IT is curious if one lives long enough to watch the change oftaste in books. I have no lending-library statistics athand, but judging by the reading of young people, or of thosewho read merely for their amusement, the authors theypatronise are nearly all living or very recent. What we oldstagers esteemed2 as classical in fiction and BELLES-LETTRESare sealed books to the present generation. It is anexception, for instance, to meet with a young man or youngwoman who has read Walter Scott. Perhaps Balzac's reason isthe true one. Scott, says he, 'est sans passion; ill'ignore, ou peut-etre lui etait-elle interdite par3 lesmoeurs hypocrites de son pays. Pour lui la femme est ledevoir incarne. A de rares exceptions pres, ses heroinessont absolument les memes ... La femme porte le desordre dansla societe par la passion. La passion a des accidentsinfinis. Peignez donc les passions, vous aurez les sourcesimmenses dont s'est prive ce grand genie4 pour etre lu danstoutes les familles de la prude Angleterre.' Does notThackeray lament5 that since Fielding no novelist has dared toface the national affectation of prudery? No English authorwho valued his reputation would venture to write as AnatoleFrance writes, even if he could. Yet I pity the man who doesnot delight in the genius that created M. Bergeret.
A well-known author said to me the other day, he did notbelieve that Thackeray himself would be popular were hewriting now for the first time - not because of his freedom,but because the public taste has altered. No present age canpredict immortality6 for the works of its day; yet to say thatwhat is intrinsically good is good for all time is but atruism. The misfortune is that much of the best inliterature shares the fate of the best of ancient monumentsand noble cities; the cumulative7 rubbish of ages buries theirsplendours, till we know not where to find them. The day maycome when the most valuable service of the man of letterswill be to unearth8 the lost treasures and display them,rather than add his grain of dust to the ever-increasingmiddens.
Is Carlyle forgotten yet, I wonder? How much did mycontemporaries owe to him in their youth? How readily wefollowed a leader so sure of himself, so certain of his ownevangel. What an aid to strength to be assured that the truehero is the morally strong man. One does not criticise9 whatone loves; one didn't look too closely into the doctrinethat, might is right, for somehow he managed to persuade usthat right makes the might - that the strong man is the manwho, for the most part, does act rightly. He is not over-patient with human frailty10, to be sure, and is apt, asHerbert Spencer found, to fling about his scorn ratherrecklessly. One fancies sometimes that he has more respectfor a genuine bad man than for a sham11 good one. In fact, his'Eternal Verities12' come pretty much to the same as Darwin's'Law of the advancement13 of all organic bodies'; 'let thestrong live, and the weakest die.' He had no objection toseeing 'the young cuckoo ejecting its foster-brothers, orants making slaves.' But he atones14 for all this by hishatred of cant15 and hypocrisy16. It is for his manliness17 thatwe love him, for his honesty, for his indifference18 to anymortal's approval save that of Thomas Carlyle. He convincesus that right thinking is good, but that right doing is muchbetter. And so it is that he does honour to men of actionlike his beloved Oliver, and Fritz, - neither of themparagons of wisdom or of goodness, but men of doughty19 deeds.
Just about this time I narrowly missed a longed-for chance ofmeeting this hero of my PENATES. Lady Ashburton - Carlyle'sLady Ashburton - knowing my admiration20, kindly21 invited me toThe Grange, while he was there. The house was full - mainlyof ministers or ex-ministers, - Cornewall Lewis, Sir CharlesWood, Sir James Graham, Albany Fonblanque, Mr. Ellice, andCharles Buller - Carlyle's only pupil; but the great manhimself had left an hour before I got there. I often met himafterwards, but never to make his acquaintance. Of course, Iknew nothing of his special friendship for Lady Ashburton,which we are told was not altogether shared by Mrs. Carlyle;but I well remember the interest which Lady Ashburton seemedto take in his praise, how my enthusiasm seemed to pleaseher, and how Carlyle and his works were topics she was nevertired of discussing.
The South Western line to Alresford was not then made, and Ihad to post part of the way from London to The Grange. Mychaise companion was a man very well known in 'Society'; andthough not remarkably22 popular, was not altogetherundistinguished, as the following little tale will attest23.
