterly wrong. Well, when I entered his cabinet, I saw at a glance that he was sunk in the deepest dejection. He gave me a short sad smile, shook hands cordially; but seemed to have nothing to say. At length, however, I persuaded him to tell me what ailed his mind. He was misunderstood, he said; his policy was misrepresented everywhere: he was weary of the never-ending labour and struggle. “See the hideous calumnies that are current about me!” he exclaimed. “What is life worth? What a dreary farce it all is!”

Ellesmere. Well, and what friendly stings, my dear fellow, did you add?

Sir Arthur. I took an uncommon, but, as I think, a judicious course.

I did not say one word in contradiction to his statements. How could I? They were true. I did not urge, that if he had met with great failures, he had enjoyed great successes. I did not attempt to soothe him by showing what a potent personage he was.

I Mauleverized, if I may coin a word, to explain shortly what I did.

I simply dwelt upon the huge amount of misery and disappointment in the world. To illustrate this, I fell into a strain of quotation. The personage I addressed knew many languages.

I reminded him of the saying of Petrarch: “Initium cœcitas: progressio labor: error omnia.”

I quoted your favourite bit, Milverton, from Disraeli: “Youth is a blunder; manhood a struggle; old age a regret.”

That made me think of Sir George Lewis’s “Life would be very tolerable but for its pleasures.”

The great man smiled at that, which encouraged me to give a slightly different version of my own—namely: “Life 254would be intolerable but for its absurdities.” He was pleased to smile at that, too.

Then I quoted from Pascal—I forget what. Then from Rousseau.

Then I ventured humbly to say that I thought that some of the greatest men in the world had been the great writers; and that it was found, as in the case of David and Solomon, that when they were monarchs as well as writers, their writings did not the less betray their misery.

I showed him that Horace, notwithstanding his Chloes, and Lesbias, and myrtle coronets, and Chian wine, was a melancholy individual:

—also Pope, Swift, Byron, Shelley, Cowper, and the rest of them. I gave him Tennyson’s

Of course, I brought in my Browning bit about the greatness of the mind being shown by the shadow which it casts.

I need hardly say I touched upon Cervantes and Shakespeare,

And again:

Then thinking I had not treated him with any Italian, I gave him this passage from Leopardi: “Ma io, quanto a me, con licenza vostra e del secolo, sono infelicissimo; e tale mi credo; e tutti i giornali de’ due mondi non mi persuaderanno il contrario.” The latter bit about the newspapers amused him greatly.

255I longed to give him De Quincey’s magnificent passage about “Our Lady of Sorrow,” but I could not recollect it.

Finally, I wound up with Sir William Temple, “When all is done human life is, at the greatest and the best, but like a froward child, that must be played with and humoured a little to keep it quiet till it falls asleep, and then the care is over.”

I think my conversation had, as was natural, a cheering effect for the time. He thanked me very much: something that would have been tears in any other man rose over his expressive countenance, and I withdrew. As I did so, however, I am afraid I noticed in a parting glance at him, as he sank back in his chair, that his melancholy was not so easily to be baffled, but that it only waited for my departure to seize upon him again.

Ellesmere. Well, but the contrast? I suppose you saw a happy beggar at the gate, munching an unexpected crust, or revelling in an unaccustomed sausage.

Sir Arthur. No; it was not so common-place as that. I went away by train. In the carriage were a young man and his wife, not a newly-married couple. They were the very types of round, smiling, smooth-faced insignificance. But how they did enjoy their excursion! They sucked the same orange: they bit at the same cake. Though they evidently were never parted, they had an unceasing flow of utter babblement to interchange. They put me so much in mind of two monkeys! Their talk, though exquisitely silly, was irradiated—really made beautiful—by happiness. They minded me no more than if I had been a bit of the wood-work of the carriage. No reticence had they in their joy, and in their supreme satisfaction with each other.

When I contemplated them, and when I thought of the great man I had left sunk in gloom and dejection, I felt that happiness was not equally distributed to all, as people sometimes perversely contend. By the way they spoke of the great personage, and very kindly too, which won my heart; but as being one who had an infinity of oranges and cakes, and who had no need to save up for three months, in order to afford such a delightful outing as theirs was to be.

256Ellesmere. It would have been very wicked; but I should like to have heard what they would have said if you had Mauleverized them.

Sir Arthur. I would not have done so for the world; I declare I would rather have stolen their money, and spoiled their excursion in that way.

Ellesmere. But to return to the main subject. Do keep to the point, my excursive friends.

I could make the greatest possible improvement as regards your wish for a second soul, Milverton. You want that soul to be exactly like your own. I would have it the complement to your own. Where you are soft, it should be hard; where you are sympathetic, it should be cold; where you are simple and stupid, it should be astute and alert; and then indeed it would be of some good to you. In fact, you ought to have mine as a second soul to yours; and we should fight the battle of life triumphantly. I think I hear the Milvertonian soul saying to the Ellesmerian, “You must fight these fellows to-morrow, for I really cannot;” and the Ellesmerian soul would rejoice in the contest. Perhaps the day afterwards some judicious man would remark, “What a much cleverer fellow Milverton is than I thought; you see we could not take him in at all, he was down upon us in a moment: and so good-humoured, too, whereas I always thought he was an irritable, over-sensitive person. No fussy particularity either; not at all the fellow to be for ever washing his own soap.”

One thing, however, you would have to do, Master Milverton: you would have to manage Lady Ellesmere for me; and I have no doubt she would say, not knowing of the interchange of souls, “How manageable John is to-day! not quite so bright as usual, but how much more my slave; and he seems to think exactly what I think,” for you would have the art, of which I have none, to persuade her that your thoughts were hers, and that when you were acting most completely on your own hook, as the saying is, you were but using her bait. Oh dear, what a surprise it would be to her when the real Ellesmere came back to undertake the management of my lady!

257Sir Arthur. I think I have heard something like your idea before, Milverton, in some French story.

Milverton. No, Sir Arthur, you have not, I assure you. I know what you are thinking of—one of Eugène Sue’s novels. In that, an artisan enters into the body of a marquis, and has to go through some very uncomfortable scenes. But the marquis is totally unconscious of the change; and the artisan is not aware, while he is a marquis, that he has another form of existence. It is only when he comes to himself again that he knows that he has had for twenty-four hours the experience of a marquis’s life. Eugène Sue’s object was, doubtless, to show the poor man how great a mistake it often is to envy the rich man. There was no increase of power given to the individual soul.

Now, I really do not see, taking into consideration the infinite variety and beneficence manifested in creation, why in some happy planet there may not be a great increase of power given to a creature something like man.

Ellesmere. I am not so taken as the rest of you with Milverton’s fond imaginations. I see fifty objections to his grand idea. If the other soul is to be of any real use or comfort, it must have individuality. If it has individuality, it will differ in opinion with Soul No. I.

Again, you may talk about joys being doubled, and sorrows being halved; but I do not take much interest in things that are done in committee. The whole affair is too much of a joint-stock transaction.

Milverton. I am going to tell you something, which perhaps has some application to Ellesmere, and to the critical race generally—a little simple story which I have often longed to tell when Ellesmere has been taking points, and making endless small objections.

Ellesmere. Oh, we are a little nettled now, are we? Nothing makes a man more cross than when a really kind friend shows him that his poetry won’t scan. The same thing when it is shown him that what he thinks to be his most poetical ideas are all awry, as it were, and won’t bear looking at. Pray tell your story, though.

Ellesmere. How delighted you all are at any attack being made upon me! Everybody seems to rouse up all of a sudden; and Fairy perceiving a general movement, makes a circuit round us, as you see, and sniffs and snuffs as if there were a rat or a badger near, to be hunted or baited. Tell your story; do not spare my feelings. I like to see people happy. This sort of thing amuses you, and it does not hurt me.

Milverton. When there is a nursery in a house, everybody must admit that the pleasantest meal in the day is nursery tea. I always contrive to become sufficiently familiar with the nursery authorities to be admitted. The mistress is never more agreeable than when presiding at this tea. The master gets away if he can from his sporting friends and their eternal talk about horses, dogs, and partridges; and enjoys the high paternal pleasure of playing at pick-a-back with his little boys. The children are much more pleasant and natural at this tea-time than when they are brought down in their best nursery-frocks after dinner.

Ellesmere. Ugh: this nursery story, which is to confound all judicious critics, including myself.

Milverton. Well, I was assisting at one of these pleasant nursery teas in a country house. One of the children present was a pretty little girl about three years old, who had a nurse, especially devoted to her, of the name of Maria.

By the way, I may mention that some baked apples had made their appearance at this nursery tea, which in consequence may be considered to have been what the fashionable world calls “a high tea.”

Suddenly, at a pause in the conversation, the little child, putting down a piece of bread and butter, exclaimed, with a very distinct utterance, “Ma-i-vey say ‘happles’; fool she are.”

Maria, a jolly country girl about fifteen years old, blushed, but looked quite pleased that Miss Gertrude was so clever, and said, “You dear little thing.”

The mamma was “shocked” at such a “naughty word” as “fool” being used to “good kind Maria.”

Miss Gertrude having uttered her “judicious” criticism, was not much dismayed by mamma’s remonstrance.

259I thought of Ellesmere and of his flock of critics whom he delights in.

You see the small critic pointed out, with great satisfaction, a little over-indulgence in the use of the aspirate on the part of poor Maria; but was perfectly unconscious that in her own six words she had committed four errors.

Ellesmere. How do you make out four?

Milverton. “Maivey” for “Maria,” “say” for “says,” “are” for “is;” and surely you would admit that the use of the word “fool” is thoroughly inappropriate. People who misplace their aspirates are not necessarily fools.

But does not Miss Gertrude’s criticism remind you all, not only of Ellesmere’s way of exercising his critical faculty, but also of other criticisms not heard in nurseries, but in the high courts of literature and politics? Have you never found the critic disclose four errors on his own part for one that he delights to point out in the sayings or doings of the person he criticises? You may be sure that something very nearly akin to “Ma-i-vey say ‘happles’; fool she are,” has been uttered in very high places this very day, and not by children of three years old only.

Ellesmere. Absolutely malignant! He has bottled up this story to be told against me on some great occasion. I believe it has been impending over my devoted head for the last two years. I really was not particularly critical to-day; but he was particularly vexed, as people always are when the ideas which they are very fond of, but which are not a little rickety, come to be examined by the drill-sergeant, or rather by the Medical Board.

Sir Arthur. It is an excellent story.

Lady Ellesmere. I shall never forget it.

Ellesmere. I know that; I shall be bored by my lady with the story all my life. And as for Sir Arthur, he was sure to delight in it. He has undergone a little criticism himself in the course of his life—totally unjust, no doubt; for as I heard him say to Milverton the other day, “Criticism is for the most part so thin.” What he meant I do not know, but the two authors chuckled over the phrase, and seemed to think it so condemnatory and so clever.

260Sir Arthur. Milverton has silenced Ellesmere. I am, however, going to revive Sir John, and I shall do so by returning to our original subject. Have you never felt over-wearied yourself, Ellesmere, and as if you would give anything to have another Sir John to take up the work for you? In no great case that you have had to argue?

Ellesmere. I am a sensible man; and I do not allow myself to fret myself to fiddle-strings. Sometimes, after a weighty consultation, I have found myself lying awake, and scheming and planning how to conduct a case. On such occasions I do everything I can to break up such trains of thought. I say to myself, “My health and spirits belong to my clients; there is nothing so important for their interests as that I should be strong and in good nerve to-morrow.”

Only think if race-horses, the night before the Derby, knew about to-morrow’s race, how the more nervous and sensitive spirits among them would fret, and fuss, and lose their sleep, and fail to answer, when called upon to make their final effort.

When I was in the ―⁠― case, one of the heaviest I was ever engaged in, I found myself at this planning of my course of argument the night before, and becoming cold, and nervous, and miserable. I got up, and lit a fire, and set to work to read a volume of Victor Hugo’s novel, “Les Miserables.” That great book has, happily, certain long parenthetical discussions which are not very exciting. I fell upon one of these, and in half an hour I was in a sweet and composed state of mind, and I had five hours’ good sleep that night.

My client was a dear friend as well as client, and when I saw his anxious face next day in court, I should not like to have told him that I had read “Les Miserables” the previous night, in order to get rid of him and his cause from my thoughts. But it was the best thing I could have done for him.

You see, therefore, that you do not take much by appealing to me to back up Milverton’s “fond imaginations,” for so I must call them.

261Milverton. My dear Sir Arthur, you cannot bring Ellesmere round, when he has once taken up a side against you. Let us change the subject. Ellesmere’s reference to “Les Miserables” has put me in mind of what he said some time ago about novels. Do you remember the fun he made of his “Edwin and Angelina”? But if he meant to run down the works of fiction of the present day, I am sure he is not warranted in doing so. I have just been reading a number of the “Last Chronicle of Barset.” What an excellent novel it is! How true to life are the conversations and the letters! Now I maintain that no age has been so rich in good works of fiction, and perhaps in good writing of all kinds, as ours. Ellesmere will, I dare say, declare that, in a future age, almost all the present writers will be quite forgotten. I do not know, but I cannot imagine that Tennyson and Browning, Dickens and Bulwer, and Thackeray and Trollope, and the great feminine writers, the authoress of “The Mill on the Floss,” the authoress of “Jane Eyre,” or of “John Halifax, Gentleman,” and many others, will cease to be valued and their works to be read.

I think the same may be said of the great historical writers—such as Hallam, Grote, Macaulay, Carlyle, Milman, Froude, and Merivale.

I don’t venture to speak much about the writers of other nations, but I think it will be a long time before Emerson, and Hawthorne, and Prescott will be forgotten in their own country.

Now I have not brought this subject on the tapis merely for the sake of getting a change of subject, but I have something very important to say about it. I see, though, Ellesmere is impatient to have his say.

Ellesmere. “Blow the trumpets, sound the drums!” Milverton is going to say something at some future time which will be worth hearing.

You began by talking about the “Last Chronicle of Barset.” I am sorry to say that I fear that my relations with the distinguished author of that work will be considerably changed for the worse. I cannot be friendly with him any more, if Lily Dale―⁠―. No, I shan’t tell you what I was going to say: you would only laugh at me.

262Milverton. How men may misunderstand one another! I really do believe that, if Ellesmere were to meet Mr. Trollope, he would be very cold or cross to him if Lily Dale marries John Eames, or if she marries Crosby, or if she does not marry him, or if she does not become an old maid, for I am sure I do not know what Ellesmere wants her to do.

Trollope would go away thinking that he had somehow or other offended Ellesmere, or was greatly disesteemed by him; whereas Ellesmere would be paying him the highest compliment that could be paid to a man of imagination.

Here is this severe, satirical, case-hardened lawyer, and he is so possessed by a phantom of the novelist’s brain, that he is positively prepared to be enraged if this she-phantom does not act exactly as he would have her. What’s Lily Dale to him, or he to Lily Dale?

Ellesmere. Well, she is more to me than many a character I read of in history. Your historical characters are such fleeting things nowadays. I used to dislike Nero. I am now told that he was a most estimable gentleman, and has been quite misunderstood until the present time. If he fiddled at all, it was not during the fire, but after the fire, to collect subscriptions for the sufferers.

But what was the important thing that you were going to tell us, Milverton?

Milverton. I do not care how much you ridicule me, but I do maintain that ours is an age noted for its richness in literary skill. Look at the excellence in the daily and weekly press, and in these innumerable monthlies. It is a perpetual source of astonishment to me to see how many people can write well, and have really a great deal to tell you.

I know that Ellesmere will say that I am always unreasonably prone to dwell upon the merits of everything and everybody; but, upon the other hand, I think I am very critical about the writing of English.

A few minutes ago, I mentioned several names of men eminent in literature. But I could add many others. There are Henry Taylor, and Ruskin, and Kingsley, and John Mill, for instance: I pity the man who has read their works, 263and has not been able to learn a great deal from them, and to appreciate the goodness of the writing.

Amongst our statesmen, too, there are men who would have been very considerable writers, if they had not devoted themselves to statesmanship. Lord Russell’s “Europe since the Peace of Utrecht” is a very well written work. Mr. Disraeli’s novels are remarkable productions. I read his “Contarini Fleming,” as a youth, with immense admiration; and I read it again, last year, with great pleasure. Mr. Gladstone, also, and the Duke of Argyll, are men who have shown that they can leave their mark in literature.

Whatever you may say, I do maintain that ours is a great age as regards power of thought and expression.

Now, what I want you to notice is, that the great men who have made the age pre-eminent were all born, or at least nurtured, and the direction of their talents given to them, in a time of profound peace. The great strides in European civilization, whether in arts, in science, or in literature, have been made in consequence of there having been such periods. I wish we could have Buckle back again in life here with us, for I am sure he would―⁠―

Ellesmere. Have you no conscience, George; are you dead to all the finer feelings of humanity, that you molest us twice a day? I must come to some understanding with you. Your proper Christmas-box from me is two hundred and forty pence,—that is, if you do not bring me any letters during the time that I am here. For every letter you bring I must deduct a penny, and if the balance turns against you, you must give me a Christmas-box. I do believe you have brought me two hundred and eighty letters this time; consequently you owe me forty pence: which, when I was a National School-boy, used to amount to three shillings 264and fourpence, the sum, Mr. George, you are now in debt to me.

George. Oh, your honour would not be so ’ard on poor old George, as ’ave know’d you these twenty year, and such a snowy winter, too, as last winter ’ave a been. ’Sides I must do what the missus (the postmistress) tells I to.

Ellesmere. It is no excuse, George! If we do all that our “missuses” tell us, we shall most of us come to the gallows.

George. Ah, you be allus so jokous, Lawyer Ellesmere; but you know we must. (And saying this, the old man took off his hat, and, making a general bow to us, trotted off.)

Ellesmere. Do you see Peter Garbet’s house in the distance—that wretched hovel surrounded by other hovels, on the top of Mendmore Hill? I am sorry to tell you that old Peter and two of his children are ill of the fever, and that Mrs. Garbet is nearly distracted.

Mrs. Milverton. I knew all about it, John. I have done everything I could for her.

Ellesmere. I know you have, my dear Blanche, and so have I in my little way; but how can we counteract the post-office?

Milverton. What nonsense, Ellesmere! I am sure old Peter has not received three letters in the course of his life.

Ellesmere. Considering that you pretend to have a great admiration for history, you are certainly a very shallow fellow, my dear friend, and never look far back enough to causes.

Who in modern times invented the post-office? As Macaulay would have said, “Every schoolboy knows that.”

Why, Louis the Eleventh: just like him, is it not? Everybody who has seen Charles Kean in the character of Louis the Eleventh would know that that crafty, cruel, unprincipled king would, of course, invent the post-office system.

What did he say to himself?—“Despatches make my life miserable; my subjects shall have a taste of them, too. Besides, they will not look so sharply into my proceedings, if they have their own letters to molest them every day.”

265What happens? By these means Louis the Eleventh crushes his nobles, and increases the kingly power to an enormous extent. Louis the Fourteenth, the Regent Orleans, and Louis the Fifteenth abuse this kingly power outrageously. France is rendered miserable; and in good, well-meaning Louis the Sixteenth’s time comes the French Revolution.

Out of the French Revolution, by necessity, comes Napoleon the First.

By an equal necessity, England and Pitt must have a set-to with Napoleon the First.

Hence four hundred millions of debt.

Hence window-tax and excise duty on bricks.

Consequently Peter Garbet’s cottage is built with one side against a damp hill to save bricks, and has a window only eighteen inches square. Hence dampness and insufficient ventilation, and hence poor Peter Garbet and his two children lie ill in that miserable hovel.

Milverton. I am sorry to say anything against a series of statements and conclusions which are so admirably set forth by our learned friend; but Louis the Eleventh did not establish the post-office in the sense which Ellesmere understands it. He established a series of posts for the Government and for the Court, but it was not adopted by the community in general till Richelieu’s time.

Ellesmere. The same thing. Richelieu was but Louis the Eleventh in cardinal’s petticoats.

Milverton. I am sorry to intrude with unpleasant facts, but Richelieu was not the prime agent in this matter. It was done by the Duc d’Epernon, when Richelieu was for a year or two in retirement.

Ellesmere. What wretched pedantry all this is! It is clear that the cruel Louis the Eleventh was the inventor of the system. You admit that he applied it to his Court. The Court in those days comprehended the principal men in the kingdom. Well, then, this system was enlarged in Richelieu’s time. Do you think it was done without his approbation, or continued without his consent?

266Practically speaking, it is a device of tyranny. After you have passed the immature age of twenty-three, does anybody write to you but to annoy you about something?

Mauleverer. I think Ellesmere is quite right. All the clever inventions of man only lead to increased misery.

Milverton. What do you say to the use of chloroform?

Ellesmere. They do not apply it to the right people. Anybody who is about to write a letter to a lawyer in vacation should be chloroformed, and the trance should be made to last for two years at least.

Ellesmere. I say “It’s me” advisedly; and am prepared to maintain that it is good grammar to say so.

What am I about? Why, I am rectifying my frontiers in the article of cricket-balls. Little Tommy Jessom has got a whole holiday, and has honoured us by a visit. A quarter to seven is not a strictly fashionable hour for making a morning call upon a respectable family; but boys are privileged beings. The minute but persevering Tommy insists upon our having a game at cricket, and I am going to give him an innings. I saw you put away a well-greased ball in one of these drawers the other day.

Hallo! emerald studs! and very pretty ones too. What young woman has been foolish enough to see anything in your lengthy face, Sandy, and to give you these studs? I see I must “execute the provisions of a treaty” in regard to these studs—a treaty to be signed by the small Tommy and me, which being rightly interpreted, will be found to provide that, under pain of being thrashed himself, he shall come into your room, carry off the studs, and present them to the other high contracting party. You shall then complain to me of Tommy; and between us we will execute the provisions of another treaty, and carry off Master Tommy’s bat and stumps. We want stumps sadly, and should not be the worse for a spare bat. Thus everything will be arranged satisfactorily, according to the latest and best construction put upon international law.

Ellesmere. Tommy, I have a serious word to say to you. You are an incomplete, imperfect boy; in fact, a mere eidolon, or spectrum, or larva, of a boy. The perfect boy has always in his pockets a ball of string, a lump of beeswax, thirty-seven marbles, two alley-taws, and a knife with six blades, a gimlet, a punch, a corkscrew, and a little saw. I regret to say that you were found to be deficient in all these articles this morning. Proceed at once to Mother Childman’s in the town, and buy them forthwith. (Here Ellesmere gave the boy some money.) Away! Avaunt! “Quo usque tandem abutêre, Caitlina, patientiâ nostrâ!” Vanish.

The boy would be bored to death by our reading and our talk. By the way, he has made me very unhappy this morning.

Milverton. Why, he is the best of little boys—a perfect boy, notwithstanding the absence of beeswax and string.

Ellesmere. I am in a sort of a way his godfather. Poor S―⁠―, my cousin, was his godfather; and now that S―⁠― is dead, I consider that I take his place. Consequently, I thought it my duty, in the intervals of cricket, to talk to him a little about his lessons. It is the same sad story as it was in our time. Hexas and pens for to-day: alcaics and Latin theme for Monday; in fact, a painful and laborious gathering together of useless rubbish.

Johnson. What are hexas and pens, Sir John?

Ellesmere. You have not been brought up, Sandy, in the groves of Academus, or you would know that hexas and pens are the short for hexameters and pentameters.

Milverton. You see, Sir Arthur, that I have stolen your thunder.

Ellesmere. I am an ass, an idiot, a dolt, a dunce, a blockhead, and a dunderhead. All the rough, rude things that my enemies say against me are true. All the utterances of the refined malice of my friends are true. Yes, Cranmer, you are right. I cannot be sure of doing a simple sum in addition correctly. Say what you like of me, all of you.

Whatever any theologian has said of any other theologian, who differs from him slightly, is true of me.

Whatever any editor of any Greek play has said of any former editor of the same Greek play, is true of me.

Whatever any elderly lady who attends the Billingsgate Market and sells fish, says of any other elderly lady engaged in the same vocation, who sells her fish at a lower price, is true of me.

281Whatever any “Right Honourable friend” who has left the Cabinet, says of any other “Right Honourable friend” who remains in the Cabinet, is true of me.

Sir Arthur. No, no, Ellesmere; keep within some bounds.

Mauleverer. Whence comes this sudden burst of just, but long-deferred, self-appreciation?

Ellesmere. I have been puzzling my brain for weeks to find out what this man was at, and I now see that I ought to have perceived his drift at once. The first syllable of the word Realmah ought to have enlightened me. Of course he was to become king; and of course, he is to initiate a form of government, or a mode of foreign policy, which is to be eminently instructive in modern times.

I am disgusted. I have been bothered about all these love affairs: I have been worried about the smelting of iron-stones: my feelings—my tenderest feelings—have been harrowed by the death of the Ainah; and now I find that I have gone through all this suffering, only that I might become interested in the character and fortunes of Realmah, and therefore be induced to listen more patiently to the record of his official and diplomatic proceedings. I am a dupe.

Ellesmere. Well, now we have Realmah and his councillors before us, and a precious set of crafty scoundrels they are. I know this, that I should not have liked to have lived in that time, and to have been a chief possessing any territory within 300 miles’ distance from Abibah. I feel certain that I should have been absorbed by these Marespis, Llama-Mahs, and Realmahs.

I suspect we have all sat for our portraits, and that bits of us, at any rate, are to be found in the characters of 291these councillors. I do not, however, see any Mauleverer amongst them. Probably Realmah thought that he could do all the melancholy part of the business for himself. There is no mention made of a clerk of the council, but I suppose, when he is described, that Cranmer will sit for the portrait—a good, steady official man, with no nonsense about him, having no regard for fables or falsities of any kind, except perhaps for Potochee and her crew, because age would have rendered any institution respectable in his eyes, even that of wizardry and witchcraft.

But I must go and play a game of quoits with Tommy Jessom.

By the way, it would be a good thing in any council to have a boy. His counsel would be so direct and honest, and he would not make long speeches.

After a fearful speech by Lariska, or by that other fellow who never brought his manifold suggestions to a point, what a treat it would be to hear Tommy Jessom exclaim, “I vote we go in and lick ’em.” or, “I vote we cave in.” I do not pledge myself to explain the exact meaning of the expression “cave in;” but Tommy has taught it me: and I observe he always uses it when he is about to yield to my superior prowess.

A woman, too, would be a great acquisition to a council, as bringing an amount of common sense and steady regard for present advantage which are often wanting in a council composed of men only.

There! Have I not compensated by this speech for all the rude truths I may have uttered during my life-time about women? You may kiss my hand, Mildred and Blanche, in token of your gratitude.

Milverton. We are to have something new to-day. Johnson is going to give us a bit of his experience of life.

Ellesmere. Babes and sucklings! A discourse on coral, eh?

Milverton. I can tell you it is very good, and very deep.

Ellesmere. Oh yes! we know! Milverton has a forty-woman power of prejudice in favour of his friends. Anything that they do must be admirable. And, as for his secretary, who is part of himself, whatever he does is good enough for the Revue des deux Mondes.

I wonder what mischief Sandy has been hatching. I have observed he has been very thoughtful lately, and has been an execrable companion. O Sandy the clever one! drinker-in of wisdom from many fountains of that fluid! 293And oh the delight of a well-woven story that agitates the mind with pleasing alternations of hope and fear!

Milverton. What do you mean, Ellesmere, by that nonsense?

Ellesmere. It is an imitation, and not a bad one, I think, of one of Paul Louis Courier’s best bits.

He was ridiculing some of the French lawyers for their habit of apostrophizing, which, however, he said he had adopted himself; for, when at home, he did not ask his servant Nicole simply to bring his slippers, but exclaimed, “O mes pantoufles! et toi, Nicole, et toi!” And so, instead of asking Sandy to give us his story, I exclaim, “Oh the cleverness of Sandy! And oh the beauty of a good story!”

But what is it about, though? A treatise, in the disguise of a story, on weights and measures? An essay, disguised as a tale, on the system of decimal notation? If it is, I go. Friendship has its limits. I like Sandy very much; but one must draw a line somewhere: and I draw the line by refusing to listen to any essay on decimal notation, even from my dearest friend.

Milverton. Make your mind quite easy, Ellesmere; and, Alick, do not wait for any more talk, but begin at once.

Johnson. I begin by saying that it has always been admitted that the Scotch possess peculiar prophetic powers, as I may instance by their well-known powers of second sight. And now I commence my story.

When I was a youth I went to visit my uncle, a small tenant-farmer and fisherman, who lived in the extreme north of Scotland on the sea-side. Boy-like, I was always about amongst the boats, which were new things to one who had hitherto lived far inland. One morning I succeeded, by dint of great efforts, in pushing my uncle’s boat down to the margin of the sea. I got into it, and rocked it about from side to side. In a few minutes it happened that a great wave came rushing up the shore—a ninth wave, I suppose it was—and when the recoil of the waters came, the boat, to my dismay, was afloat; and a strong wind from the shore carried me out to sea.

Ellesmere. Of course you had some haggis with you?

294Johnson. No, Sir John; but I had two bannocks which my good aunt had given me after breakfast, knowing that I should not return to the house for hours. But I had no water. For three days I was driven further and further out to sea. What I suffered from thirst no man, who has not gone through similar suffering, can imagine. I think I should have died if it had not been for a slight shower which fell at the end of the second day, some drops of which I caught in my bonnet.

On the morning of the fourth day, after my departure, I neared an island. To my great astonishment, a number of people were on the shore and made signs of welcome to me. The moment I landed, a young girl handed me a beautiful shell, full of water.

The people were all dressed in a fashion quite unknown to me. After turning me round several times, and pulling about my clothes in the way in which savages examine the dress of civilized men, and asking me many questions which I could neither fully understand nor answer, I was taken to the hut, near the shore, of the father of the girl who had given me the water. His name was Pitou. Her name was Effra. They showed me a couch of heather; gave me some dried fish to eat; and, after I had eaten it, I lay down and went to sleep for four-and-twenty hours.

When I awoke, and was refreshed with food, I went out of the hut, and wandered about the island. It was very beautiful. Doubtless the beneficent Gulf Stream made the surrounding waters warm and the climate temperate.

The language was very like Scotch: indeed it was Scotch, only that there were many old words in it such as I had never heard any one but my grandfather make use of. I soon became familiar with the language. It is such an easy thing to learn a language when one is taught by a girl like Effra.

I was allowed to roam about the island as I pleased; but, to my dismay, I found that my boat had been hauled up some distance from the beach, and had been firmly fastened to stakes driven into the earth, so that I could not move it.

295After I had been a few weeks in the island, Pitou asked me if I would like to see the House of Wisdom. He did not use the word “wisdom,” but said the House of Direction for Head, Heart, and Hand. You will readily consent to my abridging the title.

I assented to Pitou’s suggestion. We then went to the only building of any pretension to architecture in the island. I had often noticed it in my rambles; but had never ventured to approach it, thinking it to be the residence of the chief of the island, who might not approve of my coming into his presence unsent for. The first persons I saw, and who were in a sort of out-house, had a painful, anxious, subdued look about them, most unpleasant to behold. They glanced at me for a moment, and then seemed to look far away over my head. Then they muttered something to one another which I could not understand.

“Those are the Spoolans,” said Pitou to me. It is almost impossible to give an idea of the contempt which Pitou threw into his pronunciation of the word “Spoolans.” “Two foolish old fellows,” he added.

Now, they were not old. One was quite young, and the other only middle-aged. What can Pitou mean? I thought.

After making a gesture of contempt, which was done by bringing his two hands together close to his mouth, and then throwing them suddenly from his mouth, as if he said, “I have collected all their merits together, and find them to be naught,” Pitou departed. I could not help looking back at these two poor men, who must have seen this gesture; but they were evidently used to such demonstrations, and merely looked wistfully over Pitou’s head into the far country and the distant sea.

We then went into a shed on the right hand of the principal building. Here there were six men. These men also looked very miserable, but there was not that abject and hopeless appearance about them that there had been about the Spoolans. They were better clothed too; the Spoolans were in rags. I made my bow, and then Pitou said to me, “The Raths!” Then he added, “It’s no good 296staying here. Come on;” but, as we departed, he did not make any gesture of contempt.

We then ascended a flight of steps which led to the principal building. It consisted of three chambers on the lower story, and two on the upper.

We went into the left-hand room on the lower story. There were five men here. They were well-dressed, and, though exceedingly thoughtful, did not seem to be unhappy. Pitou made a bow to them, and then saying to me, “The Uraths,” conducted me out of the apartment.

We then went into the right-hand chamber. Here there were four men. These were handsomely dressed, were evidently in good spirits, and altogether in good case. Pitou made three low obeisances; and, as if introducing me, said, “The Auraths,” and then added, “The Boy from the Black Land.” I made my obeisances, imitating Pitou, and we walked out.

We then entered the centre chamber. Here were seated two men, very well dressed and very jovial-looking, and with an imperious air about them. When Pitou came into their presence, he was abject. It was not merely that he indulged in bows and genuflexions; but he almost crawled before them. “The Mauraths,” he said; and then pointing to me, “Your servant from the Black Land.”

I then made sundry bows—I could not condescend to crawl, like Pitou—and we quitted that apartment.

Then we went upstairs into a sort of ante-chamber, that was crowded with people. A way, however, was made for us, and we entered the principal chamber of the building. Here was seated, in great state, a coarse, fat, jovial-looking, rubicund man, who seemed to me to spend half his time in laughing about nothing. He was waited upon by persons who knelt to him. If Pitou had been abject before, in approaching the Mauraths, it was nothing compared to his abjectness now. He pulled me down on the ground, and dragging me after him, crawled to the feet of the laughing man. Then he said, “The Amaurath;” and afterwards, pointing to me, “Your slave from the Black Land.” Then, shading his face with his hands, as if he could not bear the 297splendour of the jolly chief’s commonplace countenance, Pitou crawled backwards, pulling me with him.

Then we went home. I should think that on the face of the earth that day there was not a more puzzled and bewildered individual than I was. As we walked home I remained silent; but Pitou kept exclaiming, “O the beloved young man! O the beautiful Being! O the Basketful of Direction for Head, Heart, and Hand!” I thought Pitou had gone crazy, especially as I understood him to apply these exclamations to the stout, rubicund, middle-aged, laughing gentleman we had just left.

After I had a little overcome my amazement, I questioned Pitou and Effra as to what all this meant. It was not until after many hours’ talk on that and on the succeeding day that I began to understand the whole matter.

These twenty men whom I had seen in the House of Wisdom were prophets, or were supposed to be prophets. At any rate, they had remarkable gifts of foresight. But these gifts differed very much in value. For instance, the wretched Spoolans only foresaw what would happen after a hundred years had passed: the unfortunate Raths, what would happen after twenty-seven years: the Uraths, after a year: the Auraths, after a month: the Mauraths, after three days: while the great Amaurath, that genial prophet and potentate, could foretell what would happen after the next six hours. The extent of their prophetic powers was after this fashion—that each set of prophets foresaw for as long a time as that which had to elapse between the present and the time at which their power came into play. For instance, the Amaurath’s duration of prophetic vision, if I may so describe it, was for six hours: that of the Mauraths for three days: and so on with all the rest.

The latter four classes foresaw only, or chiefly, material damage or material good. Moreover, they could not explain much about their prophecies. They could not tell you about the means to the ends which they foresaw; while on the other hand the despised Raths and Spoolans had great width and depth of foresight. But who cares to know what will happen twenty-seven years hence, still less what will happen a hundred years hence? I now quite understood 298the sorry garb of the Raths, and the absolute rags of the Spoolans.

As time went on I became familiar with the inhabitants of the House of Direction for Head, Heart, and Hand. The jolly old chief would laugh his loudest when he saw his slave from the Black Land. These people had somewhat of an aversion and distrust for any person who lived upon a continent. They used to say, the bigger the land he comes from, the worse the man; and they preferred to remain quite isolated from the rest of the world. They naturally supposed me to come from a continent; but gradually they came to tolerate me, and were very kind to me.

This freedom of entry into the great House would have given anybody much knowledge of the world who had brought any of such knowledge to begin with. But I was a simple youth of eighteen, and could profit but little by what I heard. The world seemed then to me, and indeed seems now, like a play, or an opera, acted before you in a language you do not understand.

There are very emphatic gestures; and the principal performers come together in twos, threes, and fours; and they lift up their hands, and appeal to the audience very earnestly about something. They do not seem to have much to say to one another.

Then somebody seems to hate somebody else very much, but you do not make out why. Also somebody, always a tenor (why tenors should be the only men who ever fall in love I cannot understand), loves some soprano very much, and there is a stage embrace, which does not seem to count for much; especially as the gentleman and lady on the stage make most of their love respectively to a lady and gentleman apparently in the upper gallery.

Then there is a chorus of very clean peasants, who never have anything to do with clay soils, and who seem happy, and are certainly noisy, about something; and then there is some dancing, of which you cannot exactly construe the meaning. And then there is a good deal of scuffling amongst the minor performers; but whatever they do, it never interferes with the singing of the principal performers. The politeness is wonderful; fetters are never put by the 299little people on the great people until they have quite finished their songs.

And then somebody, generally the principal lady or gentleman, seems resolved to die, and takes a long time about it, but keeps in good voice, if not in good heart to the end. And then the curtain falls down, and he or she comes on looking very smiling and gracious; and then the audience rush away to catch cold in the passages.

When you go home and have to tell the story of the play, and endeavour to do so, it must often be a story that differs considerably from the one that you were intended to listen to and understand.

But I suppose one makes out quite as much, and quite as accurately, about this play-story as about the story of the men and women who surround you.

Now here was an opportunity for getting nearer to the heart of things, and making out what people really wished for; but, as I said before, this grand opportunity was given to a mere lad. Still I remarked some things which, perhaps, were worth observing.

I was with the Raths one day. I used to frequent the rooms of those who could prophesy distant things to a degree that astonished the other inhabitants of the island. Suddenly there entered a handsome young man who was celebrated for his skill in minstrelsy. He had come to ask the question whether he would be famous in future years. The Raths told him that neither his fame, nor even his name, nor the songs he sang, nor the music which he sang them to, would be known to any human being in twenty-seven years’ time. He went away very sad; and I noticed that the mean fellow carried off some honey-cakes which he had doubtless brought as a present if the response should be favourable. The Raths looked wistfully after the honey-cakes; but they were obliged to tell the truth: and they told it, and remained hungry.

Again, everywhere throughout the building there was a buzzing sound, on the days of audience, of the word “Beans,” or something like it. Beans, beans, beans, nothing but beans. I was puzzled at first, but soon found out that a wild bean, much smaller than ours, passed for 300money; and there were constant questions about beans addressed to the short-time prophets. Would beans be more or less valuable? would there be many found this year? A whole boat-load of these beans had once come from a neighbouring island, and had been exchanged for dried fish and other articles of small value. The disturbance this had caused amongst the beaned (I mean the moneyed) men of the island was fearful; and a frequent question was whether any such pestilential cargo would soon come again.

The prophets took no share in the government of the island. But they were often secretly consulted by the ruling men, or by those who aspired to rule. It surprised me greatly, at first, to find that the ruling men consulted only the short-time prophets. Certainly one old chief did ask a question of the Uraths while I was there; but he was the only one who did so. The Mauraths or the Amaurath were the prophets chiefly consulted by politicians. I thought this very strange; but Mr. Milverton tells me that not only in this little island of mine, but elsewhere, the politicians would be quite contented with veritable prophecies for six hours, or three days, or at the most for a month.

I wondered that lovers never came to the Raths, or even to the Uraths; but I found that they were too sure about their future to care for asking questions respecting it. One poor fellow, a melancholy bachelor (the rarest thing in that island), had once asked a question of the Uraths about his prospects of happiness after the first year of marriage. His name was Toulvi, and that of his beloved, Dalumma. Dalumma, hearing of this question (all the prophets were addicted to gossipping), refused poor Toulvi; and no other young woman ever listened to his advances.

I expected that unpleasant questions would be asked about life and death. But this was never done. It had been tried in former years; but mankind, at least the mankind of that island, could not endure such knowledge. Besides, there were very ugly stories of sons and wives having asked questions about the lives of heads of families—questions asked in the purest spirit of conjugal and filial 301tenderness; but, somehow or other, the husbands and fathers did not take it well; and the practice was very wisely discontinued. It was a beautiful arrangement connected with this prophetic power, that, with rare exceptions, the prophets had no knowledge of future events, unless distinct questions were submitted to them respecting these events.

The questions chiefly asked were of a very humble kind; and were asked more by fishermen, and husbandmen, and handicraftsmen than by any other classes in society. In truth, in good society, if I may use such an expression as regards the society amongst those who may be considered semi-savages (for they had no newspapers), it was not thought very good taste to be seen in the House of Wisdom. Any foreknowledge was an agitating and vulgar thing: it tended to democracy: it made people dissatisfied with the goings on of their ancestors and of the ruling classes; and it was, very judiciously, voted to be vulgar.

My sympathy was with the Spoolans. Such melancholy I have never seen upon the faces of any human beings as that which was indented upon theirs. And yet the things they prophesied were mostly pleasant. According to them, the race of these islanders was always to improve in sagacity and gentleness. But that foreknowledge seemed to make them (the Spoolans) dreadfully discontented with the present state of things. I suspect that there will prove to be the usual counterbalancing drawbacks to all the good things the Spoolans prophesied; but they seemed to believe only in the good. And they always wore the aspect that is to be seen in sanguine men, when the things they have hoped for, and schemed for, do not come to pass—at least in their time.

Once a year (luckily it happened while I was in the island) the Spoolans were called in to make mirth for an evening, by narrating what would begin to happen in one hundred years’ time, and would continue to happen for a hundred years. What they said was in the highest degree interesting to me. I listened to them with breathless attention, but the rest of their auditors were, for the most 302part, convulsed with laughter—even when calamity was prophesied. And yet there were traditions showing how truly the Spoolans of a former age had spoken.

For instance, the chiefs who ruled the island now were of a conquering race who had subdued the original inhabitants. The Spoolans had foretold the coming of these conquerors. The Spoolans had only met with ridicule.

When the calamity had in two more generations approached much more closely, the Raths began to utter their forebodings. One or two chiefs (and it is remarkable that they were amongst the oldest) endeavoured to warn the people, and to suggest fortifications. But nobody heeded them. All the middle-aged men said to themselves: “This is an affair for our children. Meanwhile we have to be predominant in the Great Council to-day, which is hard work enough for us.”

Then it came to the Uraths to prophesy upon this coming invasion. A little stir was made then; but men said, “If the invasion is to come in a year, it must come: we cannot do more than we are doing. Our forefathers really ought to have looked to this matter. It is disgraceful to see how careless men are about the fortunes of those who are to succeed them.”

It need hardly be said that the island was easily conquered; and that the ancient inhabitants had to submit to the new dynasty, as the Chinese to the Tartars.

I must not weary my hearers any longer. You will, of course, know that I escaped from the island; for here I am. My personal adventures are not worth listening to; but I thought you might like to hear about an island which possesses such a wonderful institution as that which is to be found in the House of Wisdom of Tele-Ma-Malakah, which means the “Bridal Pearl of the Sea.”

Ellesmere. Well, Sandy, I must congratulate you. You will evidently become a great writer of fiction. Only, my dear fellow, avoid preciseness. Observe the great Sir Arthur: you would not have caught him placing his island in any waters near home; and then your foreseeing people are too clearly distinguished one from another by your naming distinct periods for their prophetic powers. “Nemo 303repente fuit falsissimus,” which means “no one tells plausible lies,” or writes fiction well, without a good deal of practice.

For my own part I should have liked to have heard more about Effra. Doubtless she aided in your escape, and won over a foster-brother; and then you and she and he were wrecked on the rocks at Brixton, somewhere near where the railway station is now. You know there is, or was, such a river as Effra at Brixton. The name was unquestionably derived from your Effra. Some foolish antiquaries—but they are always in the wrong—might contend that it was an Anglo-Saxon name which the said river had enjoyed for a thousand years. But never mind. What says the poet?—

She, I mean your Effra, was very beautiful, was she not?

Johnson. Indeed she was.

She had a horizontal face, and―⁠―

Ellesmere. What on earth does the boy mean by a horizontal face?

Sir Arthur. I understand.

Johnson. A forehead which is so set in the hair that it shows squarely—straight eyebrows—straight lips, though full; in fact, all the lines which principally attracted your attention, were horizontal.

Ellesmere. A civil engineer’s description of his love. But I do see what Sandy means. When she smiled, the dimples spread horizontally and not vertically. I declare, though, I believe there never was such a description of a young woman given before. You certainly are an original fellow, Sandy.

The moral of your tale is a shade too obvious. We all know that short-time prophets are the people worth attending to in this short-time world. If anybody will be good enough to tell me what Mr. Gladstone or Mr. Disraeli will 304do next week, I shall be very much obliged to him, whether the much-foreseeing man is called a Maurath or not. And, in truth, I should be one of those who would crawl before the laughing Amaurath, a worthy man who could tell me, on the last day of the debate, better even than Mr. Brand or Colonel Taylor, what the division would be. Down with the Raths and the Spoolans, say I. If such fellows were listened to, we might have good sense prevailing in the world, which would be a very dull thing.

My complaint of the world, which I beg leave to make very loudly, is this—that there is too much of everything. A conservatory is always too full of flowers to please me; a city, of inhabitants; a dinner, of dishes; a speech, of words; a concert, of songs; a museum, of curiosities; a picture-gallery, of pictures; a sermon, of texts; an evening party, of guests: and so I could go on enumerating, for an hour at least, all the things which are too full in this fulsome world. I use fulsome in the original sense.

You remember the witty saying of a French traveller. When asked about his travels he pithily exclaimed, “Il y a quelque chose de trop dans tous les pays—les habitans.”

And so say I, there is always “quelque chose de trop” in everything human. With one exception, however. There are not too much good sense and foresight in mankind. Now, Sandy would make us all wise and foreseeing, or at least borrowers of wisdom and foresight from his old Spoolans. I quite understand why everybody thought them old.

In fact, Sandy would make us all into Scotchmen. Now the Scotch are pleasant and useful fellows in their way. In truth, they have done wonderful things, and have made their little rugged country occupy a great space in men’s hearts and minds.

But I decline to belong to a universe of Scotchmen.

There would be no such unproductive sports left in the world as leap-frog. And every joke would be sat upon by a jury.

No, Sandy, whatever other mischief you may do, beware of bringing too much good sense and foresight into the world. Good-bye, I am going to walk. Come along, Fairy. 305Every dog would be made useful, and have to draw a cart. And the immense fun and affection that there are in dogs would all be worked out of them. They would come home in the evening to their wives and families, as dull as men of business. It shan’t happen in my time, if I can prevent it.

Sir Arthur. There was one passage in the story that I hardly think was yours, Mr. Johnson; and, in fact, I hope it was not. I accuse Mr. Milverton of it.

Johnson. Which was it, Sir Arthur?

Sir Arthur. The illustration of human life taken from an opera heard by you in some language not known to you. That passage was too old for you, and a little too cynical, I thought.

Milverton. Well, that was mine: it really was almost the only thing I did insert; but I did not mean it to be cynical.

I know very well what you mean—that a young man is too much delighted by his early operas to take much notice of the comic element in them.

Now I go beyond that, and must confess I am greatly amused by the real life at a play or an opera, and by what goes on behind the scenes: things which would have disgusted me, as being unpleasantly real, when I was young.

Sir Arthur. I do not know exactly what you allude to.

Milverton. The reproachful look of the severe conductor when he turns to quell some of his band who are too loud or too fast; the anxiety of the stage-manager who at the side is tempestuously waving his flag to “supers” who will not come on at the right time; the gay chattering with some friend at the side-scenes of the great tragic lady who is just coming on with the dire intention of killing herself, and a child or two; the good-natured ballet-girl who is adjusting a wreath, to make it more becoming, upon some other ballet-girl, or smoothing down her friend’s skirts; the pot of porter which the high tragic actor is consuming with considerable relish; the perplexity of the scene-shifter when the 306scenes won’t go rightly together, and an obstinate old oak-tree will cut into the middle of a cottage; the busy carpenters in the flies giving the final touches to their work; the abrupt change of demeanour which occurs when the chief tenor and soprano have gone off the stage with their arms round each other, or in some loving attitude, and they part at the side-scenes as a lady and gentleman who have a slight acquaintance with one another, and perhaps a considerable dislike: all these things amuse my foolish mind; and I like to sit in a box which will give me a good view of them.

Mauleverer. Do not forget the choruses. How beautiful is their unanimity! How I wish that there was anything like it in common life! The same gesture, the same question, the same reproach, the very same words, seem to occur to all these excellent men at the same moment. Hands, arms, legs, eyes, eyebrows, all move together. They make use of the same exclamation: if one says “hah!” they all say “hah!” Of “ohs” and “ehs” and “hahs” and “hums” there is no unpleasant variety.

Milverton. As the French song says,—

Sir Arthur. I declare we have gone into quite a discussion of the proceedings at operas and plays. It is all your fault, Milverton, as it was you who introduced that illustration into Mr. Johnson’s clever story, which illustration, forgive me for saying so, was evidently lugged in, and had no proper relation to “Spoolans” or “Uraths.”

Milverton. I have just been into your room, Ellesmere, to see about the chimney, which they say smokes.

Ellesmere. Pray don’t trouble yourself. There is a proper concatenation in all human affairs. One must have a smoky chimney when one has a scolding wife.

Milverton. I saw Dickens’s “American Notes” on your table, and, looking at it, I came upon a passage about solitary confinement. I suppose it is the dreadful punishment which Dickens says it is, and in which he is supported by Mr. Reade in “Never Too Late to Mend;” but I have always fancied that I could bear a little of this solitary confinement very well.

See what advantages there are:—

No letters.

No choice given you about your food.

Lots of time for thinking about and inventing things.

No servants to manage.

No visitors to entertain.

The chief pain of life is in deciding; and there, in your solitary cell, there would be no occasion to decide anything.

Ellesmere. I agree with you. Life becomes more and more tiresome from our having more and more to decide. Now, at a dinner-party, they will bother you with two sorts of soup, two kinds of fish, and innumerable wines.

308Mauleverer. Very wrong of the host to throw such a weight of responsibility upon his guests. One is sure to believe that one has chosen indiscreetly, to feel that it is irremediable, and to be tormented by regret throughout the dinner for one’s error—say, in the choice of the soup. I have often felt that.

Sir Arthur. I always admired the plan that great Catholic monarchs had of going into retirement in some monastery for two or three weeks.

Milverton. I am afraid they received despatches. Now, in solitary confinement, one should have ceased to be a person to whom anybody could address anything.

It would be better than being in a yacht—at least to any one who is apt to be sea-sick.

Sir Arthur. There would be no bells to molest you. The three great evils in life are noise, poverty, and popularity. Nobody can tell what I have suffered from noise in the course of my life. It has been an act of great forbearance on my part to endure dogs, for I do so much detest their barking. The weak part of their character is, that they will bark, in season and out of season, for good reason, or for no reason at all—generally the latter. I love horses, because they make so little noise. Rabbits, too, and white mice are―⁠―

Ellesmere. I will not have a word said against dogs. They are the best fellows I know. Sir Arthur objects to their barking; why does he not object to men’s talking? Pray, sir, by which have you been most bored: by the injudicious barking of dogs, or by the foolish talk of men? Do dogs make two hours’ speeches to convey ideas (ideas?) which might have been conveyed in ten minutes?