Frederick Byng, one of the Torrington branch of the Byngs,was chiefly famous for his sobriquet24 'The Poodle'; this heowed to no special merit of his own, but simply to theaccident of his thick curly head of hair. Some, who spokefeelingly of the man, used to declare that he had fulfilledthe promises of his youth. What happened to him then mayperhaps justify25 the opinion.
The young Poodle was addicted26 to practical jokes - as usual,more amusing to the player than to the playee. One of hisvictims happened to be Beau Brummell, who, except when hebade 'George ring the bell,' was as perfect a model ofdeportment as the great Mr. Turveydrop himself. His studieddecorum possibly provoked the playfulness of the young puppy;and amongst other attempts to disturb the Beau's complacency,Master Byng ran a pin into the calf27 of that gentleman's leg,and then he ran away. A few days later Mr. Brummell, who hadcarefully dissembled his wrath28, invited the unwary youth tobreakfast, telling him that he was leaving town, and had apresent which his young friend might have, if he chose tofetch it. The boy kept the appointment, and the Beau hispromise. After an excellent breakfast, Brummell took a whipfrom his cupboard, and gave it to the Poodle in a way theyoung dog was not likely to forget.
The happiest of my days then, and perhaps of my life, werespent at Mr. Ellice's Highland29 Lodge30, at Glenquoich. Forsport of all kinds it was and is difficult to surpass. Thehills of the deer forest are amongst the highest in Scotland;the scenery of its lake and glens, especially the descent toLoch Hourne, is unequalled. Here were to be met many of themost notable men and women of the time. And as the house wastwenty miles from the nearest post-town, and that in turn twodays from London, visitors ceased to be strangers before theyleft. In the eighteen years during which this was my autumnhome, I had the good fortune to meet numbers of distinguishedpeople of whom I could now record nothing interesting buttheir names. Still, it is a privilege to have known such menas John Lawrence, Guizot, Thiers, Landseer, Merimee, Comte deFlahault, Doyle, Lords Elgin and Dalhousie, Duc de Broglie,Pelissier, Panizzi, Motley, Delane, Dufferin; and of giftedwomen, the three Sheridans, Lady Seymour - the Queen ofBeauty, afterwards Duchess of Somerset - Mrs. Norton, andLady Dufferin. Amongst those who have a retrospectiveinterest were Mr. and Lady Blanche Balfour, parents of Mr.
Arthur Balfour, who came there on their wedding tour in 1843.
Mr. Arthur Balfour's father was Mrs. Ellice's first cousin.
It would be easy to lengthen31 the list; but I mention onlythose who repeated their visits, and who fill up my mentalpicture of the place and of the life. Some amongst themimpressed me quite as much for their amiability32 - theirloveableness, I may say - as for their renown33; and regard forthem increased with coming years. Panizzi was one of these.
Dufferin, who was just my age, would have fascinated anyonewith the singular courtesy of his manner. Dicky Doyle wasnecessarily a favourite with all who knew him. He was afrequent inmate34 of my house after I married, and was engagedto dine with me, alas35! only eight days before he died.
Motley was a singularly pleasant fellow. My friendship withhim began over a volume of Sir W. Hamilton's Lectures. Heasked what I was reading - I handed him the book.
'A-h,' said he, 'there's no mental gymnastic likemetaphysics.'
Many a battle we afterwards had over them. When I was atCannes in 1877 I got a message from him one day saying he wasill, and asking me to come and see him. He did not say howill, so I put off going. Two days after I heard he was dead.
Merimee's cynicism rather alarmed one. He was a capitalcaricaturist, though, to our astonishment36, he assured us hehad never drawn37, or used a colour-box, till late in life. Hehad now learnt to use it, in a way that did not invariablygive satisfaction. Landseer always struck me as sensitiveand proud, a Diogenes-tempered individual who had been spoiltby the toadyism38 of great people. He was agreeable if mademuch of, or almost equally so if others were made little of.