Of course, if I wished to run them down—that is, if I were a base and ungrateful man—I too could say something against them. They are a little too prone to be vulgarly aristocratic, for my taste,—too apt to despise poor and ragged people, and to bark at their heels. But then, again, if they are on the other side of the House, if they belong to poor and ragged persons, they have a proper respect for rags and poverty, and sniff contemptuously at carriage people. In short, they partake the errors and 309vices of their masters: that is all. Milverton’s dogs howl philosophy; Sir Arthur’s whine poetry; Mauleverer’s (epicurean dogs those!) discern great difference between different kinds of bones: and mine bark at everybody, just like me, without doing any harm to anybody.

In general, dogs have rather too much love for good society—a failing which they partake with most of us. We all like to visit the best people, as they are called. So with dogs. The kitchen is warm, its atmosphere is rich with unctuous and savoury odours, the cook is kind; but the parlour is preferred by the dog, from an innate love of high society.

I do not believe there has been any instance of a man committing suicide when he has had a dog to love him. Move for a return, Mr. Cranmer, and you will find I am right.

As regards friendship, the very word would have been unknown but for dogs. Does not Max Müller say that the word for friendship in the original language was “man-and-dog-in-the-desert?”

Milverton. What an ingenious way Ellesmere has of insinuating that he is supported by some great authority! “Does not Max Müller say?” No, he does not say anything of the kind.

Ellesmere. How do you know? I have no doubt it is in a note which has hitherto escaped your observation. But, at any rate, the friendship between a dog and a man is the highest form and exemplar of friendship. Does a dog ever say, or look as if he would say, “I told you so,” when you are mortified to death at having committed some grievous folly? or does it use what is called “the privilege of a friend,” to say the most cutting things to you?

Then look at the nice appreciation of character which dogs manifest: their tolerance of children, their boundless fidelity, their interest in all human affairs.

Aristippus must have been very like a dog. Dogs will go with you to a badger-bait, to a fox-hunt, to a public meeting, to races, to church, and will almost always behave 310themselves well and creditably, and not disgrace their masters.

Cranmer. The irrepressible dog at the Derby?

Ellesmere. If I wanted an instance to show the brutality of men and the humanity of dogs, I would rely upon the case of the dog at the Derby. He knows that his master has backed heavily Vauban, or Hermit, or Lord Lyon, and, of course, he has a deep and affectionate interest in the race for his master’s sake. And then the poor creature is malignantly shouted at all along the racecourse; and when he perceives, with the tact of a dog, that he is doing something wrong, and wishes to escape to the right or the left, no good Christians make way for him.

By the way, talking of Christians, I admit that dogs are not good Christians: they are too prejudiced for that, and too much inclined to persecute the inferior animals; but then how few men are Christians! In short, you cannot say anything against dogs which does not apply with equal force to human beings; while, on the other hand, how many things may be said against human beings, which do not apply to dogs? If Rochefoucauld had passed his time with dogs instead of with courtiers, would he ever have said “that there is something in the misfortunes of our friends which is not entirely displeasing to us?” I ask you, did you ever know a dog bark out any maxim like that? No; down with men, and up with dogs, say I.

If the Pythagorean system is true, it will only be the very good and choice men who will become dogs in the next stage of existence. Come here, Fairy: I have no doubt you were an exemplary woman; that you never scandalized any other woman at tea-time; that you did not thwart your husband seriously more than twice a day; that you did not worry him to sign cheques; and that you did not say he was a brute if he declined to go out shopping with you. Yes, turn up the whites of your eyes, my dear, to show how horrified you are to think that there are women not quite so good as you were. But you were a wonder of a woman, as you are now a wonder of a dog. I will not have dogs run down: I am their champion. What does the excellent Dr. Watts say, somewhat ironically?—

Any excuse for ourselves; none for the poor dogs.

Milverton. Poor Dr. Watts! What would he say to hearing his good words so parodied?

Sir Arthur. Notwithstanding Ellesmere’s eulogium upon dogs, I venture to say again, what I said before, that I do not like their barking. But, to pursue the general question of noise, we never hardly, in our houses, make any sensible provision against it.

Milverton. Very true, Sir Arthur. I remember reading of some murder committed in a Russian palace,—a noisy murder, too—but nobody heard anything of it in the next room. Now that is my idea of how a house should be built. It should be possible to commit a murder in any room, without the rest of the house being troubled or disturbed. As it is, architects seem to have set their faces against all quiet and privacy. Studious men are the victims of neighbouring pianos. A nursery is a hot-bed of annoyance. I have studied the question of noise very deeply, and I will tell you something of the greatest importance. Put a layer of small shells between the flooring that separates a room from the room above it. You will find these shells admirable non-conductors of sound.

Cranmer. I wish architects were subject to examinations.

Milverton. Very good. The first question I should ask them would be, What thickness of what material will prevent such and such noises—say the playing of a piano by a beginner—from being heard in the adjacent rooms?

Sir Arthur. I remember when I was in Germany, and used to spell over the German newspapers, nothing used to delight me more than the advertisements of servants, which so often began, “Ein stilles Mädchen.” Now, if one could advertise about houses, and say truthfully, “Ein stilles Haus” (I’m sure I do not know whether that is the right German), what an attractive advertisement it would be!

Ellesmere. You were quoting just now “Never Too Late to Mend.” I don’t think Mr. Reade protested so 312much against solitary confinement as against the cruelty which in that particular case accompanied solitary confinement. At least such is my recollection of that eloquent and fervid book.

Milverton. No, you are wrong; he protested against the system as well as against the cruelties which he stated to have accompanied it in that particular case.

It is a commonplace remark to make, but what an atrocious thing cruelty is! Do not you all feel that circumstances favouring you might have committed all other sins known in the calendar of sinfulness? but cruelty is unspeakably abhorrent to all thoughtful men. There is nothing Christianity has set its face so distinctly against.

Ellesmere. But then, you see, there are so few Christians in the world. At least such is the conclusion I have come to, from my limited experience. There is something in my mind upon this subject which would, I fear, perfectly horrify you all. It is a strange, almost ridiculous resemblance that has often struck me between Christianity and something which is considered to be one of the most frivolous of all the frivolous things in this world.

I would not have said it before dear Dunsford for the world, and I am afraid to say it even to you.

Cranmer. Let us hear it. We are not bound to agree with it, and I am certain beforehand I shall disagree with it.

Sir Arthur. Do not all at once be modest and timid, Sir John. If you are suddenly taken in this way, we shall all think you are going to have an illness.

Lady Ellesmere. Pray do not imagine such a thing. I did not half describe to you, when we talked upon the subject of illness the other day, what an irrational person he is. He had the audacity to complain of me. But, indeed, the great superiority of women to men is never more conspicuous than in illness. Men oscillate from utter abjectness to obstinate indocility.

One day it is, “Oh, pray manage for me, and pray manage me. I have no will of my own; I am nobody, only a bundle of pain and misery.”

The next day my lord is a little better, and has resumed his usual grandeur and obstinacy. If you bring him some 313beef-tea or some water-gruel, he insists upon your explaining to him (at least Sir John does) the exact nature and effect of those harmless fluids. He once reasoned with me for three-quarters of an hour about a mustard-plaster; and, indeed, he made a speech about it (at a time when he was ordered not to talk at all) which would have done him great credit before the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council. He divided his speech into seven heads, and it ended by showing that a mustard-plaster was one of the most dangerous remedies that could be applied; but I did apply it nevertheless. I say again, that the superiority of a woman to a man is never more manifest than in a sick-room, whether as nurse or patient—in the one case showing a skilfulness and tenderness; in the other, a patience and endurance utterly unknown to what is facetiously called the stronger-minded sex.

Ellesmere. Doesn’t she talk like a book?—like a bit of the Rambler or Spectator? “Showing in the one case a clumsiness and hardness, and, in the other, an impatience and irritability, which are quite unknown to the wiser and the gentler sex, that is, to the sex masculine.” I think those were her words, or, at least, such as they ought to have been.

Sir Arthur. I thought that what Lady Ellesmere said was equally true and well-expressed.

Ellesmere. The poor husband, or father, or brother, is always at a sad disadvantage in dealing with his womankind. He brings, with trembling and reluctant hand, the invigorating but distasteful acid of the medicinal potion, while the polite stranger assiduously presents the fallacious palliative of the consequential saccharinity.

At least, that is how Dr. Johnson and Lady Ellesmere would express it. Plain John (that is how some people describe me, as they used to describe a former Lord Chancellor), plain John has to administer the dose, and the polite Sir Arthur gives the sugar or the jam which weak people take after their doses.

Milverton. This is a very pleasant and instructive interlude; but you were going to say something which would horrify us. I join with Mauleverer, and maintain that it is beyond your power to horrify me.

314Ellesmere. Here goes, as you will have it. Is there anything that Christianity protests against so much as riches and the belief in riches? Or, to put the question more largely, Is there anything that Christianity protests against so much as a slavish yielding to worldly greatness of any kind—to great riches, great power, great intellect, great force, or great worldly success of any kind?

Milverton. Yes; you are right.

Sir Arthur. Yes.

Ellesmere. Well, then, Fashion is the only thing which, in modern times, has stood up boldly against wealth, power, rank, dignity, and success of all kinds. I am not old enough to remember when Fashion was predominant, but I heard older men talk about it, and I learned to estimate its power. There was a time when it was the fashion to be poor. Think of that. It is very like Christianity, you know.

Sir Arthur. This is the most paradoxical thing I ever heard, and yet there really is something in it. Fashion did make a sort of protest against riches, rank, and adventitious worth of all kinds. But, my dear Sir John, the idol it set up instead was a miserable one.

Ellesmere. I do not care about that; it somehow appealed to what was considered to be personal worth rather than adventitious circumstances. Men were fashionable who did not possess any of the things that the world generally dotes upon.

Milverton. What you say, Ellesmere, is very ingenious; and I must honestly say I sympathise with anything that thwarts, or tends to thwart, the brute power of wealth.

How many a man may say, as some Don Alonso, or Don Juan, says in one of Calderon’s plays—

which being liberally translated, means, “If I have cash, I have courage; but if I am poor, I have none.”

Ellesmere. You see neither Sir Arthur nor Milverton have much to say against my theory. I am not such a fool and scoundrel after all, Mr. Cranmer, am I?

315Cranmer. Nobody thought that you were, Sir John; but, for my part, I must say I prefer a great contractor to Beau Brummel.

Ellesmere. I do not.

Sir Arthur. The best protest I ever knew made against worldly success was by a small society of young men at college. Their numbers were very few, and their mode of election was the most remarkable I have ever known. The vacancies were exceedingly rare—perhaps one or two in the course of a year—and the utmost care and study were bestowed on choosing the new members. Sometimes, months were given to the consideration of a man’s claim.

Rank neither told for a man, nor against him. The same with riches, the same with learning, and what is more strange, the same with intellectual gifts of all kinds. The same, too, with goodness; nor even were the qualities that make a man agreeable any sure recommendation of him as a candidate.

Mauleverer. What did you go by then?

Sir Arthur. I really feel a difficulty in describing to you, and yet I know perfectly what it was.

A man to succeed with us must be a real man, and not a “sham,” as Carlyle would say. Matthew Arnold has invented a word to describe certain people, which is not a bad one. He calls them “Philistines.” Now our man was never a “Philistine.” He was not to talk the talk of any clique; he was not to believe too much in any of his adventitious advantages; neither was he to disbelieve in them—for instance, to affect to be a radical because he was a lord. I confess I have no one word which will convey all that I mean; but I may tell you that, above all things, he was to be open-minded. When we voted for a man, we generally summed up by saying, “He has an apostolic spirit in him,” and by that we really meant a great deal.

I remember ―⁠―, who is now a very great personage in the world, saying to me, “In the course of one’s chequered life one meets with many disgraces and contumelies, and also with several honours; but no honour ever affected me so much as being elected, as a youth, into that select body. And, to speak very frankly, I think they were right in 316choosing me, for, with many demerits of the gravest kind, I do think I am a real human being, and I say what I think, and I try to think for myself, and the world’s gauds and vanities do not, I conceive, excessively impose upon me.”

By the way, I must tell you a curious thing—viz. that the choice made by these young men, though made without any view to future worldly pre-eminence, yet seemed to involve it, for a very large proportion of the men so selected have made their mark in the world; and some of the foremost men of the time belonged to that society. But boys at school and youths at college do choose so wisely and so well, as Milverton has told us. They are not to be deceived by wrappages of any kind.

Milverton. But we wander from our subject. Ellesmere said that there were few Christians anywhere. If he means that there are few perfect Christians, every one would agree with him. But if he means that Christianity has not prevailed, is not prevailing, and will not prevail in a much higher degree, I humbly think he is mistaken. The truth is, so large a conquest has already been made by Christianity in the human mind, that each individual Christian looks smaller, and is of course of far less account, than when he was surrounded by a Pagan world. “Non meus hic sermo.” These are not my words, but Dunsford’s—almost his last words to me.

Dunsford was our tutor, Ellesmere’s and mine, at college. He lived near us here, and was much with us.

Ellesmere. I never asked, Milverton, what he died of. As you know, I was abroad at the time.

Milverton. Of simple exhaustion. You know he was about the most learned man in England, being great in science, in classical lore, and in literature of all kinds. He kept up his learning, was a most diligent student to the last, and withal a most active clergyman in a large and scattered parish. He burned the candle at both ends, rising early and going to bed late.

Lady Ellesmere. He had no wife. Wives are of some use, if only to prevent their husbands from overworking.

Milverton. Well, a day or too before his death, he cleared the room of his attendants, and told me he wished to speak 317to me. He began by talking of the critical spirit of the present age, and how the historical part of Christianity would have to undergo a severe ordeal. He spoke of some of the great heresiarchs of the present day, both of those who were eminent in Biblical criticism and in science, and he spoke of them with the greatest kindness, saying that many of them were good men who loved the truth, and that no permanent harm could come to religion from a sincere search after truth.

“I do not wish,” he said, “my dear boy” (he always looked upon Ellesmere and myself as his children)―⁠―

Ellesmere. Yes; Dunsford was one of those persons who think you never grow any older, and always treated Milverton and me as boys, because we had been his pupils. I remember once, after he had been lecturing me in a very pedagogic way about some heresy which I had presumed to utter anent the classics (I dare say about the manufacture of Latin verses), I let the conversation drop, and then a few minutes afterwards, in the most demure way (I was staying at his house), I asked whether one of the maids could be spared to take me out for a little walk. The good man laughed heartily, and did not attempt to tutorize me for the next three days. It is true it was some years ago, but I had “taken silk” (as we say at the Bar), and did not by any means think myself a small or insignificant personage. As we grow older we grow more modest: at least I do every day.

But go on, Milverton, with what dear Dunsford said to you.

Milverton. “I do not wish,” he said, “to prevent such people as you and Ellesmere (he named you, John) from reading all this criticism, and accepting any of it that seems to you good; but let no man rob you of the main truths of Christianity: let no one blind you to what there is essentially divine in our religion.

“I may be an enthusiast, but I think that the triumphs of Christianity are but commencing. I look forward to a time when war, which so distresses you now, Milverton, will be an obsolete thing; when the pity we have at present for the woes and miseries of other men, will seem, comparatively speaking, but hardness of heart; when the grief of 318any one will be largely partaken by all those who know of it, and when our souls will not be isolated; when good men will allow themselves to give full way to their benevolent impulses, because no unfair advantage will be taken of their benevolence; when the weak will not traffic upon their weakness, nor the strong abuse their strength; when wealth will not be ardently sought for, except by those who feel that they can undertake the heavy burden of dispensing wealth for the good of their brethren; when men and women will be able to live together in a household without mean dissensions; when the lower seats shall be preferred; when men will differ about nice points of doctrine without adjudging to their opponents eternal condemnation; when, in short, instead of a tumult of discord ascending to heaven from this bewildered world, there shall go up one harmonious melody, breathing peace and faith, and love and concord and contentment.”

Mauleverer (aside to me). And when every fir-tree in the wood shall be a Christmas-tree bearing pretty toys and delicious sweetmeats.

Ellesmere. “Jam redeunt Saturnia regna.” There will be no room for the like of me in this good world that the excellent Dunsford contemplated, but I shall only be too delighted to behold it, whether from near or from afar; and certain it is, that if we do not believe and hope for better things, we shall never try to make things better.

Milverton. And then he added something which impressed me very much, for he was not a man of a romantic turn of mind, or given to daring speculations.

“Moreover,” he said, “I fondly believe that physical nature will then become less obdurate—that is, if men are fitted to receive a softer, gentler state of being. Now, as it is, if Nature were more easy and more bountiful, men would only have more spare time for annoying and persecuting one another; but depend upon it, if we were more fitted to receive good things from our Father, we should receive them.

“Think of these sayings of mine when I have gone, my dear, and let no one persuade you that Christianity is the mere dream of a few benighted enthusiasts. I can say no 319more. Good night;—and perhaps it is good night for ever.”

It was not so, for I saw him die; and it is a sight that is not without consolation to see a good man die.

Milverton. You see, Sir Arthur, even in that distant age men talked, unconsciously, their Shakespere.

Ellesmere. I am not too much devoted to Realmah, but I am glad that he and the besieged have got the best of it. I am always on the side of the besieged. I remember becoming quite excited on behalf of the Dutch when I read Motley’s account of the siege of Antwerp.

357Sir Arthur. And then, as boys, how we pitied poor Priam, and longed for Hector to gain the victory. I suppose there is no boy who has not been against that bully Achilles, and who has not been anxious to blab to the Trojans about the real contents of that wooden horse, which seems so stupid a device.

Lady Ellesmere. I wonder that the Trojan women did not find it out. Now Realmah would not have been taken in by such a device, for he had something of woman’s nature in him, and of woman’s wit.

Ellesmere. Say craft. But indeed, my lady, you are talking a great man’s talk without knowing it. That deep thinker, but not always perfectly intelligible writer, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, maintained that all the greatest men have something of the feminine nature in them.

Sir Arthur. One Trojan maiden, Lady Ellesmere, did warn her people—Cassandra; but nobody believed in her.

Lady Ellesmere. Without translating, gentlemen must not talk Latin, nor smoke, nor swear, in the presence of ladies.

Ellesmere. She thinks now she has been very epigrammatic. Then men may swear if they translate it? The commonest form of muddlement in sentences is occasioned by this endeavour to be brief. You apply two or three nominatives to one verb, or two or three verbs to one nominative, which do not agree together if you look at them separately. I am obliged to translate for Lady Ellesmere. What she did mean was,—that, in the presence of ladies, men must not smoke without permission: must not swear at all: and must not quote Latin without translating it.

Sir Arthur. Sir John’s conjugal correction of Lady Ellesmere, of the justice of which I am very dubious,—

Ellesmere. Saccharinity again!

358Sir Arthur. —has given me time to make my translation:—

Ellesmere. Such an odd thought struck me while Milverton was reading.

I recalled to my mind Dr. Johnson’s going about, with his ink-bottle stuck in his coat, at the sale of Thrale’s brewery, and saying, “We are not here to sell a parcel of boilers and vats, but the potentiality of growing rich beyond the dreams of avarice.”

You do not see how this applies, do you? But I said to myself, We are not here to listen to the obscure battles of the Sheviri and the Phelatahs, of the Doolmen or the Koolmen, and their Athlahs, and Realmahs, and Lockmars (about as interesting, as Milton would have said, as the battles of kites and crows); but we are listening to the political notions of a man who is contemplating the present state of Europe and America.

What he means I do not know for certain, but I have ideas.

Sir Arthur. And so have I.

Ellesmere. But I shall not declare my ideas, because Milverton will be sure to say they are not the right ones.

Cranmer. I am sure I do not see what is meant.

Ellesmere. Perhaps not; I only said I had ideas. They are not taxable things, Cranmer, and you cannot prevent my having them. They won’t hurt you, Cranmer.

Mauleverer. I see nothing more in it than this, which I believe I knew before, without the aid of the ingenious Milverton, that men had always had plenty of tyrants and oppressors among them, and that, a few times in the world’s history, these tyrants and oppressors had been beaten back.

But the Northmen will come again, and then there will be no Realmah to resist them.

Ellesmere. I know all about it. I know the nation which eventually conquered the Lake cities: and, what is of more importance, I know how the nation attained to its greatness.

Ellesmere. The nation in question was the nation of the Gogoes. A Gogoe of more intelligence than his neighbours put forth the theory that all the blue-eyed female children under three years of age should be made into mince-meat. This theory found favour among many ingenious and thoughtful people. There was soon a mince-meat society, then a mince-meat newspaper.

The question then entered into the domain of politics. The Gogoes were chiefly governed by two great councils. The most potent council was that which sat in the Hall of Echoes, and was an elected body. The other council consisted of the stoutest men of the community, and was an assemblage of Mauleverers, but chiefly of a jolly nature.

The mince-meat question was taken up by an important party in the first-named council. They were never able, however, to make it the law of the land.

You can easily imagine what an excellent subject it was for debate—how much there was to be said on both sides of the question. Eventually the anti-mince-meat party came into power.

Here I am going to say something so profound, and yet so simple, as regards politics, that if people were allowed to carry round a hat, and to receive subscriptions when they 360had said anything good, I should, of course, receive much largesse from this liberal company.

It is this. You suppose that the mince-meat party fell from power for some great political reason. Those are the kind of reasons that historical people, like Milverton, endeavour to impose upon us, to account for great political changes; whereas I am a practical man, and I know better. The party fell because people were tired of it. You think that it is only Aristides of whom his neighbours were tired. But I tell you that Julius Cæsar, Sejanus, Thomas à Becket, Cardinal Wolsey, Thomas Cromwell, and a host of others, fell—simply because the principal people concerned with them were tired of them. You are fond, Milverton, of quoting that saying of Talleyrand, “that he was avid of facts.” I say that “all men are avid of change.” Why, men become tired even of themselves, and of their position, however powerful! And thus it was that the mince-meat party in the Gogoe Hall of Echoes fell.

Meanwhile public opinion amongst the Gogoes had been pronounced more and more in favour of the mince-meat question. What did the party newly in power do? They were always for large measures, if they were for any measures at all. Largeness was their forte. They proposed that the black-eyed portion of the young maidens should undergo the same fate as that which had been proposed for the blue-eyed.

The original mince-meat party was astounded; but what could they say or do? Their arguments against the blue-eyed were found to have equal force against the black-eyed, and the large measure passed unanimously.

From that time forward the Gogoes became a great nation. They were not so much “blessed”—or shall we say “bored?”—by an affluence of women, as the surrounding nations were; but all their women, whether won by conquest of neighbouring nations, or born in their own territory, were grey-eyed, which became the fashionable colour. It was the Gogoes, as far as my historical researches have gone, who devastated Europe, and conquered the Lake Cities, and to this day their grey-eyed descendants are ruling men wherever they are to be found.

361The original country of the Gogoes (this will be a Milvertonian touch) is where the great river Niebelungen curves round the base of the great mountain Oltivago, and falls into the Lake of Palmah, which was then the central part of Europe. I flatter myself that that is equally precise and descriptive, and conveys to you the idea of a territory which can easily be recognised in the present day.

Ellesmere. Ah! Master Leonard, we have had such brilliant talk during our excursion. I would have given anything for you to have been with us. After discussing almost all human affairs with a degree of wisdom which is only known to stalwart walkers, we came to a question which would have delighted you. It was, Given a benevolent fairy (I have never myself held a brief for any such party, but Sir Arthur is sure that there are such parties), and given that the said fairy offered to each of us the absolute fulfilment of any wish we might please to make, what should we wish for? Now you know you would have been in your element in such a conversation. You must not suppose for a moment that this was the ordinary benevolent-fairy business. I limited their wishes in this way—that they must wish for something, not for themselves, but for the good of the world, and that the something in question must not be foolishly wide and conclusive, such as “I wish that everybody may be happy and good;” in short, they were to wish for means, not ends. Moreover—and this was the best part of my limitation, as it knocked off all such things as invisible coats, and ten-leagued boots, and swords of all-powerful sharpness that would make their way even to the brains of bores in Parliament—that the thing wished for must be an increase of something which is in existence.

I need hardly tell you what they all wished for. Mr. Cranmer, of course, wished that the benevolent fairy would endow him with an insight into the depths of political economy, and especially favour him with its views about the Bank Charter Act, in order that he might make the world happy by his next speech upon that subject in the ensuing session of Parliament.

Sir Arthur, of course, wished that the benevolent fairy would impress upon mankind his notions of the beautiful. He thought that an increased perception of beauty in nature and in art would add immensely to human happiness.

364Mr. Mauleverer wished that the benevolent fairy would have the goodness to inform mankind thoroughly and completely what a miserable set of wretches they are. They would not then follow after all manner of foolish schemes of happiness, which only lead to disappointment.

Lady Ellesmere expressed a wish that the benevolent fairy would instruct mankind as to the wonderful qualities and merits of her son Johnny. His future success in the world would be the best means she knew of for insuring happiness to mankind.

Cranmer. There are very few grains of truth, we need hardly tell you, Milverton, in all he has said.

Ellesmere. I disregard their vain assertions. You know as well as I do, Milverton, that these were their secret thoughts, even if they pretended to wish for others.

Now, what do you say?

Milverton. Well, if I must make a choice, I should say this: Please, benevolent fairy, grant that there should be more love in the world.

Ellesmere. This is vague. These philosophers are always vague. What do you mean by love?

Milverton. You know very well what I mean—that charity, as described by St. Paul, should prevail to the extent which that great Apostle himself desired.

Ellesmere. Well, Master Sandy, and what do you say?

Johnson. Well, I say, Let intellect prevail: let the great thinkers among mankind be able to impress their views upon the rest.

Ellesmere. This, now, is also somewhat vague. Like master, like man! The thinkers differ amongst themselves. My dear Sandy, you must be more precise. You know very well what you mean—namely, that what Milverton dictates and you write should govern the whole of the habitable globe.

Johnson. I do, Sir John.

Ellesmere. That is an honest boy. Have you nothing especial to say about Scotland?

Johnson. No; I will be quite content with the wish I have expressed.

Ellesmere. Now, Mrs. Milverton, it is your turn to have a wish. Shall we wish that Milverton shall be made Lord 365Milverton? Shall we wish that little Leonard shall cut all his teeth without suffering, and shall become one of the wisest of mankind?

Mrs. Milverton. I will not have words thrust into my mouth. I am not going to say anything that Sir John Ellesmere chooses that I should say. My wish is of a totally different kind. I wish that all mankind should see the beauty of what Goethe calls Renunciation.

Milverton. Bravo, my dear! I believe that you have mentioned the thing which would tend most to raise mankind into a higher atmosphere of being.

Mrs. Milverton. This is not my own idea; but what, in his most serious mood, I have heard Leonard dilate upon.

Ellesmere. You see, Lady Ellesmere, what it is to follow out your husband’s views. If you had only said that your wish was that there should be an affluence of good and good-natured criticism—in fact, that there should be a Saturday Review for every day in the week—what kudos you would have gained from this worshipful company!

Now then, Sir Arthur, and Mr. Cranmer, and Mr. Mauleverer, and Lady Ellesmere, if I have not represented you all truly, say your say.

Mauleverer. I say, Let the earth produce more corn, and with less trouble.

Sir Arthur. I say, Let the distinction of nations, or rather of races, cease to have such effect as they have had in latter days.

Ellesmere. You forget, Sir Arthur: you must ask for something more, not something less.

Sir Arthur. Well, then, let there be more cosmopolitan good feeling.

Lady Ellesmere. What I wish is this: That the feeling for pain (physical pain, if you please to put it so) should be so predominant throughout mankind, that no one should knowingly do anything which should increase the physical pain of man, woman, animal, fish, or insect.

Ellesmere. I declare the women have been very clever to-day. It was very sharp of Mrs. Milverton “going in,” as the slang phrase is, for “Renunciation;” and for my wife trying to do away with all pain that is caused by our recklessness of physical sufferings. Of course, she does not see the full extent of her views, and that all war would be put an end to, if her benevolent fairy granted her the wish that she seeks for. But now, Cranmer, you protested against my representation of your opinions. What do you wish the fairy to grant you?

Cranmer. That representative government should be brought to perfection, and should prevail everywhere.

Ellesmere. I declare you are all very unkind to me: you have never seriously asked what I wish for.

Sir Arthur. Pray tell us. We are sure that it will be something quite out of the common way.

Ellesmere. No; I believe what I should ask would be the greatest boon that could be demanded for mankind. I only ask this simple, trifling thing—that good reasoning should have its exact weight with mankind.

Now all of you think that this is a small, poor, inadequate wish; but you may depend upon it, it beats all of yours out of the field.

Give me one thousand millions of mankind (that is the present number on the earth, is it not, Cranmer?) reasoning accurately upon the arguments brought before them, and I, for my part, do not wish any more.

I hate to “talk shop,” as it is called; but if you will give me the present Lord Chancellor, that good, just, and honest man, Lord―⁠―, to decide upon all questions for the world, I shall be perfectly satisfied. And if my wish were granted, every man would be as good an appreciator of arguments as Lord―⁠―.

Sir Arthur. So, you would remit all earthly and heavenly questions to the Court of Chancery.

Ellesmere. I would; and you will never have a tribunal so competent to decide upon them. We don’t look at popular opinion, or at aristocratic opinion, or at philosophic opinion, or at unphilosophic opinion; we decide upon the exact matters brought before us; and I do say, however 367much it might horrify you, that if you would only have the humility to submit any great question to the judicial authorities of this kingdom, it would be well decided.

Milverton. What, the highest abstract questions?

Ellesmere. Yes. We—I am speaking for the great lights of the Bench—are equal to decide any earthly question brought before us. We have ascertained what justice means. We are really impartial. I believe that in England there is more of the judicial faculty developed than in any other nation. Newspapers, what you are pleased to call public opinion, political considerations of all kinds, personal considerations of all kinds, weigh not with us. We shall simply (I am speaking for our great judges) give its due weight exactly to what is brought before us to decide upon.

I must admit that Sandy and I seem to have somewhat of the same idea. There is, however, this distinction.—He says, Let great intellect prevail; I say, Let good reasoning prevail. According to his system there would be endless contention; whereas, according to mine, there would be clear judicial decision and precise action consequent thereupon.

Mauleverer. Stay. I must say something more. You have all taken this matter more seriously than I expected, and I desire to recall my former wish. I should ask for more knowledge.

It has become the fashion in this house of late, to express one’s ideas after the mode of the Sheviri, by fables or apologues. Now I wish you to listen very patiently to a little story of mine.

Once upon a time there was an island (I observe most of your stories relate to islands), the unfortunate inhabitants of which were molested in this way:—An invisible fiend, supposed to rise from the ground, would lay hold of one of these inhabitants and give him a sound beating, making every bone to ache. The fiend would repeat this chastisement at regular intervals, say every two, three, or four days, at the same hour of the day. At last any poor man who 368was so persecuted would tremble and shiver all over when the time for his punishment came. But if this poor man had but known (see the advantage of knowledge) one or two simple things, he could have defied his enemy.

The first was a salve which, when applied to the eyes, rendered the foul fiend perfectly visible. Now this fiend was a slow, dull, heavy fiend.―⁠―

Ellesmere. Slow, dull, heavy, and punctual, therefore a good fiend of business, as we say a good man of business, Cranmer.

Mauleverer.―⁠―and never could mount higher than thirty feet.^[30] Consequently if the man went up a ladder thirty feet high, he could laugh at the dull fiend, and defy him.

But more than this, there was a good natured wood-sprite, a dryad, who would walk hand-in-hand with any of the poor men of the island, and would carry him safely through any of the fastnesses of the foul fiend. Unfortunately, however, for thousands of years, neither the eye-salve, nor the habitation of the wood-sprite, who by the way lived some six thousand miles off, though he would come at a minute’s notice, were known to the inhabitants of the island.

Cranmer. I have not the least idea what you mean. I wish all of you would talk more plainly. You despise blue books, but really they are much more intelligible than you are with your pink and blue “sleep,” and with your Spoolans, and foul fiends and wood-sprites.

Mauleverer. To come down then to a blue book, the foul fiend is the ague. The eye-salve is the microscope, which has shown us exactly the limits of the ague spore. The wood-sprite is Jesuit’s bark or quinine.

Now I beg to ask you, Milverton, whether your “love,” or Mrs. Milverton’s “renunciation;” or, Mr. Johnson, your “thinking;” or, Ellesmere, your “reasoning,” would ever have found out a remedy for the ague? No: you must all admit that I should ask the fairy for the right thing, merely, more knowledge.

369I hope too, you all observe, that the instance I have given shows the exceeding misery of man, and how much too small he is for his place, that he should go on suffering all this misery for thousands of years when a little knowledge would have raised him above it.

Depend upon it the present generation is suffering in an exactly similar way from many such evils, moral, intellectual, and physical, which a little more knowledge would dispel.

Ellesmere. I am to have a 900 years’ life. Let me see, what age did I convince you all the other day that I was? I think thirty-seven. Well, then, in the first place, I decline to live 863 years with Lady Ellesmere. You know, my dear, you are a most agreeable woman; but in the course of a few hundred years, always struggling, as you do, for mastery, you would be sure to gain complete power over me, and I object to being such a slave as you would then make of me.

Lady Ellesmere. There was nothing said, John, about my having the same term of life as yours. No person, even in imagination, could be so cruel as to make a poor woman live for hundreds of years with you.

Sir Arthur. Pray let these interesting conjugal remarks cease; and let us hear what you would aim at, Ellesmere, if you had before you this great length of life.

371Ellesmere. I have no objection to tell you. But you must not fancy that everything I say is a joke. I do not like being always the funny man of the company. If I say something which I really mean, but which does not happen to fit in with your small notions of wisdom and propriety, you laugh your silly laughs, and have not the slightest faith in the earnestness of what I say.

Cranmer. We will believe in you, Sir John, as much as we possibly can.

Milverton. Now then, Ellesmere, proceed.

Ellesmere. In the first place, I would abolish the penny post.

Milverton. That we knew before.

Ellesmere. In the next place I would disinvent telegraphic communication.

Milverton. Good. That we knew too.

Ellesmere. When I say I would do this thing, or that thing, you must readily see that I should have the power to do it, because, outliving the rest of mankind, I should get the whip-hand of the whole nation. My experience would prevail over theirs, and I should be universally listened to and respected.

I should abolish bells, and so win Sir Arthur’s heart. I mean out-of-door bells. I never met with any sensible person who liked these noises.

Milverton. True: but really, Ellesmere, what small things you are proposing.

Ellesmere. Well, I will come to much greater, then. I would set my face against the growth of great cities. People laugh at James the First, and think him a pedant and a fool; but I have always thought him very wise in his strong objection to the increase of London. If you allow cities to increase in this way, you ultimately get them so big that it is impossible to have fresh air. I am as serious as I ever was in my life, when I say that the perpetual and rapid increase of London is a grief to me.

Milverton. I quite agree with you.

Ellesmere. Well, then, I would build a house—a model house. I really think that a great many of the evils that afflict mankind are to be traced to the badness of 372habitations. I do not bother myself with what your sanitary reformers say about things; but I can see that nine-tenths of your difficulties would vanish if good houses and cottages were built.

Cranmer. But what do you mean by a good house?

Ellesmere. Well, if you must know, I mean, in the first place, a washable house—washable thoroughly, inside and outside. Building, as I should, for 800 years, I should resolve to be free from paperers and painters and plasterers, and, in short, from repairers of all kinds.

Sir Arthur. But, Ellesmere, as Milverton says, you have hitherto mentioned such trivial things—mere mint and cummin.

Ellesmere. I would reform dress. Is that a small thing?

Again: I would establish recreation—such recreation as has never hitherto been thought of. There should be no town, however small, which should not have its appointed place for recreation—for indoors and out-of-doors recreations. In every town—yes, almost in every village—there is musical talent enough to form the delight of the population if it were well developed.

Milverton. I really think that Ellesmere is upon the right tack now.

Ellesmere. I would also provide medical aid and service for almost every centre of population, however small.

By the way, I would certainly set up an Ædile.

Mrs. Milverton. I am very ignorant, but I do not know what an Ædile is. I suppose it is a person, not a thing. And if it is a person, what duties has he to perform?

Ellesmere. It is said that the late Bishop of London being asked by some inquisitive foreigner (what a nuisance it is when people are always wanting information) what an English Archdeacon had to do, judiciously replied, “Oh, an Archdeacon is a person who performs Archidiaconal duties.” So I say an Ædile was a person who performed Ædilian duties. Seriously, I am afraid, in the presence of these learned men, to undertake to give a full account of an Ædile’s duties. I may say briefly that he was the arch-putter-down of nuisances. If there was such an officer now—mark you, he was a very powerful man—I should 373not be plagued with street cries, with the howling of my neighbour’s dog, with unwholesome odours of all kinds; and it would be his business to see that I was generally made comfortable. Only tell him that you suspected that your goods were dealt out to you with false weights and measures, and he would soon settle that matter for you. No Boards, nor Commissioners, nor people of that kind to consult, and to receive dreary official letters from; but you would have a swiftly-perambulating Lord Mayor with plenary authority. London would require a good many Ædiles.

Cranmer. Would you abolish lawyers?

Ellesmere. This is a very painful question; but I think I would. In the course of 800 years, using the legal talents of each generation, I should be able to arrange and codify the law; and then I would only have public notaries.

Sir Arthur. What about war?

Ellesmere. Here I should shine. Here would come in that practical good sense of which I possess so large a share. We are such a set of foolish, quarrelsome little beasts, and we derive so much pleasure from hearing about sieges and battles, and knowing of the miseries of our fellow-creatures, that I should not endeavour to abolish war altogether. But what I should do is this. I should reduce the European armies in the following proportion. I should allow them one man for each thousand that they now possess. France, for instance, should have 700 soldiers; Austria, about the same number; Prussia, 600; England, 450; Russia, 800; and the United States, 900.^[31] The great naval powers should be allowed a ship apiece, and one or two gun-boats. These little armies and navies should go about fighting away like fun, and undertaking what would then be thought great battles and sieges. The newspapers would still be well fed with interesting events; and taxation for war purposes would be insignificant. I should have outside the great cities little model cities, 374which should represent them for warlike purposes—a neat little Paris outside Paris: and I should scatter some squalidity in the way of building about Wimbledon Common, and call it in military despatches, London.

Again, another reform I should institute of the utmost magnitude is this: I should abolish after-dinner speeches.

Sir Arthur. The world would be grateful to you for that.

Ellesmere. Then I should bring my enormous power and experience to bear upon all literature. I should reduce three-volume novels to one.

Cranmer. But about the newspaper press? What should you do with that?

Ellesmere. For the sake of freedom, I should allow one article in each newspaper to be published without signature. To all the others I should require signature. I should make the newspapers into an octavo shape, with the leaves cut.

Johnson. What about the Church?

Ellesmere. I should forbid any one to preach a sermon more than once in three weeks. I would make sermons, instead of being nuisances, things to which the congregation would look forward with expectation, and listen with delight.

Mauleverer. What about education?

Ellesmere. Oh, in that matter I would institute reforms that would astound you. I would organize bands of well-instructed persons who should go about the country and teach everybody everything; and not merely teach in the ordinary way, but exemplify.

Cranmer. And this is your practical man, who laughs at theorists and enthusiasts!

Ellesmere. Recollect I have 800 years and more to work in. I should be able to organize a system which, if it were well developed, would far surpass the present. I would have people who could teach the rudiments of the best arts in life—who could instruct in cookery, in natural history—in the properties of earth, air, and water. I know what is to be said in respect of the shallowness that may result from mere lecturing; but, on the other hand, I have observed how greatly those people are enlightened, elevated, and instructed, who have had only what is called a smattering 375of knowledge, derived from judicious lectures. And then, look at this. There is a genius in some remote place or obscure position—one of those people described in Gray’s Elegy,—

and the good seed of instruction falls upon his or her mind; and then we have an inventor. The consideration of Newton’s life has always weighed much with me. It has been a great blessing to mankind that that wonderful man was not a labourer’s child. Being a farmer’s son, he got the rudiments of education, and upon that small platform what a building did he not erect! I mean my peasants’ children to have, at least, all the advantages that Newton had.

Sir Arthur. I declare, Sir John, you are becoming quite eloquent.

Ellesmere. Oh! I should mainly rely upon education. That is the chief fulcrum upon which we could raise society.

Cranmer. What about political economy?

Ellesmere. Don’t be unhappy, Cranmer. In the course of 800 years—about the 781st—I would settle the Bank Charter Act, and there should be no more of these absurd panics.

Milverton. What about government?

Ellesmere. I would in this respect institute reforms of which you are now only dreaming. Do you think I would be plagued to death with distant peoples’ affairs? Not I. Do you think, as Sydney Smith says, I would have upon every bare rock, where a cormorant can hardly get its living, a Governor, and a Bishop, and an Attorney-General? Not but what the last-named officer would be useful anywhere; but still we must do without even him when we cannot afford to have him.

Milverton. I beg you all especially to remember what Ellesmere has just now said.

Ellesmere. Then, as to home government; I would abolish bribery and suppress bores in the House of Commons.

376A man should prove to me that he knew something about government before he should govern; and not even Milverton himself, with all his schemes, should educe a more comprehensive form of official government than I, in my 800 years, would strive to create. You do not think I would have a Lord Privy Seal, do you, when the Privy Seal had ceased to be an entity of any importance?

Cranmer. What about the House of Lords?

Ellesmere. I would certainly make my House of Lords a senate consisting of the wisest and ablest men who had filled public functions, and also consisting of those men who, from their education, their health—or rather, their want of health—and their peculiar nature, were not especially fit to solicit popular suffrages, but were justly fitted to become members of a legislative assembly.

Milverton. What would you do about the poor?

Ellesmere. Well, I feel that the labouring poor have an immense claim upon us. I would render smooth and happy their lives in their latter days. I believe that we could well afford to do so, and that these poor people have the greatest claim upon us. If a man or woman has worked, we will say, for fifty or sixty years, in the production of the fruits of the earth for us, we are bound, I think, to render happy, as far as we can, the last years of this poor person’s life.

Sir Arthur. I must still say, Sir John, that your inventive genius does not take great flights. You would crush the penny post, disinvent—I think that was the word—the telegraph, build a house, abolish bell-ringing, and send round lecturers, who—if I make out right—were chiefly to be good cooks, improve the House of Lords, and a few other little transactions of that kind. But the human mind―⁠―

Ellesmere. Wait a bit, Sir Arthur. I am going to take the human mind, or rather the human soul, in hand presently. You may depend upon it, however, that the human body needs our first attention. How can a man be virtuous in a smoky house, listening to the noise of those detestable bells, startled by the penny postman’s rap, delivering bills all the day, and being threatened by those alarming telegraph envelopes?

377But now for the human mind. I shall put down jealousy. I do not mean man-and-woman jealousy; but all that misery which arises from sensitive people being afraid that they are not liked enough, that they are not made enough of, that they are neglected, that somebody is foolish enough to prefer somebody else to them.

Milverton. Your 863 years will be full of work, I see.

Ellesmere. I am discontented with that word jealousy. Give me another word, Milverton.

Milverton. Claimfulness?

Ellesmere. Not a bad idea; but the word is an ugly word, and will not do.

Milverton. Claimativeness, then?

Ellesmere. That is better.

Now the reason that Milverton and I have been such good friends from boyhood upwards is, that we are both so free from jealousy, or, to use his own word, claimativeness.

This is no merit on his part; but a great one on mine. Of course Milverton has great faults in my eyes. He always likes everybody. He has fewer dislikes than any man I ever met with. Whereas I own to having a good many hearty dislikes—and he never partakes them with me. I might have been jealous or claimative a thousand times, seeing him take to people whom I cannot endure, and whom I might fancy he prefers to me.

You come and complain to him that So-and-So is a horrid bore, and Milverton replies:—“Well, but he has built a great many cottages on his estate,”—or “he is very kind to his three maiden aunts,”—or “he is very great in Byzantine literature,”—or “his views upon the digamma are sound,”—or “he is a great natural historian, supereminent in moths,”—or “he knows which are the edible fungi; and the poor would gain so much if the right fungi were brought into fashion.”

Well, I distrust fungi: I do not care much for moths, they are sure to worry one by burning themselves in the candle as a poor clergyman is to invest his savings in Poyais Bonds or any other destructive security. I loathe the digamma, which I believe to have been a thing invented 378by schoolmasters to plague mankind, or rather boykind. I am not attracted by the three maiden aunts, and I am not going to live in So-and-So’s cottages; but I know that So-and-So is an egregious bore, and I might naturally be jealous of Milverton’s making so much of this man.

I am really so free from jealousy or claimativeness, that if I were to find that Milverton had invited a very agreeable party to Worth Ashton, and I was not asked, I should not feel that I was neglected; but should conclude at once that there was good reason for my not being asked—that the digamma man was to be there, and it was thought that I should speak irreverently of the digamma, or that there was scarlatina in the village, and that no risk was to be run for dear little Johnny. In a word, I should firmly believe that Milverton would long to have me with him; but could not manage it. I should not be in the least claimative. Indeed the more I consider myself, which I seldom have time to do sufficiently, the more I perceive that I am really a very great man (though Lady Ellesmere does not think so); and in the course of these 863 years I should make other people as great as myself.

Mr. Cranmer. But how is this to be done, Sir John?

Ellesmere. Why, man, I should direct all literature and all education, and all sermonizing; and I should have claimativeness written, talked, educated, and sermonized down.

Sir Arthur. Does it ever enter into your imagination, Sir John, that this claimativeness, which you inveigh against, proceeds from modesty?

Ellesmere. I hate modesty.

Lady Ellesmere. No wonder.

Milverton. But, seriously, my dear fellow, do consider that you have always been a successful man; that you have good health; that your enemies would say—not that I say it—that you have a little touch of hardness in your character; and that, perhaps, you do not make sufficient allowance for humble, timid, sensitive people, who are naturally prone to think they are neglected.

379Ellesmere. It is all selfishness or immoderate self-esteem. That, too, is the cause of shyness. I am not shy.

Lady Ellesmere. Oh yes, you are, John. I do not know anybody who is more shy when he is in the company of those who do not sympathise with him, or understand him.

Ellesmere. Well, in the course of the 863 years I will get rid of shyness, and modesty, and claimativeness, and all my other vices—if I have any; and I will become a great man, and will bring all other people up to my level.

Sir Arthur. You are gradually to rule all literature. You kindly intimated to us that you would reduce all three-volume novels to one. How is this to be done?

Ellesmere. I am an outrageous and immoderate reader of fiction. I admire, as I have told you, the writers of fiction amazingly; but I have great faults to find with them, especially with their incidents.

Now, there is dear old Sandy there. He is just the sort of quiet, observant fellow to be mapping all our characters down, and forming us into a novel. I will address him as if he were an arch-novel writer, and will give him such a lecture as will make him the first novel-writer of his time.

Johnson. Pray, do, Sir John, for then my fortune is made.

Ellesmere. Now, Sandy, you are the arch-novel writer, and I am the hero of the novel.

In the first place I decline to go to a picnic party. You novel-writers always make something very important occur at a picnic, whereas in real life I have never found anything important occur, except that the earwigs are mixed up with the salt. I will not go to a picnic.

Johnson. Yes, sir.

Ellesmere. I will not be upset from a boat. No sooner do I read in any novel that there is a river, or a lake, near the principal house, than I know that I, the hero, am to be upset from a boat. Matilda and Louisa are to be with me. Matilda I really love, Louisa I am engaged to. In rescuing these two dear creatures I am to throw Louisa carelessly into the bottom of the boat, while I am to support Matilda 380in my arms, and to whisper to her (loud enough to be heard by Louisa), “Matilda, dearest, open your eyes once more, and gaze upon your beloved Augustus.” I object, in this damp fashion, to be brought to betray my affections and to lengthen out the second volume. Do you hear, Mr. Novel-writer?

Johnson. I do, Mr. Hero. You shall not be upset from a boat.

Ellesmere. Thank you. Well then, sir, I decline, after having enjoyed my property for twenty years, to have a will of my great-uncle’s discovered in an old book, which should dispossess me of the property, and make me liable for the back rents received during those twenty years.

Johnson. The great-uncle’s will shall not be found, Sir John.

Ellesmere. Thank you. Again, I do not wish my uncle in India, Mr. Currie Pudder, to have made a fortune and to leave it to me exactly at the right moment. I can do without my uncle.

Sir Arthur. There are few people who can.

Johnson. I must not be rash. I cannot promise you, Sir John, that you are not to have Mr. Currie Pudder as your rich uncle in India; and if you please, I must kill him when I choose, and not when it is perfectly convenient to you.

Ellesmere. Very good. There is one comfort, Master Sandy, that you are not going to live for 863 years.

I am now going to impress upon Mr. Novel-writer one of my strongest objections to his usual mode of proceeding. I have declined many pleasant things; and now I decline to be made successful in any calling or profession upon having merely distinguished myself upon one occasion. In your novel, Johnson, if I, the hero, make a speech, as a lawyer or a politician, produce a remarkable sermon as a clergyman, cure one difficult case as a doctor—all of a sudden, honours, dignities, and riches pour in upon me like a flood, and Matilda’s father withdraws all his objections. If I am a poet, and write a sonnet; if I am a prose-writer, and write an essay; the great publishers all at once besiege my doors—that is, in the novel, for in real life I never experienced anything of the kind. My 381early sonnets were laughed at, and my first speeches were said to be “very well for a young man;” but Pump Court was not inundated by attorneys’ clerks inquiring the way to Mr. Ellesmere’s chambers.

The truth is, the world is very hard, and yet a somewhat elastic substance; and you have to hit it many consecutive blows, and to keep on hitting it, before you produce any such impression as will create for you a serviceable reputation.

Why, in a novel I have known Mr. Hero rise suddenly from being a private secretary to being a Cabinet Minister; but nothing like this happens in real life. When you see a successful man, you generally find him middle-aged, slightly bald, very haggard-looking, and generally with dints in his face which show how much he has endured and laboured. He is a much battered-about individual, and not at all like the young man who rejoices in Matilda’s love, and who has suddenly, at one bound, prevailed over adverse fates, and conquered fortune.

Now, without any joking, it is a very mischievous thing to misrepresent life as novelists often do in this respect, and so to indicate that success is to be attained by anything but hard, long, and continuous effort.

Mr. Novel-writer, I would rather you would overwhelm me with rich uncles, or make me pick up treasure in Oxford Street, than delude me by making me put forth an all-commanding speech, sonnet, essay, or sermon. What do you say to this, Sandy?

Johnson. I really am placed in very unpleasant and difficult circumstances. My hero is without any money; and Matilda’s father is obdurate. My hero has gone forth to seek his fortune in the world; and I really cannot wait until he is slightly bald and somewhat “battered,” to use Sir John’s expression, and Matilda has grown very stout, before they are to be married. What is to be done? There must certainly be an unlimited supply of uncles, or on that little bit of land which my hero has retained out of all his possessions, and which lies on the top of a down, a coal-mine must be discovered. I am not to be bullied by geology, at any rate.

382Ellesmere. Well, discover your coal-mine for me, Sandy, in preference to your making statesmen and attorneys and publishers act contrary to their natures.

Well, then, I absolutely refuse to have a brain-fever brought on by change of circumstances and unaccustomed work at a critical time of my fortunes. I never had a brain-fever—even when Lady Ellesmere, benighted woman, at first refused to have anything to say to me. Have you had a brain-fever? or you, or you, or you, or you, or you? [turning to us all.]

Then why should I have one; and why should I reveal in moments of delirium my especial regard for Matilda—and her blue-grey eyes, black eyelashes, and auburn hair?

Johnson. I am very sorry not to be able to oblige a gentleman-hero in your position; but I am not sure that I can carry on my novel without your having a brain-fever.

Ellesmere. What tyrants and pedants these novel-writers are!

Well, one thing I protest against, namely—Matilda’s coming and nursing me when I have the brain-fever. I cannot imagine a more disagreeable thing for a poor hero, when he is ill, than having the young woman he keeps company with come to look after him in his dangerous illness.

Would you like to hear the passage in the novel which describes the unpleasant transaction?

“Edwin”—I like the name of Edwin better than Augustus—“had for a month been hovering between life and death. Dimly, during the last four days, he had been conscious of a presence which had seemed to him like a beautiful vision. On the fifth day he opened his eyes, and discerned a creature of joy and beauty which reminded him of his Matilda, but which he thought to be an angel.

383“On the sixth day with a sigh he opened his eyes, regarded the vision steadily, and exclaimed, ‘Matilda!’

“Later in the day he uttered the words, ‘Again, again!’ This was in reality a demand for more chicken broth, but was supposed by the bystanders to be a demand for the reappearance of his Matilda—especially as he stretched out his white and wasted hand as if to have it clasped in hers.”

I cannot go on any more. My feelings overpower me; but to speak plainly, Matilda is a nuisance in the sick-room. Now I am getting used to Lady Ellesmere; but if I were to tell the honest truth, I should prefer being nursed by Peter Robinson, my old clerk, to anybody in the world. Peter does not mind one’s fractiousness. Scold Peter ever so much about the gruel, and he would only move up and down his bushy eyebrows and wink at you, as much as to say, “You are very tiresome; but I don’t mind it a bit.” Now Lady Ellesmere would go and cry—Yes, my dear, you know you would—and would never recognise the fact that an invalid is a tiresome, querulous, irritable, unreasonable being.

No: as the hero of the novel, I take my stand upon this. I will go to a picnic; I will be tumbled out from a boat; I will be dispossessed of my property; I will spring into full success at one bound; I will have a brain-fever; but I will not be nursed by the young woman that I keep company with. Don’t talk to me about Richard Swiveller and the Marchioness. The Marchioness was accustomed to squalidity and misery; but my Matilda has been brought up in the best circles, and I cannot be plagued with her in a sick-room.

Johnson. I will be merciful, Sir John. You shall not be plagued with Matilda when you have a brain-fever.

Ellesmere. I could go on throughout the whole evening, cutting down the incidents which form the ordinary staple of modern novel-writers. For example, I would insist that when the novel-writer has brought eight or ten characters upon the scene, he shall not contrive their movements in such a way as that whether the hero or heroine remain in England, or go to Australia, or to India, he or she 384shall always find himself or herself surrounded by the same people.

Now I have said enough, I think, to show that if I could eliminate these foolish and unreasonable accidents and incidents, we should have no more three-volume novels; and by the time I had lived through my eight hundred and sixty-three years, all fiction would be so much like fact that there would be no more occasion for any biographers or historians; and if that would not increase the happiness of the world, I do not know what would.

But I have not done yet. I should devote myself greatly to instructing the people in the arts of reading and writing. In the course of 800 years I should persuade the English to open their mouths, and speak plainly. This would be a grand improvement.

Then, as to writing, I would insist upon everybody being able to write clearly. I am “lost in astonishment,”—do you know that phrase of Milverton’s which he is so fond of, and also that other one of “humanity shudders when it contemplates?” Well, I am going to borrow them both for the occasion. I say that I am “lost in astonishment” at the audacity of people who write letters to me which I cannot read. And “humanity shudders when it contemplates,” or at least it ought to “shudder when it contemplates,” how very badly, all over the world, it writes. It is all the fault of that villain who invented a fine up-stroke.

There have been one or two sneers at my having mentioned only small matters. Did you hear that I meant to put down the bores in the House of Commons? Do you call that a small thing? Why, all the other things I should accomplish in the first 300 years; and the remaining 500 I should devote to putting down bores and sending up balloons. Not easy matters, either of them; but still, I believe, within the reach of human power.

Sir Arthur. You said something about reforming dress, Ellesmere?

Ellesmere. Yes; the lion should have his mane again.

Cranmer. I haven’t a conception what he means.

Ellesmere. Why, that the male creature should dress well.

Mrs. Milverton. But what about us?

385Ellesmere. My dear Blanche, I should devote thirty solid years to your improvement; and, in the course of those thirty years, I should institute two such great reforms in your nature, that I should make you all both perfectly lovable and perfectly lovely.

I should make each woman not to be afraid of all other women. They are to fear us, and not their own sex—consequently a woman should not be ashamed of going out five times following to parties in the same dress, if the dress were becoming, and pleased her husband, her brother, or her lover.

Lady Ellesmere. The second great reform?

Ellesmere. I should develop vanity amongst women—personal vanity—which seems now to be so dead amongst them.

Sir Arthur. I have always prided myself upon having the greatest admiration for women, and never uttering any foolish sneer against them; but Sir John goes far beyond me. I did imagine, I dare say without due thought, that they had vanity enough.

Ellesmere. No, no, Sir Arthur, you are quite mistaken. Each woman sacrifices her own personal appearance to the conceits of fashion—whereas, when I had properly developed every woman’s personal vanity, she would only think how she could dress herself in the manner that would be most becoming to her. At present, they are all sadly deficient in a care for their own especial beauties.

Mrs. Milverton. There is a great deal of truth in what Sir John says.

Ellesmere. I believe there is, but I have yet a great deal more to say.

I would make everything in the way of festivity shorter and earlier. Balls should begin at eight o’clock in the winter, and nine in the summer. Dinners should never last more than two hours, concerts be abridged by one hour. There should never be performed more than one play at a time. As for evening parties, unless they are very much improved in the course of these 900 years, I shall abolish them altogether.

386At remote railway stations, I shall have lending libraries. Is there anything more suicidal in its tendency than having to wait at one of these stations for two mortal hours?

Now I come to what I suppose you will call a great thing, as if the things I have just proposed were little things! I shall do away with the adulteration of food and drugs. I believe I could do that now, with my present term of life, if I could only get one or two clever young members of Parliament to back me, and get up the facts, leaving me to see how the matter could be dealt with legally.

Milverton. This is really good, Ellesmere.

Ellesmere. Now I don’t take that as any compliment—just as if the other things were not good!

Why, man! do you suppose that there are not as many lives injured or lost by ill-managed festivity as even by the adulteration of food? And recollect this, that I mean to take care of the recreation of the poor, and not allow them to bolt down their beer and their spirits without tempering it with plenty of real recreation—open air, music, dancing, quoits, bowls, and cricket; and for quiet people, like Milverton, dominoes, backgammon, and whist.

I shall set my face against hurry.

Lastly, I shall put down parentheses, snub fine writing of all kinds, and make people say what they have to say in clear, distinct sentences, with a proper nominative, verb, and accusative; and nobody shall use words of which he does not understand the meaning; consequently, the words “objective” and “subjective” will be banished from the language.

I have said my say.

Sir Arthur. I must sum up, for I have noted down the great labours which Ellesmere purposes for himself in these 863 years.

You will observe that three-fourths of them have reference to getting rid of something tiresome, and indicate the natural wishes of a man who, unhappily for himself in this tiresome world, is easily bored.

He would abolish the penny post, disinvent the telegraph, silence bell-ringing, stop the growth of great cities, build a good house, reform dress (chiefly by making women 387more vain), abolish lawyers and substitute notaries, reduce armies 999 per 1000, send lecturers on practical subjects throughout the country, put down bores in the House of Commons and set up balloons, crush all jealousy, do away with after-dinner speeches, reduce all three-volume novels to one volume, make everybody write well, make everything in the way of recreation shorter and earlier, prevent the adulteration of food, provide lending libraries at remote stations, set his face against hurry, and put down parentheses.

Goodly work, all of it! Let us hope that he will make a beginning of some of this work during his natural lifetime.

Ellesmere. One thing more! My afterthoughts are, perhaps, the best of my thoughts. I will have it declared, absolutely and finally, that this nation does not undertake to protect missionaries who go into distant countries with which we have no settled diplomatic relations.

Great will be the joy of the Three per Cents, as Sydney Smith would say, when I have brought the nation to this most needful resolve.

More last words! I have a brilliant idea. Indeed I am as full of ideas as an egg is of meat.

I told you that I should make a small London for military purposes, out of London—on Wimbledon Common, I think. Well, I shall remove most of the London statues to that small town. If the enemy should be of an æsthetic turn of mind, and should gain entrance into the town, they will be so disgusted, horrified, and amazed by these statues that they will fall an easy prey to our troops. On the other hand, if they should survive the shock, and take the town, they will carry off the statues as trophies taken from the barbarians. At any rate, we shall get rid of the statues from London proper.

Now, is it not desirable that I should have this long life, which Milverton and Sandy are kind enough to arrange for me, if only to effect this grand reform?

I end with what I began with—that Milady must not have this length of life too. You know women are so persevering, and so one idea’d. Men can be bored out of anything. I do feel that if you gave her the same vitality as I am to have, it would be Lady Ellesmere, and not Sir John, 388who would govern the world. And I leave you to guess how it would then be governed. Eventually, she would put down smoking, and take away from the male part of the human race the chief element of consolation—the one thing which enables men to bear their troubles with an equal mind.

Ellesmere. Not idleness, you know; but dulness. How often the word dull could advantageously be substituted for wicked, or malicious, or cruel, or criminal! Many a puffy, fluffy sentence of historians might be most advantageously abridged if they would but use the right words. I will give an instance.

An historian of the Huns, a learned Hun, not known to many people, but much studied by me, writes as follows of Attila:—“The great King’s disposition, which, even in his earliest years, could not have been accounted as humane and forbearing as that of other Huns, was now exacerbated by the impertinent and unwarrantable resistance which had been opposed to his victorious and civilizing arms by the inhabitants of Verona, Mantua, and Brescia: he felt that the power he had gained by unsparing vigour might be lost by the exercise of a mercy that would have been considered weakness: religious controversy, in the course of which a fanatic Christian had dared to suggest that the great King was the scourge of God, had not sweetened his temper, or soothed his suspiciousness: moreover, the number of his prisoners embarrassed and delayed his progress; and accordingly Attila resolved to put them all to the sword.”

Now, I should merely say, Attila was dull that day; and, wanting something to amuse him, ordered a general slaughter of the prisoners.

390Sir Arthur. What an historian is lost to the world in this great lawyer! But what is your remedy, Ellesmere, for dulness?

Ellesmere. Oh, inducing men to take an interest in what you would call little things; in cultivating all manner of small pursuits—that is, if they cannot be persuaded to take up great ones. A man who loves his garden, and works in it, is sure to be a less dull, and therefore a better man, than other men who have no such pursuit. This is a very commonplace remark; but it is true.

Milverton. I quite agree with you.

Ellesmere. I don’t believe that any of you see the full force of what I mean. Calumny, ill-nature, malice—all the minor vices, which, however, give so much pain to the world, are merely functions, to use a mathematical phrase, of dulness.

Now, suppose I were to die suddenly. I might easily do so of irritable over-yawning some day in the House of Commons, or at the Bar. In the ―⁠― case, that fellow Wordall spoke consecutively for three days—his speech in all exceeding fourteen hours, when it might easily have been made in one and a half. I had to listen, because I had to reply to the fellow, and I declare to you I might have expired then and there, from suppressed irritability.

Well, I die. Now I do believe I am not an unpopular fellow, and that a good many men rather like me than not; but their first feeling would be of satisfaction at something having happened that interested them, that they could go home and tell their wives: “My dear, such a sad thing has happened; Sir John Ellesmere is dead—and suddenly. You’ve heard of him, of course? He was Leonard Milverton’s great friend. A much cleverer fellow, by the way, as people, who knew them both, have often told me! There was always some good saying of his floating about the world. He was the man who said that the greatest humbug of all humbugs is the pretending to despise humbugs.”

“Poor fellow, I am afraid he had a sad time of it with Milady! You have only to look at her face to see that she has a temper of her own. A nez does not become retroussé by internal angelic influences.” (Don’t hit me, Lady Ellesmere. 391Milverton, you should protect your guests against battery and assault.)

Now this heartlessness about my death; this just but depreciatory view of poor Milverton; this painful truthfulness about poor Lady Ellesmere,—all of it is the result, not of ill-nature, but of dulness. Dulness it is that creates the momentary unkindness. The same thing with calumny; people calumniate because they are dull; in nine times out of ten they do not mean any harm!

Sir Arthur. Moralist as well as historian! We shall never come to the end of Ellesmere’s powers. But what pursuit have you got, Sir John, which always prevents you from being dull, and therefore malicious?

Lady Ellesmere. Why, don’t you know, Sir Arthur? Perhaps, though, you thought the other day, when my amiable husband talked about setting up balloons, he was joking. Would that it were so! There is a back room in our house in town, where knocking and hammering, and screwing and pasting, and warming and cooling, and gas-burning, are constantly going on. He and his clerk—for they are both bitten with the same mania—shut themselves up in that room for hours; and it is as much as my place is worth to disturb them. Sometimes, when things are going well with them, I am kept awake through the small hours of the night to hear all about the machine, which is to combine lightness with strength and with power, and is to enable us all to be aëronauts. Truth, not dulness, compels me to say that my husband has all other demerits known in the human character but that of dulness—that is, dulness for himself, because he can make other people dull by being so eminently disagreeable.

Sir Arthur. I think you are paid off, Ellesmere, for what you have made your friends say about Lady Ellesmere; but if we once get into recriminations of this kind, we shall never have the reading: so please, Milverton, begin.

Ellesmere. Stay a bit. I must say more. I want to show you how benevolent my view of dulness makes me. When I hear that any man has been speaking ill of me behind my back, I am not angry with him, but I merely say to 392myself, “How dull he must have been to have had nothing better to do!” I long to address to him an oration in the form of a single sentence, the outlines of which I have often imagined, and talked over to myself. The gracious Milverton was good enough, as you will perhaps remember, to tell me, patronisingly, that some sentence I uttered some time ago was not so bad.

Lady Ellesmere. Take breathing time, John. I wonder, by the way, whether ears can take hearing time; for, if so, we must all prepare for John’s oration, which is to be compressed into one grand, full (perhaps we may say overflowing) sentence.

Ellesmere. Yes, my dear, prepare; for it is always a difficult thing for a woman to listen for any time to anything that is well worth hearing.

I should take my dull maligner aside (probably it would be in Westminster Hall), tell him I had heard what he had said of me—prove to him that it was not my demerit, but his dulness, which had caused him to speak in that manner of me; and should then address him thus:—

“What, dull! when you do not know what gives its loveliness of form to the lily, its depth of colour to the violet, its fragrance to the rose; when you do not know in what consists the venom of the adder any more than you can imitate the glad movements of the dove; when, unlike the wisest of monarchs and of men, far from knowing trees as he did, ‘from the cedar tree that is in Lebanon even unto the hyssop that springeth out of the wall,’ you do not know anything even of the two extremes of Solomon’s great knowledge in this behalf; and when even these crushed syringa^[32] leaves might form a subject for you to investigate, which, for the remainder of your natural life, should save you from dulness:—what, dull! when the all-pervading forces and powers of chemistry are unknown to you; when light, heat, electricity, are mere words to you, 393clad with no more ideas for you than they are for that boy who is whistling as he goes along, unmindful, nay unconscious, of the beauty and grandeur of this glorious building:—what, dull! when earth, air, and water are all alike mysteries to you; and when, as you stretch out your hand, you do not touch anything the properties of which you have mastered; while, all the time, Nature is inviting you to talk earnestly with her, to understand her, to subdue her, and to be blessed by her:—what, dull! when you have not travelled to the ends of the earth, and have not seen what your forefathers, the mighty men of old—some of whom were not dull men—have formed, and built, and restrained, and vanquished:—what, dull! when you have travelled over so few minds, and have not read the hundred great books of the world—for there have been at least a hundred books written by men who were not dull, and whose works fulfil the words of Samson, when he went down to Timnath to take a wife from among the Philistines, and found that which, as he said, combined leonine strength with honied sweetness:—what, dull! when you know nothing of the niceties of theology, the subtleties of metaphysics, the closeness of logic, the completeness of mathematics, the intricacies, and withal the beauties, of jurisprudence and of law:—dull, you say; and you know nothing, comparatively nothing, of the long, finely-woven chain-work of history, telling you, as best it can, of the innumerable tribes of men who have fought and bled—sinned, suffered, and rejoiced—even as we are now doing, in these which are rashly denominated the later ages:—what, dull! when Art divine, whether expressed in painting, in sculpture, or in architecture, is a thing which, even when you admire it, you ignorantly gaze at, as the heathens at Athens ignorantly worshipped their ‘Unknown God;’—what, dull! when there are thousands, nay millions of human beings, at least as worthy as yourself (ay, and poor animals too; for God only knows how much they need care, and what a burden lies upon our souls for our conduct to them), some of whom might be aided, cheered, improved, invigorated, soothed, by the smallest deed or word of sympathy on your part. Go away, man; learn 394something, do something, understand something; and let me hear no more of your dulness condensing itself into malignity.”

Sir Arthur. I think I see the poor man dazed and amazed by Ellesmere’s torrent of grand words, and passing the remainder of his life, not in the expression of dull malignity, but in the vain endeavour to recall Ellesmere’s sentence. By the way, is it not droll to see that he brought in, unconsciously, one or two legal phrases, such as, “in this behalf”—“Solomon’s knowledge in this behalf?”

Mauleverer. It was a full and gorgeous sentence. Ellesmere would be a grand fellow if he were not so disagreeable sometimes.

Lady Ellesmere. When? How? Where? Never to anybody, Mr. Mauleverer, but to me; and he has a right to be so to me, if he please.

Milverton. Don’t be angry, Mildred. Mauleverer only said that to tease you; and, as the vulgar say, to get “a rise” out of you.

Lady Ellesmere. I am much obliged to him, I am sure.

Ellesmere. Now then, Milverton, you may proceed. After a great effort of mind, one can never stoop to answer small criticisms.

Milverton. I will proceed: but after one of these grand flights of Ellesmere’s, which occur about two or three times a year, I really am ashamed to read to you my poor, slow, dull, creeping, crawling sentences.

Milverton. I do not think that I am especially timid or nervous on ordinary occasions of speaking or talking. I feel what I suppose all people feel when they have to make a speech. One’s heart beats a little faster for a few minutes before the time, and one feels that, on this particular occasion, one is sure to make a failure of it. But when I have got through my first sentence, and have looked into the eyes of my audience, I am seldom troubled by any further embarrassment.

So, in talking: I never feel nervous or uncomfortable, except when I have to explain something, or to argue about something, that will require a certain portion of time to be given to it, and which time I know my auditors will not, or cannot give. One becomes very nervous then.

Cranmer. That is a very frequent case. I have often felt it myself.

Ellesmere. Probably; but proceed, Milverton, with what you were going to say.

Milverton. Well, I was going to say that to-day I am in a permanent state of nervousness, which has almost hitherto been unknown to me.

I feel that you are to a certain extent representative men. If I fail in persuading any of you, I know that I have no chance with the world in general.

Of course, you see what I have been aiming at, and why I have written the story of Realmah. I do not care at all about your saying that mine has been an inartistic mode of proceeding—namely, the writing of a story with a purpose. It is my way of doing the thing, and you must bear with it. 406At any rate you must own, that I have followed Goethe’s great maxim of not talking away my interest in the subject. You have never heard me speak about it, and yet it has been in my mind for years.

Ellesmere. What a restraint the man must have put upon himself! It is just what my favourites, the dogs, do. They could talk well enough about the subjects nearest to their hearts, but they have read their Carlyle, and they know that stern purpose is gradually frittered away by idle talk.

Milverton. Now I want to discuss the matter most carefully with you; and you must allow me to commence the discussion. I should wish to divide my subject into five heads.

Ellesmere. Good heavens! this is becoming serious. I should like to tell you my experience about a sermon that was divided into five heads.

Milverton. Now, don’t joke, Ellesmere.

Ellesmere. Sir Oliver Roundhead come again! who never laughed himself, nor ever permitted any of his family to laugh. But, indeed, I will be a thoroughly good boy, and as serious as the men who sell fish about the streets, for I have observed they never joke with their customers.

Milverton. (1) The diminution of expense. And to this branch of the subject I especially invite Mr. Cranmer’s attention, reminding him of Tennyson’s words,

which I know vexes him and Mr. Gladstone, and sundry other great financial authorities.

You, Sir Arthur, who love the works of the great Greek tragedians, will recollect that passage in the “Prometheus vinctus,” in which Prometheus is exhorted to cease from his philanthropic ways. I have often thought how that applies to modern times. If Governments will indulge in philanthropic ways, they must be prepared for constantly increasing expense in this direction. For instance, if we are to go on taking care of the health and sanitary conditions of the people, the expenses of our Medical Department must go on increasing.

407If we are to go on educating the people, the expenses of the Education Department must inevitably increase.

If we are to go on cultivating art and science amongst our people, the expenses of the Art and Science Department must also increase.

If we are to go on caring for the recreation of the people, there will be increased expense in this direction.

And, taking the Civil Service generally, considering that, under the new order of things, it will be required to be strengthened and added to, rather than to be reduced, and that of all men in this country, excepting country surgeons, the public servants are the worst paid, I do not see how we can hope for any reduction of expenditure under the heads I have just enumerated.

I stop here for the moment, and wish to know what Sir Arthur and Mr. Cranmer will say.

Sir Arthur. You are quite right, Milverton; these philanthropic ways must not cease.

Cranmer. And I have no hope of reducing the Civil Service estimates. That excellent man, Joseph Hume, did not look for much economy in that direction.

Milverton. Very good. Where, then, must we look for it? I answer, mainly in the naval, military, and colonial departments.

Ellesmere. Of course we all know that. So far the Court is with you.

Milverton. Now, I say that the way in which the expenses in those departments are to be reduced, is not by diminishing expense over the whole surface generally, and so producing general weakness everywhere, but by totally doing away with the need for expense at certain fixed points.

The above I hold to be a great maxim, applicable alike in private and in public affairs. Don’t stint your wife and your children, and your servants and your horses, but do away with the carriage and horses at once, if you really cannot afford to keep it handsomely. Of course you see how I mean to apply this. The wisest political move in our time was the cession of the Ionian Islands. What was the expense to us annually, Cranmer, of the Ionian Islands?

Cranmer. Say 50,000l.

408Milverton. May I ask you, Cranmer, what has been the expense to us of fortifying Alderney?

Cranmer. About 1,177,000l.

Milverton. What about Bermuda?

Cranmer. The cost incurred by Imperial Funds for the defence of Bermuda, in 1859-60, was, if I remember rightly, about 87,000l.

Milverton. And Gibraltar?

Cranmer. About 420,000l. for that year; and I do not think that was a heavy year.

Milverton. For the present I drop the question of expense. You are men of that degree of intelligence and knowledge of the world, that one need not bother you with details, and need only indicate to you a course of argument.

I am now going to the second branch of my subject.

(2) The increase of prestige. Mark you, I have not confined myself to any particular case. I do not choose to tell you whether Realmah’s fortress of Ravala-Mamee means Gibraltar, or Malta, or Bermuda. I argue the case generally; and I say that that nation will gain greatly in prestige which first dares to do some great act of renunciation of the kind that I have intimated. Am I right in this?

Sir Arthur. I am with you.

Cranmer. I doubt.

Mauleverer. Dreams! Moonshine! Starlight!

Ellesmere. I should like the question to be more specific. The peculiar circumstances of the case would much affect my opinion.

Milverton. Well, then, I will be more specific. Suppose that we possess a fortress naturally belonging to another great nation, which nation this fortress menaces, discourages, and mortifies; and suppose that this great nation is one which is never likely to come into direct hostility with ourselves, and the amity of which great nation we should probably win by such an act of renunciation, what should you say then?

Ellesmere. I should say that it would be a grand thing to do; but I should wish to know whether this fortress might not be one which it would be important for us to 409hold in reference to our own military and naval movements, and our possible hostility with other States. I think that is rather an ugly question, Master Milverton.

Milverton. It is; but I shall be prepared to answer it in its proper place. I beg you to keep to the point, and to answer me, whether there would be any loss of prestige in such an act of renunciation as I propose?

Ellesmere. No, there would not. Prestige is never lost by anything which indicates fearlessness―⁠―

Sir Arthur. And magnanimity.

Ellesmere. A thing may be very unwise, and yet not cause you to lose prestige.

Milverton. Very good. I now come to the third branch of the subject.

(3) Safety for the State. That safety, you may be sure, in the present condition of the means and appliances for warfare, depends upon the concentration of the powers and forces of the State.

The more you extend the line of possible attack by the enemy, the more you render yourself liable to be defeated at some point, which, though unimportant in itself, as a place to be guarded, is for the moment all-important to you, as being a part of your empire which you are bound to defend. A great empire cannot bear defeat anywhere. I might bring a host of metaphors and similes to illustrate this assertion, but every-day facts will perhaps do so better. You have to take the same care of some obscure British subject, if that man is unduly molested, as you have of your whole Indian dominions. What have you to say to this branch of the subject?

Cranmer. I am with you.

Sir Arthur. So am I.

Milverton. The rest, I perceive, are silent.

Ellesmere. I do not like pledging myself. You see he is gradually getting us into his net. He has nearly gained an assent to three of his propositions, and I do not see what we may be led to. We must beware of letting ourselves be treated as the characters are in an imaginary dialogue. You have your Euphranor and Lycidas and Polyphrastes. Euphranor really represents the author, and the other fellows 410his opponents. Lycidas and Polyphrastes seem at first to come out very grandly and boldly; but anybody who is experienced in such writing easily discerns that the buttons are on their foils, while Euphranor’s weapon is unguarded. I decline to be Polyphrastes.

I tell you what these unhappy characters always remind me of—the performing monkeys of a showman: the poor little creatures hop about gaily enough, but if, springing to the end of their tether, they struggle to get beyond it, the hard-featured showman jerks them back again, and makes them know their proper place, close to his barrel-organ. They are only to dance to his tunes, and are not to be indulged in caperings of their own.

Now, I am not going to be perverse or unreasonable. I will ultimately admit anything that I am convinced of; but I decline, as we go along, to make more admissions than I can help, so that it may not afterwards happen, that Polyphrastes having admitted this, and Polyphrastes having said that, Euphranor comes forth triumphantly, and shuts poor Polyphrastes up in a syllogism. We are not here to play our parts according to Milverton’s bidding, but to argue out a very serious question seriously and guardedly.

Milverton. I proceed to Number 4.

(4) The physical well-being of the community.

This part of the subject has incidentally been treated in Number 1, when we were considering the question of expense. All projected improvements tending to the physical well-being of the State are now met with the answer, “No funds.”

But I have more to say about it. It is not only that funds are wanting; but time, attention, and forethought are wanting. Look what a lot of time and attention on the part of Ministers and Parliament is taken up by small questions concerning these petty dependencies.

This course of argument will apply to education as well as to physical well-being. The greatest things for our general well-being as a nation fail to have due thought given to them, because we are busied with all manner of details connected with possessions that are really of no use to us.

What do you say to all this?

411Mauleverer. Are people any the happier for this physical well-being and for education? I doubt.

Sir Arthur. No, no, Mauleverer; you mustn’t go into your usual course of depreciation of all human effort. We must keep close to the subject. For my part I have nothing to say against Milverton as regards this last branch of the subject.

Cranmer. Nor I. I know I never got sufficient attention to anything; and I believe that we, the British people, are distracted from the consideration of matters that most concern us, by a multiplicity of cares and troubles brought to us from afar.

Milverton. I am delighted to hear you say that, Cranmer. I may now proceed to the fifth branch of my subject.

(5) The advancement and development of Christianity. I have very little to say upon this head. If you do not feel with me at once, I have no hope of persuading you by long arguments. I would just ask you, is it not most inconsistent to advocate the adoption of Christianity by individuals, and not to ask Governments to act upon principles which are essentially Christian?

You all regret and dread the perpetual increase of armaments in Europe. You admit the cruel and wicked expense of these armaments, the loss occasioned by which has lately been estimated at 178,000,000l. per annum, and you ask how on earth this great mischief is to be remedied?

I say that some one nation must make the first move, and why should not this nation be England?

At present it is an auction of folly. Each nation goes on bidding against the other. There is no end to it. It is like the conduct of ostentatious people, contending who shall make most show; and this kind of contest can only be ended by the absolute ruin of almost all the contending parties.

Now, what have you to say to my argument taken as a whole?

Ellesmere. Whenever there is a rude thing to be done, I am the unlucky wight upon whom it falls to do it. We wish that our good host and hostess should take a little conjugal walk, arm in arm, to the fountain in the front garden, and there, reclining on the grass in sweet repose, should consider what they would give us for dinner to-morrow, while we make up our minds what we shall reply to this elaborate talk of Milverton’s. He has had time to prepare, and so must we.

Sandy must go too, because, though he is a good and trusty fellow, he so thoroughly belongs to the other camp, that we should be a little afraid of his presence.

Sir Arthur. Just write down for us, Milverton, the heads of your discourse.

Ellesmere. Fairy stays with us.

Sir Arthur. It was somewhat impertinent in us, Milverton, to send you and your wife and Mr. Johnson away, but we felt we could discuss the matter better without you, and settle amongst ourselves where the argument was weak, and where it was strong, and what we should finally resolve to say. I am to be the spokesman.

413I have first the pleasure of informing you that you have made a convert in the person of Mr. Cranmer.

Cranmer. No, not exactly a convert. I assure you I had many of these ideas floating in my mind before; and now I only mean, that if I were obliged to vote to-day, I should vote with Milverton.

Milverton. I am delighted to hear it, Cranmer.

Ellesmere. Milverton does love anybody who agrees with him. That is the sure way to his heart. You have risen thirty-three and a half per cent. in his affections, Cranmer. I know you like exact calculations.

Sir Arthur. I now resume my office as your spokesman.

In the first place, we are all agreed, except Mauleverer, that philanthropic ways must not cease, and, in short, we agree with you in the main with regard to all you said about expense.

With regard to the increase of prestige, we do not seem to care much about it. We think, however, that you may be right in what you said.

With regard to safety for the State depending on the concentration of its powers and its forces, we thoroughly agree with you.

Here you must forgive me for a little interruption in the way of illustration that has occurred to me. You know the Highland saying, “Cut your talk with a little drink.” So I say, even in the most serious discussion, the talk may be allowed to be cut with something that is either jocose or fanciful.

Is there any insect that has a particular enmity to the spider? I daresay there is; and, if we had your entomologist here, he would probably tell us all about this insect. I will call him the fly-friend. It is rather a shame, by the way, to compare a great nation to a spider, but still I think you will say the illustration is a good one.

You have observed how spiders’ webs are often formed with filaments thrown out to a great distance, the points of attachment being of great importance for the maintenance of the web.

My fly-friend comes and cuts one of these filaments at the furthest point. Before the spider can reach him, he 414has gone to another spot and cut the filament there; and before the irritated spider can reach his enemy, half the web is flapping helplessly down; for the damage to these distant points is as fatal as if the spider and the fly-friend had come to close quarters.

You may rely upon it that a great nation, with many distant dependencies, is as liable to mischief in this way as any spider’s web.

Milverton. The illustration is admirable; but I think it all comes to be included in the saying of Napoleon, “That the art of war is the art of being strongest at a given time, at a given place.” Now I just wish to ask you this ugly question, How are we to be strongest at a given time in Canada?

How few, even of our greatest statesmen, have given any indication that they are meditating deeply upon our colonial policy?

Johnson’s story about his Spoolans had a great deal of meaning in it. There is next to no looking forward to prepare for great political emergencies.

Sir Arthur. I must resume.

With regard to what you said about the physical well-being of a state, we are agreed with you.

With regard to what you said about the advancement of Christianity, we are all of the same mind with you, except Mauleverer, who said that he had observed that the advancement of Christianity generally meant an increase in the number of clergymen and priests. He was not for that. Then he told us that the most malignant human being he had ever known was a parson. We did not see that this had much to do with the present subject, and we outvoted him.

Milverton. I scarcely know how to construe what I hear. You appear to have nothing to say against me; and yet you tell me I have only made one convert.

Sir Arthur. Lady Ellesmere is on the point of conversion.

Ellesmere. I think nothing of that. I do not mean to depreciate women: I am in a thoroughly serious mood to-day; but I knew beforehand that they would be sure 415to be with you. Your proposition has in it everything to please them. They like anything that looks great and magnanimous; and you are not to expect them to go into all the statesmanship of the matter.

Sir Arthur. I am afraid it is now my painful duty, as a schoolmaster would say when he is going to give a boy a whipping, to set before you, Milverton, the great objections that have occurred to us, and which prevent us from being converts, or at least keep us undecided.

Is not this matter for a congress? Should there not be something like give and take, in such affairs? Is our Ravala-Mamee to be given up for nothing? Would not more of what you would wish to be accomplished, be accomplished by making the question European instead of British?

These are grave questions, my friend.

Milverton. They are. I wish you had allowed me to be present while you were discussing this part of the subject. I shall merely reply by asking you in turn some grave questions.

Would there have been such a thing as free-trade in our time if we had waited until other nations had been convinced of the wise policy of freedom in trade?

Would slavery have been abolished by us if we had waited till other slave-holding nations had come to an agreement with us upon this point?

And, to take a recent instance, should we ever have ceded the Ionian Islands if we had made that cession a matter of European talk, and haggled about it with other nations?

Sir Arthur. I proceed to tell you further what we thought; and I am now really afraid that I shall have to say something very unpleasant, and which you will have great difficulty in getting over.

If any cession of the kind you imagine is to be made, it will have to be discussed in Parliament. You know how injudiciously they often talk there about foreign affairs, and how little power the Ministers have either in preventing or directing dangerous discussions of this kind. Now, the transaction which you mean to be a great and 416generous thing, winning you the love and amity of the nation to whom you make this cession, will be so be-slimed with disagreeable and injurious talk, that you are as likely to be hated as to be loved for what you do.

Milverton. This is a hard blow, I admit; but it is not a fatal one. Such a transaction as I contemplate will never take place without a great burst of generous enthusiasm, and there will be a great many noble as well as ignoble things said about it.

But take the worst: say that we do not win the amity of the nation to whom we cede any possession. Will this affect the surrounding nations? Will it make the act really less noble? Will it be the less an initiation of a great policy? And remember this, that some of the advantages I have held out, affect our own individual interests—such as diminution of expense, and concentration of forces.

Sir Arthur. I proceed. I am not to enter into discussion, but simply to tell you what we all thought and felt.

We felt, then, that we were not competent to decide upon such a question without having evidence of a military kind before us.

Of course you are not able to give us that; and we should not quite trust you if you were able to give it. We admit that there would probably be great prejudice from a military point of view against your proposal; but, whether that view is prejudiced or not, we must hear it before pledging ourselves, even in friendly talk, upon such a grave matter.

Milverton. I have nothing to say in reply on this head, or rather I have a great deal to say; but it must be said after your military views have been expressed, and when I should be able to call in counter-evidence. I could say a great deal from history, bearing upon this point.

Ellesmere. Yes, yes; of course you could. You are better up in such subjects than we are; and you would only give us the instances which are in your favour. I do not mean that you would be intentionally unfair; but, in the course of your reading, the historical examples which are 417favourable to your own views would naturally have attracted your attention, and have retained the foremost place in your memory.

Sir Arthur. I will not allow discussion just yet. I must complete my statement.

We are afraid, Milverton, of being led away, or rather misled, by the consideration of some one of your projects—such as the giving up of a particular fortress. We see that it would be a great change in our imperial policy, especially as regards the colonies, if we were to consent to come over to your idea, and vote as you propose. We must look upon the thing as a whole. The power, influence, and reputation of a great nation are very delicate things. We are afraid, lest in touching some bit, we should derange the whole. In fact, to use an official word, we are not “prepared” to give our assent, however much or little it may be worth to your proposition. We admit that it is worthy of the most serious, the most anxious consideration. From this time forward we shall, no doubt, keep it in our minds, and find many things to bear upon it which may be either for you or against you. In fine, to talk after a parliamentary fashion, we shall not go into the lobby with you, nor will our names be found in the division list amidst your opponents; but we shall walk out before the end of the debate.

Ellesmere. A mode of action which, in general, I detest; but, in this particular case, I must hear a great deal more on both sides before I can come to any conclusion upon so grave a matter.

Milverton. I do not wish to say anything disrespectful, and I am very deeply obliged to you for the earnest attention you have given to this important subject; but I must remark that some of the arguments, or rather some of the feelings—for it seemed to me rather sentiment than argument that Sir Arthur has just adduced—are such as have been brought forward to stop the way of every great reform. “Touch this, and what will become of that?” “Suppress here, and you will cause detriment there.” You must admit it is hard to meet these vague accusations.

Sir Arthur advised that we should sometimes cut our talk by something that was either jocose or fanciful; and, whilst 418he was speaking, I couldn’t help thinking of a proverb in vogue amongst the Sheviri:—

“The frog leapt from the bank into the water; and, making a little splash, said that he was so much afraid lest his friend, the pescara,^[35] who ate up pike for him in the deep waters of the lake, should be troubled by it.”

Ellesmere. Now that won’t do, Milverton: it is very well meant, and very sarcastic, but it won’t do; for you begin by telling us that the leap of your frog was a most important plunge—the initiation of a new policy.

Milverton. Then I will give you another proverb which shall be more applicable. No: it shall not be a proverb, but a fable, which was a favourite with the Sheviri.

In the great wood where the Ramassa curves round the Bidolo-Vamah (I know that Ellesmere always makes fun of this bit of description) there dwelt two lions, occupying respectively the north-east and south-west corners of the wood.

This was in the time when lions and men were very friendly, and often had good talk together.

Both of these lions had scratched out with their powerful fore-claws deep pitfalls near and afar from their respective caves.

These pitfalls troubled the poor men very much when they came to gather beech-mast in the woods. So they said to the lions, whom they met walking out together one fine day in the woods, “These holes that you make everywhere are a great trouble to us; and we have lost some of our people in them. Please fill them up, that friendship may abide between us.”

And the lions said that they would consider about it; and, after the men had gone, they reasoned together, but could not agree.

419The lion of the south-west, calling all his friends of the forest together, did fill up these pitfalls: the other lion remained sullen and obdurate.

Now there came a great drought in the land; and the lions, drinking filthy water, fell sick, and the little lions were at death’s door.

Then the men sent their chief medicine-man to the good lion, who restored him and his young lions to their full strength; but the other lion lost his lioness and his young cubs, and became more gloomy and ferocious than ever.

Ellesmere. But there was a time when war did break out between men and lions, and what happened then?

Milverton. That is exactly what I was going to tell you.

War did break out between men and the lions; and the suspicious lion, flying from a band of armed men who were too strong for him, fell into one of his pitfalls far away from his cave, the existence of which he had forgotten; and he died miserably of starvation. But the good and wise lion mocked at the pursuit of armed men, and roamed freely, or if he fled, fled fast and unharmed, over his part of the forest, for he had not to beware of pitfalls; and he and his descendants occupied his corner of the wood securely, down to the days of the great King Realmah—commonly called Realmah-Lelaipah-Mu,―⁠―Realmah, the youth who could foresee things.

Ellesmere. I must admit that the fable is a very significant one, and keeps close to the matter it is meant to illustrate; but these kind of illustrations never convince me.

Milverton. Before I conclude, there is one point upon which I wish especially not to be misunderstood; and I trust that you will not misunderstand me.

I trust that you will not think that I wish Great Britain to act like a cruel stepmother—the stepmother that we meet with in fiction; for I have often observed that in real life stepmothers are very kind—and to get rid of her colonies in the most summary and careless manner.

All I wish is, that these great colonial questions should be carefully considered by our statesmen. There may be a great State, or what will soon be a great State, which, in case of the outbreak of any European war, will be molested 420solely in consequence of its being attached to us by ties, however slight. Now, for the interest of such a State (if such a State there be), still more than for our own interest, I wish to disengage it from us, and so to free it from any mischief that might come upon it from its connexion with ourselves.

I have come to no fixed conclusions upon the difficult points connected with this matter. I only wish, both for the sake of our colonies and ourselves, that this great subject should have due and instant consideration.

I do not pretend that I have not some distinct views and principles in my own mind upon this subject; but I do not desire to impress them, at the present moment, upon you. All I ask for, is consideration.

Sir Arthur. I must say, Milverton, that you are very good and reasonable upon this great subject. I should have much less faith in you, and much less interest in your treatment of the subject, if you were to endeavour, at this early period of the discussion, to enforce upon us any cut and dried opinions upon it.

Ellesmere. Oh, he is as cunning a dog as ever lived, as regards the artful way in which he gradually gets his opinions to sink into your mind! He began with me, as a little boy in a pepper-and-salt jacket and trousers, to convince me about the Corn-laws, and Free-trade, and other great questions about which he had made up his boyish mind most conclusively. To be sure he turned out to be right; but that is no matter. That was a mere accident. I warn you that when he is most fair-spoken, he is most dangerous.

Milverton. I cannot talk any more to-day. I am very tired.

Ellesmere. Oh dear me, how wonderfully affectionate we are to those people who agree with us! It is not often that my poor wife, “a poor thing, sir, but mine own,” is honoured in this way. And I am not sure that I should like it to occur very often.

Please don’t go yet. After a painful and elaborate discussion one ought to have something to amuse one. Do you remember that just before Milverton announced his five propositions, I said I could tell you something about a sermon that was divided into five heads? And Milverton would not let me interrupt.

Sir Arthur. Yes.

Ellesmere. Well, I was a boy of thirteen, at church with my father; and opposite to us, in the gallery, was a lad of about the same age as I was, in a pew with his family.

The sermon was of the order called drowsy, and we were well into the third head of the discourse, and I was trying to get a glance at the MS. in order to see whether we had got through more than half the number of pages, which I am sorry to say was a favourite device of mine, when my attention was arrested by a noise in the pew opposite. Up started the lad I have told you of (we will call him Tom Brown, remembering Tom Hughes’s story): in the most decisive manner he brushed by his family, banged the pew door, and marched away, making a considerable disturbance.

Immediately after church, my father, one of the most amiable of men (Lady Ellesmere is thinking now how different from her son), said to me, “Johnny, we must go and call at the Browns’ directly. Tommy is either very ill, or there is something extraordinary the matter with the boy.” Accordingly we went to pay a visit to the Browns’, and there we found what really had happened. My little friend Tom Brown had been chaffering the whole week with a gipsy boy from the neighbouring common, about the purchase of a donkey. Late on Saturday evening the negotiation stood thus:—Tommy had offered 1l. 15s. The gipsy boy stood out for 1l. 17s. 6d.

During the first and the second head of the sermon, the wicked Tommy had been thinking over all the good points 422of the donkey; and in the course of the third head had come to the conclusion that he would give 1l. 17s. 6d. And, being a boy of a most decisive turn of mind, he resolved at once to complete the bargain.

That boy was the only person I ever saw go boldly out of church, banging the pew door, and stamping out as if he thought the whole congregation, if they knew what was in his mind, would entirely approve of what he was doing. You know if one has ever so good a reason for going out of church, one generally sneaks out as if one were doing the most wicked thing possible.

Now the recollection of that transaction has stood me in good stead ever since. When I have been arguing before the House of Lords, or the Privy Council, and have noticed that the attention of one of the Lords is wandering a little, I say to myself, he is thinking whether he will give 1l. 17s. 6d. for the donkey, so I must quit this branch of the subject, and rouse him up with a fresh argument.

How invaluable this story would be to Members of Parliament! When a man, in a long and tiresome speech that he is labouring through, sees that the attention of the House is wandering, he should immediately realize the fact that it is thinking whether it will give its 1l. 17s. 6d. for the donkey, and he should at once conclude by firing off his peroration, long ago prepared. It is the most foolish thing in the world to go on, even with good argumentation, when you see that your audience is tired. I should like it to be told of me that my auditors had always said, “I wish Ellesmere would have given us a longer speech; but he is always so succinct and curt.” What an example the late Sir William Follett was to all of us! There was a man. People did not presume to cough while he was speaking. It was really one of the highest intellectual pleasures to hear that man deal with a difficult case, or a great subject. And how appreciative even the most uncultivated intellects are of such closeness of reasoning! I knew a common soldier who always went to hear the late Archbishop of Dublin preach, because, to use an expression which delighted me, “it was so well argued and put.” By the way, what a good essay that is 423of that man of many initials, A.K.H.B., on the “Art of Putting Things.”

Now you will all remember this story of mine about the 1l. 17s. 6d. for the donkey. You are very good, Sir Arthur, in respect of speech-making, for you never make a speech in Parliament but it is a great speech, and I honour you for that. You are very seldom tiresome.

Sir Arthur (putting his hand to his heart). It is indeed a compliment to be praised by Sir John Ellesmere, whose praise, from its exceeding rarity, is certainly most valuable. I hope I may always deserve it.

Sir Arthur. Do you know, I think, Milverton, that we behaved rather badly to you the other day. We treated you and Mrs. Milverton, and Mr. Johnson, as if you were enemies; and we, the know-nothings, held our private caucus, and arranged our opposition to you, somewhat ungraciously perhaps. But I can assure you that you had great friends in this caucus, in Lady Ellesmere and Mr. Cranmer.

Cranmer. I am very anxious to hear Realmah’s speech.

Ellesmere. And so am I; not that there will be anything new in it; for, depend upon it, Master Realmah has nothing to say beyond that which Master Milverton has already said to us. But he (Realmah) is an interesting specimen of a savage, and I should like to see how he deals with his Sir Arthur, his Cranmer, his Ellesmere―⁠―

Cranmer. Say, his Condore.

Ellesmere. And his Mauleverer, who, after all, will be the most difficult person to deal with.

Mauleverer. I do not know what the Lake City Mauleverer might have been like; but I can only say, that the British Mauleverer is a most reasonable person to deal with. It is true that he does not partake of any of your enthusiasms; but, at least, he is very like that good man, Londardo, and is apt to think that the arguments for and 425against anything are about equal; and so he is generally inclined to go the way that his friends would have him.

He is not like a certain yappetting little poodle that I once ventured to describe, but is rather of the bull-dog order, ready and willing to take up his friend and master’s side, without looking too anxiously into the rights of the dispute.

Sir Arthur. Let us have the King’s speech, Milverton. The greatest proof that we can give you of our interest in your subject is, that we would rather listen to you than have any more of our own talk. And I am sure that this is the general feeling.

Milverton. I don’t know how you all became aware that Realmah is to make a speech; I never told you. But Mildred knew it, and I suppose she told her husband, for there is no trusting a married woman with anything. She is sure to go and tell her husband; and then he, not having been trusted himself in the first instance, has no scruple in telling the whole world. The speech, however, does not come just yet.

Milverton. I reserve the speech for a new chapter; and, before describing its effect upon the men of Abibah, would like to hear what the guests at Worth-Ashton have to say further upon Realmah’s great project.

Ellesmere. And so poor Realmah is dead! You all think me a very hard man, but if there is anything in this world that I have a horror of, it is my friends dying, whether in real life, or even in fiction.

I have become quite accustomed to Milverton’s droning on about Realmah, and thought that it was to last for the greater part of my natural life. I must not say that he is a friend in fiction, and not an entire reality. As for Mrs. Milverton, Lady Ellesmere, Sandy, and even Milverton himself, they have the firmest belief in their Realmah. You could not offer them a greater insult than to suppose for a moment that such a being as Realmah had not existed, and that he had not done all these fine things. They get together in the study, and I hear them in my room overhead buzzing away, and I know that it is all talk about Realmah. I have very little doubt that Blanche and Mildred had a good sisterly cry together (nothing comforts a woman so much as having a good cry) over “poor dear Realmah’s death.”

Sir Arthur. I agree with Ellesmere, it is hateful to come to the end of anything, or anybody.

There is one thing I am very curious to know; and that is, whether Andarvi-Milcar, Realmah’s successor, fulfilled Realmah’s wish, and gave up, or demolished, the fortress of Ravala-Mamee.

Milverton. He did; but whether he was successful or not in so doing, I do not know. I suppose that in some succeeding age the Northmen did come down again, and make an end of the Lake-cities.

446I feel, now that it is all written, that I have omitted to dwell upon many things and persons that I ought to have described, but I did not like to worry you with details. For instance, I should like to have told you about the King’s jester, whom I have alluded to, but never described.

He was a very clever man, but excessively indolent. He never cared to take much interest in public affairs. He had the right of accompanying the King everywhere, and being near him whether at a council or a feast. Sometimes at a council he said very shrewd things, and was really of use. At other times he took no interest in the business in hand, but all the time played a game with himself called kinwee, which was played with fishes’ bones. He was very fond of Realmah, and followed him about like a dog. He delighted in witnessing so much energy and activity, and felt almost as if he himself was energetic and active. He kept the King’s secrets well, and that endeared him to Realmah. His mischievous propensities plagued the good Varnah a great deal, and he delighted to tease her, but she bore with him most kindly for the King’s sake.

Ellesmere. Just as Mrs. Milverton tolerates me for Milverton’s sake.

Milverton. It was very comical sometimes to see the jester at a council, when he was in one of his queer moods. He would throw down a large number of these fishes’ bones on the table, close to Realmah, then make a grab at them, shutting his eyes; then say, “Odd or even?” and retire into a corner to count the bones, nobody of course paying any attention to him. At last he would get tired of playing by himself, and would resolve to bring Realmah into the game. The poor jester did not dare to go near anybody else, so he would whisper persuasively in the King’s ear, “Loftiness, my dear, do let us have a bet, it’s so dull.”

Ellesmere. I thoroughly sympathise with this poor man. Everybody does so over-explain everything to me. I am so tired sometimes of everybody.

Milverton. And the King would return the whisper, “Go into the corner, throw ten times,—even bet of two shells there are more odds than evens. Play fair, don’t cheat 447your poor King, he has always enough to do with his shells.” And so the jester was kept quiet for a time.

The jester might have served the new King, but he would not do so. After the funeral of Realmah, the poor jester sadly followed the Varnah home to the house which had been Realmah’s in his earliest days, and where the Varnah meant to dwell for the remainder of her life. He (the jester) had never asked leave to live with Her Loftiness, nor had she made the offer to him to do so, but she would have taken care of a dog (though she disliked dogs) which Realmah had loved, and she was secretly delighted that the jester had elected to live with her.

Two more uncongenial souls could not have been imagined than Her Loftiness and the poor jester. She could not understand his wit (he was really very witty), and she detested his coarse fun and his practical jokes, but had endured them most kindly for Realmah’s sake. Realmah, too, was not the man to be amused by practical jokes, but he liked to see the people about him laugh, and be amused with anything, for he said, “Then they do not busy themselves too much with the affairs of my government.”

Ellesmere. The poor jester! I pity him from the bottom of my heart. I know full well what it is to live with people who do not quite understand one. None of you, except perhaps Milverton, quite understand me—not even always Lady Ellesmere.

Milverton. Be comforted, Ellesmere. It was not long before the jester had a companion.

The faithful Omki had, in obedience to Realmah’s dying command, attached himself to the new King. But he could not take any real interest in public affairs, or in the new King. He became utterly listless and depressed, so, at the end of a year, he went to Andarvi-Milcar, and said, “My lord and king, Omki’s heart is not a big heart, and it has not room for more than one love. I am the man who was in the same cradle with the great King, and I cannot love anybody else. Let thy servant go, for he is stupid and useless.” Andarvi-Milcar consented; and Omki, also, went and took up his abode with the Varnah. Her Loftiness 448rejoiced that she had now two feckless, listless, human beings to look after, who had loved her Realmah.

See what a dangerous thing it is to come within the influence of a very great man, or of a very admirable woman. If you have not a great capacity for loving, they take all the love out of you at once, and make the rest of the world uninteresting to you.

These two, the jester and Omki, would sit in the porch before the house of Her Loftiness, the jester playing his game of odd-and-even by himself, while Omki sat silent, full of sad memories of Realmah; and then an old man would join them, and pass the sunny hours of the day in their company.

This old man was Condore. His chief happiness consisted in talking with the jester and with Omki about the late King; and there was a great deal of talk, in which you could hear the words, “and he said to me,” and “I said to him;” and then they went through the strange scenes which had occurred on Realmah’s coming to the throne, and on the defeat of the Northmen, and on the sham fight, and on the last days of Realmah’s public appearance.

Thus these three men passed the remainder of their lives. Condore lived to a great age, for the daily exercise of criticism is not a thing which rapidly exhausts the vital powers.

Ellesmere. I am glad at least to find that, according to Milverton, I am to have a long life.

Milverton. There was a councillor whom I forgot to mention at the time when I described to you the rest of Realmah’s councillors. I thought of this omission afterwards, but imagined you would not care to have it remedied. However, I should like to describe him to you now, for his was a very peculiar form of mind, but one not unknown in modern times.

His name was Pimmenee. Like the other councillors, he was a very clever man. He was the most observant person amongst the Sheviri of natural phenomena; and, in general, knew more facts than anybody else. He would make a statement very boldly, and apparently well founded upon facts. But then there would come such a string of exceptions that the original statement would seem to be 449broken down by them, and at last you felt as if you had nothing to rely upon.

Realmah would try and bring him back to his original statement by repeating it; but Pimmenee would never admit that the repetition was correct. He had not said quite this. That was not the exact word he had used; or, if he had, it would not quite bear out his meaning.

For instance, a question would arise where the summer camp should be placed, and Pimmenee would at first pronounce very decidedly against a particular spot as being near a morass. Then there would come a host of exceptions to the statement—there were morasses and morasses. It might even be an advantage to be near a morass. And so he would go on, fining down his original statement till at last hardly anything remained of it.

Ellesmere. Is he not a little like two of the other fellows, namely, Lariska and Delaimah-Daree?

Milverton. No: there is where you are so often deluded in estimating men, and fail to get the most out of them—summing them up under some one general form of condemnation: saying, for instance, that they are not practical.

Now, Lariska was simply too argumentative: Delaimah-Daree too resourceful, and therefore too inconclusive; while this man, Pimmenee, was too exceptive. To get the good that was really to be got out of these men, you must have mastered the peculiar bent of each of their minds, which prevented each one of them, taken by himself, from becoming a perfect councillor; but which did not prevent their being of great use as individual members of a council.

I should like to give you some of the proverbs of the Sheviri. These were, in after-ages, all attributed to Realmah; and some of them, I really think, were his.

Sir Arthur. I should like to hear them. There is nothing in all literature more interesting to me than proverbs, and the fact that they are no man’s children makes them more interesting. I do not know a single instance, except in the Bible, where you can say for certain that such a proverb was made by such a man.

Milverton. Well then, here are some of them:—

450The viper will stand upon the tip of his tail to make himself agreeable in good company.

The crane stands upon one leg, in heavenly meditation; but all the while he is looking sharply after his fish.

When the eyes and the lips lie, look to the hands and the feet.

The prudent man (literally, the man who has eyes in the back of his head) cares more whom he is with, than even what he does.

Four fishes smelt at the bait and turned their tails to it; one fish came by and swallowed it. (The advantage of a council.)

Before the journey is over, the dog has run twice the distance. (Applied to a man who does not go directly to the point; but wanders hither and thither like a dog.)

Make the four salutations to a friend every day. (This alludes to the four bows that were made to foreign ambassadors by all who met them; and the proverb means this,—Keep up always the highest forms of courtesy with your friends.)

Jealousy kisses its left hand, because the right hand caught the fish.

The man you hate cannot carry his food to his mouth, but you hate him more for his way of doing so.

The ghosts of snails get into their shells (money) by night, and go, for company, where there are most shells. (i.e. Money makes money.)

Eukee! Eukee! Eukee! but, wife, the salt fish will do. (“Eukee” is a solemn word addressed to the gods; and the proverb alludes to the hypocrite, who addresses the gods fervently, but sacrifices to them only salt fish.)

The tears of a chief cause sore eyes to all other chiefs.

451The water sends you back (reflects you), so do all men and women.

Better be quite blind than see one side only of everything.

If you will do the thing that has not been done before, first hide all the stones that are in the streets of the city.

To the tiger his claws; to the serpent her venom; to the eagle his talons; to the rat his teeth; and to men and women calumny:—the good God gives weapons to all.

The Sheviri cursed the rain; but the patient rain went on raining, and the earth became green.

Say it often; men, as well as parrots, will say it too.

If you slay your adversary, are you sure you have done him any harm?

The ants march in one line, and overrun kingdoms. (An argument for unity and order.)

The echo says nothing of itself; so, the people.

The clever lizard leaves its tail in your hand. (This was a favourite saying of the King when he was urging compromises on his councillors.)

A lie lasts for a day: but it may be the day. (This, in the original language, is really a most effective proverb. The articles “a” and “the” are not expressed directly, but are included in the substantives. A day, i.e. an ordinary day, is Tala. The day, i.e. the day upon which some important decision is arrived at, is Talammah; and so the proverb runs in the original language, Strag (a lie) marlt Tala; pol kree Talammah.)

When you want to sell the blunt hatchet, be the first to say that it is blunt.

How wise the clever men would be if they could understand the foolish!

452All make the four bows to yesterday. (Meaning, I suppose, that all must submit to what we call now “the logic of facts.”)

One wise man knew the secret way into the city; but all said, “Why should we follow one man?”

The king had a friend before he was king.

Only the quite deaf hear praises always of themselves.

If the spider barked like a dog, would he catch flies?

He who looks down, gathers shells (i.e. money); he who looks up, sighs for stars, but they do not come to him.

The tiger that you look at will not give you the death-stroke.

A wise man said a word too much: that word was the word of a fool.

While the lightning lasted, two bad men were friends.

Ellesmere. Some of the proverbs are not bad. I like “the clever lizard” one, and “the dog that runs twice the distance.”

There, again though, how hard men are upon dogs. Why, men, metaphorically speaking, run ten times the distance! Then I like “the four fishes” one. I have myself observed that it is much easier to delude fish when they come singly, than when they come three or four together, and are fishes in council.

There are several of the other proverbs, Milverton, that are far too modern in their substance, and that you could never persuade me were uttered by any savage, however much you may try to make him out a Solomon.

Sir Arthur. I like all of them very much.

Ellesmere. Of course you do. As I have said before, one never gets an author to speak disrespectfully of another author—in his presence. Now I’ll give you a proverb which shall be worth something. Never believe a man when he talks about anything which he thoroughly understands.

453Mauleverer. That is the most impudent proverb I have ever heard.

Ellesmere. Impudent it may be; but true, it undoubtedly is.

When a man understands anything very well, he generally has an especial repute for it, and he speaks with an eye to that repute of his. Sir Arthur being an eminent man of letters, his public opinion of other men of letters is not worth that [snapping his fingers].

Sir Arthur. I shall respond to Ellesmere by giving him a proverb, or rather a saying, which I met with the other day, and which has delighted me beyond measure. It was in that recent work of Sir Henry Bulwer. Some Frenchman said, “C’est un avantage terrible de n’avoir rien fait; mais il ne faut pas en abuser.” What a wonderful lesson that is for some critics! Eh, Ellesmere?

Ellesmere. I don’t seem to feel it personally, but it certainly is not bad. It is indeed a tremendous advantage to have done nothing, when one is oneself the subject of criticism.

Milverton. Well, now that “Realmah” is ended, all that I have got to say to you is, whether you have done anything or whether you have not done anything (in which latter case you will certainly be in the best position for criticism), do not trouble yourselves with criticising, but do consider whether we may not draw some lesson from this savage chief as to the management of our own political affairs. Only promise me that, and I shall be amply rewarded for any pains that I have taken in telling you the truthful story of his life.

Ellesmere. Oh dear, dear! ’Tis sad to think that, after one more revolving week, I shall have to go back to town with Lady Ellesmere, to be entrusted to her tender mercies, and to take leave of Fairy and of the water-rats, of whose bright little eyes and inquiring countenances I see so much when I go fishing; and of Milverton, too, and of all the other intelligent creatures with whom I am at present domiciled. Let us make the most of this week.

Milverton. I am preparing, at Sir Arthur’s particular desire, an essay for you for next Saturday.

Ellesmere. And that is what the fellow calls “making the most of this week.” However, it is all right. The blackness of Black Monday is greatly diminished in intensity when the preceding Saturday is made of a dark brown colour by having to listen to an essay.

Milverton. But this will be an essay that you will like, I think.

Ellesmere. That is what you always hold out. The particular thing that you are at work upon is always to give life a new savour. It is the one subject which mankind is pining to hear discussed.

Milverton. It is to be an abrupt, disjointed essay. It is to sum up, as it were, our discussion, of late, of many subjects. There will be much that is commonplace in it; much that you have often heard me talk about before; 455much that you yourselves have said; and, perhaps, there will be a few new things. I really believe it will be the last I shall ever write.

Ellesmere. No: I don’t believe it. Placards up! “Signor Doncatelli, or Herr von Klinkel, has consented, at the urgent request of his many friends and admirers, to give one more representation, in which he will appear in his well known part of, &c. &c.”

No one seems to know when to leave off. Poor dear Sir Walter Scott! even he, shrewd man though he was, must write “Count Robert of Paris.”

Pooh! don’t tell me. I know but too well the nature of all you fellows who are accustomed to exhibit, and to be pointed out as monsters by the finger of the passers-by (monstrari digito prætereuntium), whether you are statesmen, actors, or authors. You never can be quiet unless you are upon your stage. There will no more be a last essay by Milverton, while he is alive, than there will be a last muffin baked as long as there are people who have the rude digestion to consume muffins. Don’t hold out false hopes: there is nothing more cruel.

Milverton. I shall not reply to Ellesmere’s sneers. He will be sure, after all, to take a box for Lady Ellesmere and himself, to hear Doncatelli.

What I want, however, to consult you about—for I am very much puzzled myself about it—is, what title we shall take. The essay will consist of endeavours to show how human life may be improved. I do not for a moment agree with Mauleverer that we are at a standpoint of misery, as he imagines; but, no doubt, there is a great deal that is very miserable in the world, and within our power, I think, to ameliorate.

456Cranmer. What should you say to this for a title?—“On the improvement of things in general.”

Milverton. Too vague, Mr. Cranmer.

Sir Arthur. “On the improvement of the human race?”

Ellesmere. That’s right; lug in “the human race:” that is sure to please Milverton. What says Sandy?

Johnson. “On physical and mental development, with a view to the future welfare of the world.”

Ellesmere. Oh, you pedantic Scotch boy! we can’t have that.

Mauleverer. “On the possible, but very far from probable, diminution of the extreme wretchedness of mankind.”

Milverton. No. I can’t accept that; I do not begin by looking at things from your point of view, Mauleverer.

Mrs. Milverton. “On consolation.”

Ellesmere. Pour out a cup of tea for me directly, please, Mrs. Milverton. She will well water the teapot, I know, to spite me, if I say what I think of her title before my cup is poured out.

My dear woman, it is not “consolation” that we are going to write about. It is to prevent the necessity for your rubbishing consolation. We all know that you women think you are such “dabs,” as we used to say at Eton, at consoling. It is not bolts and bars for the stable door that we are going to provide, after the donkey has been stolen; but we are here assembled, or rather shall be next Saturday, to prevent the stealing of donkeys.

And now, Lady Ellesmere, what wise suggestion are you going to make for a title?

Lady Ellesmere. “On mankind being made less provoking.”

Ellesmere. What would that do for the solace of the world, if womankind were left as they are? For surely the art of provoking is their own.

I see you will have to come to me for a title. I boldly suggest this one: “On the art of making men comfortable.”

In this Act of Parliament, or, if you like it, essay, the word “men” shall include men, women, dogs, horses, cows, water-rats, black-beetles, and all other animals and insects.

457Milverton. Your title is rather long, Ellesmere, especially if your interpretation of the word “men” be added to it.

Ellesmere. Not a bit too long. The Act, I mean the essay, shall always be referred to as “The Comfortable.” That will please Sir Arthur.

Sir Arthur. It will show what a forgiving disposition I have, and how fond I am of “The Magnanimous,” that I confess I agree with Ellesmere, and am quite content that his title, in its full length, should be adopted.

Milverton. So be it then; and Mr. Johnson and I will do our best to get ready by next Saturday. I shall want a good deal of indulgence from you.

Ellesmere (tapping his breast). This is the shop, as Mr. Squeers would say, to come to for indulgence.

Ellesmere. Who shall say we understand anything about “The Comfortable,” when we take our places in this summer-house to listen to a shivering essay which might have been delivered to us in a comfortable study?

Milverton. Shall we go back then?

Ellesmere. Oh, by no means!

Lady Ellesmere. That is so like John. He will object to anything, even when he likes it himself, merely for the sake of making, or, as he calls it, taking, an objection.

458Ellesmere. Don’t interrupt, Lady Ellesmere, and waste time. Don’t you see that Milverton is wild to begin, and that there is an alarming mass of paper in his hands to be got through before we shall have any comfort?

Milverton. You see I have adopted your title literally, for so you willed that I should. And now, first, I am not going to read an essay, but to make a speech. I shall speak to you in a most familiar way; and, moreover, shall consider that you recollect a great deal that I have already said, so that I may merely have to deal with it by allusion.

Ellesmere. Only one word! I won’t interrupt again. Let them take care to send their carriages to the railway station, to meet their poor friends who come to visit them.

Ellesmere. Yes, and women too. Oh, dear! I ought not to have interrupted.

Ellesmere. According to Milverton, in order to make people comfortable, we are to praise them when they deserve it, even though we have the misfortune to live with 474them. Don’t pinch my arm, Lady Ellesmere! I praised you so much before we were married, that there is an immense balance of praise, still unaccounted for, that will never be deserved on your part. But I have not indulged Milverton to this extent, and therefore I can afford to say now that the essay is not despicable. Useful, too, it is. People come bothering me, even in court, and saying, “How I wish I were you, having the pleasure of assisting at those essays and conversations which take place at Worth-Ashton.” And these people are wonderfully suggestive too, telling me what you should write about, and what I should talk about. Now I can answer them, “My good fellows, only read his last essay, the very last that ever is to be, together with my talk upon it, and then you need not read any more, and need not bother me any more, for you will know exactly what we think upon every subject.”

Now I will at once point out the things I agree with. I agree with what you say about government and education; also about riches and religion. Indeed, what you said about riches and education was chiefly derived from me.

By the way, with respect to religion, could you not have said something more about sermons? I have only heard three sermons in my life upon what may be called the daily topics of common life. Kindness to animals, gentleness and tolerance in domestic life, not ridiculing the young, not hurrying to repeat everything you hear, and several other topics that you dwelt upon, would make excellent subjects for sermons. Only the sermons must not be vague; they must not be Blairish; they must condescend to details. The preacher must sometimes say, “I saw this or that the other day, and I must protest against it.” He must not be afraid of using common words, and must call a spade a spade, and not an agricultural implement. If he is going to speak against bribery at an election, he must use the word “bribe” pretty plainly.

“It is no doubt, my Christian brethren, a thing to be greatly reprehended that when a person is admitted to exercise the privilege connected with a great trust, held for the good of the community at large, and for the welfare of our holy religion, he should, in an unseemly manner, betray 475that trust for the sake of any creature comfort, or endanger his soul by yielding to the desire of the natural man for filthy lucre, when lucre of any kind cannot be honourably or virtuously conjoined with the due exercise of this important privilege.”

What poor man discerns in that sentence any allusion to pots of beer and five-pound notes for his vote? He perceives that somebody has done wrong, or will do wrong. Naturally he thinks it is the squire, and he goes away saying, “Parson have a-been giving of it to the squire this morning, he have.”

Sir Arthur. I perceive a great opening for “filthy lucre” to be gained by Sir John Ellesmere, if he would but write a series of skeleton sermons.

Ellesmere. I will do it when I have time, and you shall have a presentation copy, Sir Arthur. I think they might even be of use to you when you are composing sonnets.

There is one thing you have omitted, Milverton, as regards the art of making men comfortable. I shan’t be comfortable until you give me some good plays to go to, played by great players. It is true there is always the House of Commons, which Charles II. said was as good as a play; but I want something beyond that.

Mauleverer. Yes; I like a good play. It is the only time one thoroughly forgets one’s private miseries.

Cranmer. I don’t care much about plays.

Mrs. Milverton. I think they are the most enjoyable things in the world.

Milverton. I will tell you a very foolish thing that is often said, even by very clever men, about playgoing. They say, “Why care to go and see Shakspeare acted? Can’t you read it in your closet?” Now this appears to me such nonsense.

Ellesmere. Yes, it is. I don’t believe that anybody thoroughly understands a great play until he has seen it acted.

Milverton. If there is anything in the world that I think I know well, it is Macbeth. I knew it when I was six years old, for my mother used to spend hour after hour, and day after day, in teaching it to me, and making me play it with 476her; but when I came to see a great actress in Lady Macbeth’s part—Helen Faucit—new lights burst in upon me, and I saw what a delicate and refined fiend Lady Macbeth could be.

Ellesmere. Yes, I know, Milverton, that is a theory of yours, that “Lady Macbeth” is her best part; but I differ from you, and think that in “Rosalind” is her greatest triumph. Now I will tell you what I think is one of that lady’s greatest merits as an actress. It is that she is not always quite the same. Of course her main conception of the part does not much vary; but there will be particular touches—new felicities—evolved in each representation. She gives me the notion of one to whom her part is always fresh, because, like the characters of all persons who are good for anything, it is, in fact, an inexhaustible subject of study.

Sir Arthur. Well, now, I like her in the Lady of Lyons. She it was who made the Pauline. I remember seeing her act with Macready in that play, and I never was more delighted in my life.

Ellesmere. You see now what a pleasure is lost to us if we neglect the drama. I shan’t be comfortable, Milverton, until you have the kindness to restore that to us—an easy matter, of course, for such a genius as you are.

But to revert to Milverton’s speech. I quite agree with what he said about the iniquity of adding undeserved honours to riches. Riches ought to have no effect over the distribution of honours and dignities. All merit throughout the world receives an insult and a discouragement when a rich man receives an honour on account of his riches.

Sir Arthur. As to discouragement, I differ from you.

Milverton. And so do I.

Sir Arthur. The men who do anything that is worth doing seldom think about reward of any kind. You can get their best work from them, whether you treat them well or ill.

Milverton. Quite true, Sir Arthur. We should confer honours upon them, not so much for their sakes as for ours. And not for ours in a worldly or acquisitive point of view, 477for, as you say, we shall get their best work from them, whether we reward them or not.

Cranmer. I don’t know. They knock pretty hard at the doors of the Treasury sometimes.

Mauleverer. Yes; after their work is done.

Ellesmere. Let us proceed with the discussion on the essay. How severe Milverton was upon our present mode of building and decorating. I think some general principles might have been enounced there—such as that celebrated one of Pugin’s, “Do not conceal the construction.” The mischief that is done by concealing the construction is immense.

Let us each invent a maxim. Of course it will only be partially true, as all maxims are. Let us be silent for five minutes. Walk about if you like (my locomotive thoughts are always best), and then each of us shall propound his or her nostrum in the form of a maxim.

Ellesmere. Of course I am ready first, and mine will be the wisest maxim. Never mind the outside.

Lady Ellesmere. Avoid uniformity.

Ellesmere. Very good. What an advantage it is to live with clever people: how it sharpens the wits! I almost think I shall change my maxim into, Find out clever people, and insist upon living with them.

Lady Ellesmere. One would think I had followed John about before we were married, and had implored him to allow me to live in the light of his sagacity, and to sun myself in the warmth of his tender nature.

Ellesmere. You gave clear proof of your good sense in doing it. Why deny it? What do you say, Mauleverer? What is your maxim?

Mauleverer. No artificial surfaces of any kind.

Ellesmere. That is grand, but there must be many exceptions—gilding, for instance.

Cranmer. No house to be built on leasehold property.

Ellesmere. Tyrannous, and inadmissible, I fear; but very suggestive. What do you say, Milverton? We expect 478something very good from you, as it is your especial subject.

Milverton. Never do anything in building which cannot give a good account of itself.

Ellesmere. A splendid moral maxim! but is it not a little remote from bricklaying and plastering?

Milverton. I really do not know how to sum up what I mean in one maxim, but I will endeavour to explain.

The other day, before we left London, I took a walk. I came upon some masons busily chipping holes in some blocks of stone at the basement of a grand house; making, in short, little dust-pans for the London dirt to accumulate in. This was done, I believe, because at the Pitti Palace, in Florence, the architect had, doubtless to save trouble, used rough and indented blocks of stone. Now what account could these little dust-pans give of themselves?

Then I saw a house with three huge brick pilasters rising nearly to the roof, but not quite, and all that they supported was a beam of wood fantastically and ridiculously ornamented? What account could those pilasters give of themselves?

Then I paid a visit, and was shown into a fine room with a coved ceiling. There were seventy-eight half-brackets, which, if they had been completed, would have had to support four beams of wood, which had manifestly other support. These semi-brackets were elaborately carved, and abounded in leaves. They were splendid receptacles for dust and dirt. The only account they could give of themselves would be that they were put up to accommodate spiders. Indeed the benevolent attention paid in house decorations to the judicious lodgment of spiders is quite marvellous. I wish people, when they were building, provided as carefully for the accommodation of servants.

Ellesmere. The illustrations are good, but the maxim remains somewhat vague and obscure, according to my judgment. What do you say, Sandy?

Johnson. Let every house in the country, and, where possible, in London, have a good large playroom, separated from the house by a passage having double doors at each end of it.

479Ellesmere. Elevate Sandy upon a tub, send at once for Theed or Woolner, and have a statue made of Sandy, with a battledore in his hand. It is a most judicious suggestion that he has contributed.

What a place that room would be to send children to on rainy days, and whenever their irrepressible animal spirits keep the nerves of the elder people in a state of anxious quivering!

N.B. (and this would make that playroom an earthly paradise). It should be an understood thing that the family are not “at home” to visitors, when they are in the playroom.

Sir Arthur. What a place for private theatricals, without upsetting the rest of the house!

Ellesmere. No foolish flowers to be put there to take up room. It should be big enough for croquet, while battledore and shuttlecock and children’s hoops should revel in it.

Milverton. What a place it would be for a good jovial dinner to one’s poor neighbours after a cricket-match or an archery meeting!

Lady Ellesmere. What a place to practise archery in!

Milverton. I will engage to build it out of the expensive and ugly follies―⁠―

Ellesmere. Which would, of course, be committed, if you were not entrusted with the building of the house.

Sir Arthur. Another good point is that there would be much less space required in the ordinary reception rooms, if one had such a room as this for extraordinary occasions.

Ellesmere. You are all going into too much grandeur. Sandy and I mean this room to be roughly constructed and attached to houses of very moderate calibre; and, if we were left alone for a fortnight, without being bothered with essays, and had one carpenter attached to us, we would knock up something of the kind here.

Now, Mrs. Milverton, what is your maxim?

Mrs. Milverton. I will give up the playroom, though with great regret, if you will only give me two rooms separated, in a similar manner to that which Mr. Johnson proposes, from the house, to be used in case of illness, and especially in case of infectious illness.

480Ellesmere. An excellent idea! But you must put it in the form of a maxim.

Mrs. Milverton. Leonard, do put it for me. You know I am not clever in putting things.

Milverton. Mrs. Milverton wishes to say that Every house should be so arranged as to contain a domestic infirmary.

Ellesmere. Well, you are all very clever! and have offered a heap of good suggestions.

As I proposed the game, I think I ought to be allowed to have another turn.

Then I say, When you are building, think of the comfort of your servants, even before you think of your own.

My first maxim, however, was the great one. I really am proud of it. I should like it to be commemorated in my epitaph. By the way, as this is Milverton’s last essay, it would be a very appropriate thing if I were to give you a sketch of what my epitaph should be. I think it should run thus. Give me your pencil, Sandy; let me write it out:—

Sir Arthur. Excellent! But there must be a Latin quotation somewhere.

Ellesmere. Oh, ah! Latin. Yes, I have it. “Quis tulerit Gracchos de seditione querentes.”

Sir Arthur. I must be very stupid, I suppose; but I do not see the appropriateness.

Mauleverer. Nor I.

Ellesmere. Nor I; but it will set people thinking. They will say I used it in some great speech, and that, as it had never been heard in the House of Commons before, it completely crushed Mr. Disraeli, or Mr. Gladstone.

Sir Arthur. No: say something of which nobody can make any meaning, such as “Sed memor quia immemor” (“But mindful, because unmindful,” ladies).

Milverton. No: turn it this way, “Immemor quia memor” (“Unmindful because mindful”), and then a very subtle interpretation might be given. Don’t you know that, when you know a person very well, and love him or her very much, you have more difficulty in recalling his or her countenance than that of any ordinary person?

Ellesmere. That is too fine-drawn. I stick to my Gracchi.

But is not my epitaph modest and touching? I could almost myself shed tears for the loss of such a man. I do not say that I was a perfect friend, but only an endurable one. And then how exquisitely my honesty, carefulness, and general propriety of conduct are indicated in what is said about the returning of borrowed books! Some people might think there is a little flattery in the words “powerful singer,” but I know that Lady Ellesmere always goes out of the room when I begin to sing, and I conclude that her exit is from an excess of pleasure that requires solitude to moderate it.

Ellesmere. What you said about pedantry, Milverton, was not bad, but I think it was muddled up in your mind with other things, and, if you examined the matter, you would find that what you disapproved of was a mixture of pedantry and insolence.

Sir Arthur. Resulting in disobligingness, which is but too common everywhere.

Ellesmere. Everybody knows, and Lady Ellesmere better than anybody, that I am the least offendable of mortal men. But I have been offended thrice in my life, and in each case it was by an official personage. Mark you that, Sir Arthur and Mr. Cranmer.

Milverton. Let us hear all about it. I can hardly imagine your being offended with anybody.

Ellesmere. The guilty official personages were the croupier of a gaming-table, a young woman in a refreshment-room at a railway-station, and an Under-Secretary of State.

Mauleverer. How came you to be on such terms with a croupier as to be offended?

Ellesmere. Don’t be alarmed! I never lost a penny at a gaming-table in my life. When once I am convinced that the odds, in however small a degree, are against me, not a thaler would I venture. But I met this fellow in some reading-room, and I asked him to do me some little service, such as one man may reasonably ask another, to show me where the bell was, or to be good enough to indicate the way to the hotel of the Three Knaves, or to allow me to have the Kölnischer Zeitung when he had done with it.

He intimated to me that people mustn’t speak to people if people had not been introduced to people, and snubbed me entirely. He was the most insolent of the three.

She was the haughtiest. I was foolish and tiresome 483enough, seeing a largely-spread board, to wish for something to eat and to drink. The young lady was apparently absorbed in writing an epic poem. She looked over my head, as Dickens describes, “into the far distance,” and yet I felt she saw this tiresome person. I never was cut so dead in my life. I went away hungry and thirsty; but I found another damsel who was gracious and kind to me, and gave me a bun, from the stifling effect of which I have not yet fully recovered. Oh, she was haughty, I can tell you, that first young woman!

Now for my third snubbing. My time is too highly appreciated for me to bestow it unnecessarily; but I had to represent some grievance—I think it was for some constituents—to the ―⁠― Office.

I made my way, not without difficulty, to the Under-Secretary,—not without difficulty too, from the many interruptions, did I contrive to state my case. Then he commenced snubbing me fearfully. You will think I was in a rage. Nothing of the kind. An odd idea struck me while he was talking, that amused me all the time.

Did you ever hear the story of Mrs. Siddons, “How gat he there?” You don’t know it? Well, she heard some one say of a Frenchman that he was in his bureau. Her ideas of a bureau were not of a room, but of a piece of furniture, and so the great tragic actress naturally exclaimed, “How gat he there?”

And so, too, all the time I was listening to this gentleman’s objurgations, I was saying to myself, “How gat you there? What Minister originally took you out of the ruck of men?” I say originally, because when once a man has got anything, he rises afterwards by a kind of routine, in parliamentary official life, as well as in the permanent civil service.

And then I thought of Milverton. He once wrote a story—the best thing he ever did write, to my mind. By the way, he will not live in future days by anything he has written that the public has read as his; but if he does survive in men’s minds it will be by some obscure thing he has written, which neither he nor the public has taken any account of.

484Milverton. Thank you, Ellesmere!

Ellesmere. Oh, where was I?

Milverton. That’s so like Ellesmere; he has often so many persons on his hands to attack—in this case the croupier, the refreshment-girl, the Under-Secretary, the Minister who first noticed him, and my unfortunate self—that he hardly knows where he is, and whom he is mauling.

Ellesmere. Oh, yes: I know where I was. Milverton wrote a story about some people who were always obliged to speak the truth when it was dark. I began to fear that I was one of these people. It was a November day when I saw the Under-Secretary, and, though only four o’clock (I was on my way to the House), the shades of evening were coming on. A nervous dread seized me lest I should be obliged to tell my thoughts, and ask the Under-Secretary, “How gat you there?” I hurriedly took my departure.

That man was the rudest of the three.

But, seriously speaking—for I mean that all my stories should bear closely on the subject—this illustrates what I mean.

These three people were probably pedants. The croupier had a pedantic idea of acquaintanceship—the Under-Secretary of official work—the refreshment-girl about giving refreshments. I have no doubt I did something that was out of due course: asked for coffee at a wrong time, or committed some solecism in refreshment manners. I daresay they were all pedants, but they were ill-conditioned people too. Pedantry is not so harmful as you would make out; and besides, you often mistake a necessary preciseness, or an inevitable division of labour, for mere pedantry.

Sir Arthur. I really think that, when a man has written his own epitaph, it indicates a great desire on his part for rest and quietness. I am sure, therefore, that Sir John will be very much obliged to me if I take up the running in his stead, and offer what few objections occur to me.

I think you are all too much inclined to look at what is physical. What you have said about houses is very good; but, really, man is too great a creature to be made very comfortable merely by comfortable houses. I like best what Milverton said about social and domestic intercourse.

485How many human beings, Mr. Cranmer, were there found to be in the British Islands on the occasion of the last census?

Cranmer. 29,423,628; I know you will believe in my odd figures.

Sir Arthur. Divide that number roughly by four, and it will come to something like 7,000,000. I have no doubt, then, that there are, at this moment, 7,000,000 of misunderstandings in the British Isles. You know what I mean by misunderstandings;—that A thinks that he has reason to think that B thinks meanly of him; and that B thinks that C said something very unkind about him behind his back; and that E is sure that F has prejudiced G against him, for G has never been so friendly with him since he (G) made F’s acquaintance; and so it goes on, through innumerable alphabets. Now this habit of self-tormenting might be considerably diminished by judicious education. Here is a thing, too, for preachers to preach against.

Milverton. The mischief chiefly arises from a kind of modesty—from a keen sense in most people of their own shortcomings and deficiencies. If people would only exercise their imagination in imagining that others think as well and as kindly of them (and this is surely not a great stretch of imagination) as they do of these others, the world would be a much more comfortable place to live in. The agonies that sensitive people invent—no, absolutely create—for themselves are as astounding in magnitude as they are ingenious in conception. I have seen the tears start into the eyes of a child on its being called by some new name of affection which it did not understand. Now, though a very humble, what a striking instance this is of the misery of misunderstanding!

Sir Arthur. A great French writer, I think it was Eugène Sue, said, “Tout pardonner, c’est tout comprendre.” I would rather he had turned it the other way, and had said, “Tout comprendre, c’est tout pardonner.” For, in truth, one would never be angry with anybody, if one understood him or her thoroughly. Now there is not time to understand them thoroughly. One must trust a great deal to the imagination: 486and therefore, I say, educate the imagination to believe that people are saying many favourable things of John behind his back.^[44]

Ellesmere. I know a John who never indulges in this fond imagination, and yet does not make himself very miserable by fretting over what he imagines people may be saying of him.

Sir Arthur. I was going on to say that we do not make enough of, or give sufficient encouragement to, pleasantness in people. I know I am only saying here what Milverton would say, and indeed what he has said elsewhere; but I do not think he gave the just weight to such topics in his speech, and that he, like the rest of you, dwelt too much on material comforts. He led you from the senate or the school to the social circle and the home; but I want to deal with the man himself, and with his modes of thought, if I am to make him “comfortable.” And I believe that a great deal can be done by training, especially by early training, to habituate our minds to “comfortable” modes of thought.

To illustrate how rare a thing is pleasantness of demeanour. I knew a lady who received, as it is called, London society very extensively. This lady was a comely, cosy woman, “fair, fat, and forty,” and one of those persons in whom others inevitably confide, and to whom they come and tell their grievances.

One day I was alone with her, when she began to talk of her experience of the world. I listened very attentively.

“Now, as regards you men,” she said, “what a number of clever and intelligent men there are! A clever man is no rarity! Also, what a number of good people there are; people (perhaps of rough, queer, awkward exterior) who gave no sign of their goodness and kindheartedness, but who, on the contrary, ‘from the cradle to the grave,’ are misunderstood; and who are very cross, too, at being misunderstood, when it is really their own fault, or rather the fault of their training. But if you want to know what is a rarity among men, 487it is a pleasant man—one who is safe, who never makes, nor takes, needless offence; who brings out the best points of other people. I assure you, Sir Arthur, when one has to give many parties, one learns to value such persons very much, and to discern that they are highly gifted.”

I never forgot this conversation, and have ever since been looking about for pleasant people. The lady was quite right: they are the rarities. Double their number, and the world would be much more “comfortable.”

Now, don’t come down upon me by saying that a man must be somewhat false, or too much given to assent to everything that everybody says, in order to be a pleasant companion. Falseness, or insincere assent, is immediately perceived, and destroys pleasantness of intercourse, instead of creating it. But a pleasant man can dissent from you heartily and earnestly, without giving the least cause for offence. Of course no man is pleasant who is not truthful. Now a disagreeable man will often dissent from you from the mere love of opposition, and you do not call that untruthful, whereas it is the essence of falsehood, and you never know what the man’s opinions really are, because he is so given to object to everything that anybody else says.

Milverton. I agree with every word you say, Sir Arthur; but do not blame me for not having introduced all these things into my speech; if I had done so, I should have spoken from breakfast-time till dinner-time.

Ellesmere. I must revive, and return to this dull earth; for I have something very good to say. I object to a species of ill-natured ridicule which is very rife in these days, and which goes by the vulgar name of “chaff.” I have heard the most ill-natured things said chaffingly.

Mauleverer. Well! If I ever!

Sir Arthur. Upon my word, Ellesmere, we must revert to the Latin of your epitaph, and exclaim:—“Quis tulerit Ellesmere, de chaffatione querentem.”

Ellesmere. And I must revert to what you say about misunderstandings. I will knock off, at once, some four or five units from your seven millions of misunderstandings, for I daresay there are four or five foolish people who misunderstand me. Cranmer did, for one; but that’s all over. I never 488say anything that can hurt anybody of any sense. Half an hour ago, I said something to Milverton about his works which might be taken to be an unpleasant saying, whereas it was a high compliment; delicately veiled, I admit, but still a high compliment. Other people valued his well-known works; I, for my part, delight most in those which are at present obscure. All my displiments (if I may coin a word for the occasion) are (when unmasked) highly complimentary.

Lady Ellesmere. There never were masks, then, so like real flesh and blood.

Ellesmere. It is very kind of you, my lady, to point out how well the thing is done, and that the deception is so like real life; and yet, as I contend, it does not deceive anybody. The birds do not come and peck at my picture: they merely say to one another, “How well Sir John paints his cherries! It is quite a treat to look at them.”

Now, for goodness’ sake do admit that there is a gulf so wide between fun and ill-nature that no Curtius can fill it up. Don’t think you are going to make men comfortable by making them dull.

Mauleverer. I am going to have my “innings” now, and I shall presume to take you back to a very grave part of the subject. You may try to improve individual men as much as you like, but I can tell you that they will always be little, spiteful, vain, sensitive, backbiting creatures.

Now I think you may possibly do something to make governments wiser, and so improve the comfort of mankind. I do not wish to be censorious, but the statesmen of modern days do not seem to me to be well educated for statesmanship—to be well grounded in the things it most behoves them to know. A signal proof of this seems to me to be, that all great measures are carried by the very men who began by opposing them. I will not use the ugly words “renegades” and “apostates,” but, to use parliamentary language, I will say that the best measures are carried by gentlemen “who have seen reason, and are not ashamed to own it, for greatly modifying their opinions on this important subject,” which generally means that they have come right round.

I know full well that to make too much of mere consistency 489is a great mistake; but it does occur to me as a subject of regret, that statesmen should not have apprehended the drift of certain main lines of policy. Now I must speak a little egotistically, but it will illustrate what I mean. When I was a young man, and thought it likely that I should some day or other be in parliament, the great noise was beginning to be made about Free-trade and the Corn-laws. I said to myself, I will study these questions for myself: and I did study them carefully. I came to the conclusion, which was not particularly welcome to me, that the principles of Free-trade must prevail, and that the Corn-laws must be abolished. Now, really, I cannot help giving myself, and others who did as I did, more credit for statesmanlike views than those men who filled a much greater place in the world, but who seemed to be very deaf to sound reasoning, and never to have looked into things for themselves. I cannot respect them so much for their inconsistency, whatever merit it may have, as I should have done for their sagacity, if they had been consistently right from the first.

Another point has struck me about statesmen. Sometimes they do not seem to be equal to the clever men outside, or even to the general body of ordinary men, for that is the point. A Cabinet, perhaps consisting of really clever men, puts forth something which gods, men, and omnibus drivers protest against, not only as a thing bad in itself, but which has also this disadvantage, that it cannot possibly be carried. That good sense which forms the best part of what we call “the public mind,” seems sometimes to have no representatives amongst even first-class statesmen. This has really puzzled me. I am not speaking satirically at all, but very earnestly, and I hope humbly. Do explain this phenomenon to me.

Cranmer. Let me answer him. You seem to forget, Mauleverer, that these things you object to, which are put forth by statesmen, and which, as you say, are discovered to be foolish, even by commonplace persons, are the results of compromise. Now, every compromise is easily attackable. Your commonplace man has nobody whom he is obliged to consult. His views are therefore uncompromising 490and clear. You would see what modifications he would have to make if he had to act with others, instead of merely talking out his own views, upon his own responsibility alone.

Sir Arthur. It seems but fair to consider this.

Milverton. Still, does there not remain an important residuum of truth in what Mr. Mauleverer has stated?

Sir Arthur. Perhaps; but much less, I think, than you imagine.

Lady Ellesmere. Now may I not take up the running, or have the innings, to use the elegant phrases which you gentlemen adopt, and make my comment upon the speech?

How was it, Leonard, that you did not say anything about marriage, upon which, surely, so much of comfort or discomfort depends?

Milverton. My dear Mildred, are you going to be unreasonable too, like the rest of them? To discourse properly on such a subject would have required a long speech, and who is to make such a speech? An unmarried man cannot, for want of experience, and a married man will not; consequently there has been very little written or said about marriage, if we except Jeremy Taylor’s celebrated sermon, which is worth listening to.

I will tell you something which occurs to me, but it has reference to love-making rather than to marriage. I think that some of you women make a point of being too reserved and too reticent in the expression of your feelings, or rather of neglecting to give any intimation of what those feelings might be; and so, many a marriage, that might have proved very happy, has been prevented.

Ellesmere. I quite agree with Milverton that, considering the greater natural modesty and timidity of men, women should make more of an advance than they do. What would have become of me if Mildred had not been somewhat different from the rest of her sex? You know how it all happened?

“Johnny!” she said (I did think that a little familiar, and that she might have contented herself with “John”), “Johnny! you are intolerable to most men, and nearly to all women; but you are not so very intolerable to me. I don’t mind, if you don’t. Pegotty is willing.”

491What could I do, but close at once with the proposition, and say, “Barkis is willing, and has been for many a long day”? And so it ended; no, it didn’t end there; I always do what the books tell me to do—I believe in books—and so down I knelt and kissed her hand. And here we are, not more miserable than other married people. Oh, it’s a capital instance of the advantage of women coming forward. Speaking on the part of men, having received a “brief,” marked with a large fee, and intituled “Mankind in general v. Mauleverer and Others,” I say we should not mind at all if women would take the leading part in love affairs.

Lady Ellesmere. I think I need not contradict this statement. The Court is too well aware of my learned friend’s power of statement, which is nearly equal in truth and accuracy to his “powerful singing.” Johnny’s audacity (I suppose I may call him Johnny now) is too well known for it to be supposed that it was wanting to him on any occasion. Their lordships, I am sure, are so far with me.

Milverton. Have you anything to say, Johnson? for, if not, I shall commence my speech in reply.

Johnson. I have something to say, but it is not quite relevant to the subject.

Ellesmere. Say it, Sandy. Hang relevancy and consistency, and all other strait-laced inventions for tying up the tongues of men.

Johnson. No, I shall postpone it to another time.

Milverton. Have you anything you wish to say, Blanche?

Mrs. Milverton. No, dear; I agree, chiefly, with what Sir Arthur has said.

Milverton. Then, I suppose, I may commence my reply.

In the first place, Ellesmere sneered at me about repetition.

I shall begin with a story.

I was travelling with one of the leading men of the extreme Liberal party in Ireland, a man of great eloquence, and it was at a time when O’Connell was in full force, and creating immense agitation for repeal. “What a great man 492he is!” said my friend. “Is there any man who can repeat the same thing over and over again in the way that he does? You do not see the greatness that there is in that. If you or I, poor creatures, were to have said the same thing once or twice, however appropriate, should we not be too shamefaced to say it again?—

Now, could you ‘hereditary bondsmen’ them more than once or twice in your life? You know you couldn’t. Whereas O’Connell can and will do so a hundred times. Those lines exactly convey his meaning, and he is not going to waste his time in searching for what would be sure to do not quite so well.”

What my Irish friend said made a deep impression upon me, and when I am drawing back from a word, or a phrase, or a sentiment, merely because I have said it once or twice before, I mutter to myself, “Hereditary bondsmen, know ye not?” and on I go with my word or my phrase, which happens to suit me now as it suited me before. Have I not answered you, Master Ellesmere?

I should like now to add a few words in explanation of my speech. I do not think I made very clear what I meant by unreasonable conservatism. I will give an instance. A man who has given considerable attention to the poor, and has been noted for benevolence, tells me that it would be an immense advantage if wages were paid in the middle of the week instead of at the end. I thought I knew something about this matter, but when I came to talk with this man, I found there were advantages, in the plan he proposed, that had entirely escaped me. Look, for instance, how much longer time the poor woman would have for laying out her husband’s wages to advantage. Whereas, under the present system of paying on a Saturday, she has scarcely any choice given her; for 493recollect that Sunday is the feast day: the day for which meat is bought.

Then another thing that you would never have thought of is, that no extra blaze of gas would be brought on, like there now is on a Saturday night, for the purpose of selling an inferior article under the deceiving influence of that extra light. Well, this man had two great establishments; one in town, and one in the country. At one he succeeded, but at the other conservatism, as he told me, was too strong for him.

Now, take another instance,—the locking of the doors of railway carriages. I never met with a man who could give me valid reasons for the continuance of that practice that almost everybody wishes to be discontinued. I believe that the reason mainly adduced for the practice is, that some madman might jump out while the train is in motion. But what a one-sided madman he must be, for the doors are only locked on one side. Bring the people of England to the poll on this question, and not one in one hundred thousand would vote for this locking up—except, perhaps, the madmen. They might naturally enough vote with the directors.

But the thing having been done once, irrational conservatism comes in, and years pass away before the thing can be undone.

Take another instance,—we mend our roads with rough stones, and omit to press them down properly. This injures our horses, spoils our carriage-wheels, and annoys ourselves; and, moreover, is a great detriment to the road. But to bring a heavy roller over these stones would be a Whig-Radical device, and irrational conservatism shudders at it.

Now I come to Sir Arthur’s remarks. Of course, if it had been an essay or a speech chiefly directed to the government of the man’s own mind, I should have dwelt much more upon the art of making men more comfortable in their minds. I should have mentioned, for instance, what I have said before, about the folly of hating, and of imagining evils for, others, upon this ground alone, that, exercise your imagination as much as you will, you cannot 494imagine anything which is sure to do your enemy, if you are stupid enough and extravagant enough to indulge in such a luxury as an enemy, any harm.

I should have endeavoured to deal with envy and jealousy in a similar way: but I was not speaking about the passions, but about the possible comforts of mankind.

Finally, I should like to say something more about communism. I fear I shall be misunderstood in what I said about that. I do certainly think that some of the advantages which communists aim at might be gained by central government, which, in my judgment, is bound to undertake that good for individuals which they cannot possibly compass by individual exertion.

But now, following the line of Sir Arthur, I will show that there is a much larger and higher communism in my mind—the communism of sympathy that should pervade all classes.

What is the great misery of each individual man? Isolation. “No losses but of my making, no tears but of my shedding,” says Shylock, being himself, partly from his own fault, and partly from the fault of cruel prejudices, one of the most isolated of beings.

You all know those words in the “Flauto Magico” which I admire so much. I have often repeated them to you, and (“Hereditary bondsmen, know ye not?”) I shall repeat them again. The words which please me most are—

What a comfort it would be to human life if men felt they could divide their sorrows with other men, and how willingly they would then allow those others to partake their joys! Of course, I know that, upon this earth, such a state of things is impossible. The only approach that can be made to it is by sympathy, and sympathy must grow with knowledge. Changing and enlarging a little your French proverb, I would say—“Tout comprendre c’est tout aimer.”

Ellesmere. No, I will not come again; it is such a detestable thing, the breaking-up. Nothing is worth it.

I will come and see you, Milverton, if you are in trouble or ill, but I will not assist any more at these pleasant meetings.

What did Dr. Johnson say when he went over Garrick’s cheerful house, and saw Garrick’s pleasant, comely wife, and Garrick’s well-chosen furniture? It was something of this sort:—“Oh, Davy, Davy, these are the things which make it so terrible to die!”—and parting is a kind of death.

Now there is Sir Arthur. I knew him to be a great writer and a great politician, but I did not know that he was such a good fellow, and that he would endure the impertinences of a certain flippant lawyer, presuming to chaff him (shall I admit the word “chaff”?) about “The True,” “The Good,” and “The Beautiful.”

And then there is Cranmer. Who would have thought that an ex-Secretary of the Treasury would be so tolerant of such an unofficial-minded man as I am? And then, Mauleverer,—I now know that he has a large soul, and am sure that he likes me better than any turtle;—and Sandy, there; what a clever boy he is! Have I not taught him many athletic sports—such as fishing, and making ducks and drakes on the water? And I am very sorry to part from him, too. I hate parting, that’s a fact! and I am not such a hypocrite and impostor as, like the rest of you, to pretend to be very cheerful this evening.

By the way, having mentioned Garrick’s wife reminds me 496of something. With my fear of any great felicity in this world, and my horror of having to part from it, I almost wish I had never seen Mildred. She has made life too agreeable to me. Now then, dear, have I not said a thing which compensates for all rude speeches, past, present, and to come?

Talking of “The Comfortable,” there is one comfort in having a wife, that one can throw one’s packing upon her; and, as no true woman can refuse a good opportunity for making a fuss, she is sure to delight in it. To-morrow is Sunday, and we start early on Monday; so, my dear, you really must set to work now. Remember to return those books of Milverton’s that we have carried off into our room, or my epi―⁠― Don’t look so reproachful, my dear. Do you know, Milverton, our wives are angry with us: yours because you said it was your last essay; and mine, because I wrote a posthumous account of myself. You silly thing! it does not make one die a bit the sooner; and as for you, Blanche, Milverton’s threat of its being the last essay is merely a sign of increased liveliness, and a decent way of informing us that he is coming out next season with renewed vigour. Do Ministers always mean to resign when they threaten to do so?

No, don’t go just yet. I will give you a good winding up of all our writing and talking. Do you remember the concluding chapter of Rasselas, “in which nothing is concluded”? I will give you my version of it as applicable to ourselves. It is as follows:—

497It rained incessantly (that is, it did yesterday), and the Friends in Council were confined to the house. A juicy day in the country promotes meditation of the most serious kind; and they had ample time to think over and to communicate to each other the various schemes of happiness which each of them had formed.

Mr. Cranmer thought that, of all sublunary things, taxation was the prettiest. He desired to found a state where the people would pay their taxes gladly, and where financial statements made by the Government would be universally believed in.

Mr. Mauleverer sought to enrol himself in a community where every man, woman, and child should know how thoroughly and hopelessly miserable he or she is, and where a joke should be a crime punishable by instant death.

Sir Arthur maintained that a perception of “The Beautiful” would, of itself, render all people sufficiently happy; but his wanderings from Mesopotamia to Yucatan had only brought him in contact with coarse people, who seemed more intent upon “The Beefy” than “The Beautiful.”

Mr. Milverton desired a kingdom in which right reason—that is to say, his own ideas—should always prevail. He had carefully fixed the limits of this kingdom; but could never find anybody worthy to be an inhabitant of it except himself and his private secretary, Sandy Johnson.

Mr. Alexander Johnson thought that literature was the salt of life, and that any man who had written a book must be very wise and very good. Some converse, however, with men who had written books, induced him greatly to modify this opinion; and he was now inclined to maintain that the northern part of each community contained all the worth, and wit, and wisdom of the land, and that the universe, to be well governed, should chiefly be ruled over by Scotchmen.

Mrs. Milverton desired to find—that greatest of household treasures—a good cook, with a good temper.

Lady Ellesmere proposed to form a female community, herself to be the head of it, where, freed from the turbulence of men, gentle means should be employed for the 498attainment of generous ends, and where rationality of enjoyment should be the just reward of perspicuity of design; but, never having been for any ten minutes alone with other women, without finding their society rather dull, she was beginning to conclude that men, as well as wasps, must have their place in creation (though she could not quite see why) and must be endured as necessary evils.

Sir John Ellesmere was contented to be driven along the stream of life without expecting to find anybody much wiser, more judicious, or less unreasonable than himself.

Of the many discussions and deliberations in which the “Friends” had been involved, they were now aware that some of them were wise, and that some of them were inept. Of the opinions they had pronounced, the precepts they had urged, the suggestions they had presumed to offer for the benefit—as they had been pleased to fancy—of mankind, reflection taught them that those which were the utterances of folly would be readily adopted by the common nonsense of their fellow-men; while such—alas, but few!—as were the dictates of sound wisdom would mostly be devoid of growth in the shallow soil upon which such seeds are, of necessity, scattered by the sower. Rejoicing in the thought that, if their lucubrations would do no good, at any rate they would cause but little harm—for the world is so full of foolishness that if a new folly is introduced it must perforce expel some other folly—the Friends in Council resolved, if the train should not break down, to return to their smoke-stained habitations in the “unlovely” precincts of modern Babylon.