But of all those named, surely John Lawrence was thegreatest. I wish I had read his life before it ended. Yet,without knowing anything more of him than that he was ChiefCommissioner of the Punjab, which did not convey much to myunderstanding, one felt the greatness of the man beneath hiscalm simplicity39. One day the party went out for a deer-drive; I was instructed to place Sir John in the pass belowmine. To my disquietude he wore a black overcoat. I assuredhim that not a stag would come within a mile of us, unless hecovered himself with a grey plaid, or hid behind a large rockthere was, where I assured him he would see nothing.
'Have the deer to pass me before they go on to you?' heasked.
'Certainly they have,' said I; 'I shall be up there aboveyou.'
'Well then,' was his answer, 'I'll get behind the rock - itwill be more snug40 out of the wind.'
One might as well have asked the deer not to see him, as tryto persuade John Lawrence not to sacrifice himself forothers. That he did so here was certain, for the deer camewithin fifty yards of him, but he never fired a shot.
Another of the Indian viceroys was the innocent occasion ofgreat discomfort41 to me, or rather his wife was. Lady Elginhad left behind her a valuable diamond necklace. I was goingback to my private tutor at Ely a few days after, and thenecklace was entrusted42 to me to deliver to its owner on myway through London. There was no railway then further norththan Darlington, except that between Edinburgh and Glasgow.
When I reached Edinburgh by coach from Inverness, myportmanteau was not to be found. The necklace was in adespatch-box in my portmanteau; and by an unlucky oversight,I had put my purse into my despatch-box. What was to bedone? I was a lad of seventeen, in a town where I did notknow a soul, with seven or eight shillings at most in mypocket. I had to break my journey and to stop where I wastill I could get news of the necklace; this alone was clearto me, for the necklace was the one thing I cared for.
At the coach office all the comfort I could get was that thelost luggage might have gone on to Glasgow; or, what was moreprobable, might have gone astray at Burntisland. It mightnot have been put on board, or it might not have been takenoff the ferry-steamer. This could not be known for twenty-four hours, as there was no boat to or from Burntisland tillthe morrow. I decided43 to try Glasgow. A return third-classticket left me without a copper44. I went, found nothing, gotback to Edinburgh at 10 P.M., ravenously45 hungry, dead tired,and so frightened about the necklace that food, bed, means ofcontinuing my journey, were as mere1 death compared withirreparable dishonour46. What would they all think of me? Howcould I prove that I had not stolen the diamonds? Would LordElgin accuse me? How could I have been such an idiot as toleave them in my portmanteau! Some rascal47 might break itopen, and then, goodbye to my chance for ever! Chance? whatchance was there of seeing that luggage again? There were somany 'mights.' I couldn't even swear that I had seen it onthe coach at Inverness. Oh dear! oh dear! What was to bedone? I walked about the streets; I glanced woefully atdoor-steps, whereon to pass the night; I gazed piteouslythrough the windows of a cheap cook's shop, where solidwedges of baked pudding, that would have stopped digestionfor a month, were advertised for a penny a block. How richshould I have been if I had had a penny in my pocket! But Ihad to turn away in despair.
At last the inspiration came. I remembered hearing Mr.
Ellice say that he always put up at Douglas' Hotel when hestayed in Edinburgh. I had very little hope of success, butI was too miserable48 to hesitate. It was very late, andeverybody might be gone to bed. I rang the bell. 'I want tosee the landlord.'
'Any name?' the porter asked.
'No.' The landlord came, fat, amiable49 looking. 'May I speakto you in private?' He showed the way to an unoccupied room.
'I think you know Mr. Ellice?'
'Glenquoich, do you mean?'
'Yes.'
'Oh, very well - he always stays here on his way through.'
'I am his step-son; I left Glenquoich yesterday. I have lostmy luggage, and am left without any money. Will you lend mefive pounds?' I believe if I were in the same strait now,and entered any strange hotel in the United Kingdom at half-past ten at night, and asked the landlord to give me fivepounds upon a similar security, he would laugh in my face, orperhaps give me in charge of a policeman.
My host of Douglas' did neither; but opened both his heartand his pocket-book, and with the greatest good humour handedme the requested sum. What good people there are in thisworld, which that crusty old Sir Peter Teazle calls 'a d-dwicked one.' I poured out all my trouble to the generousman. He ordered me an excellent supper, and a very niceroom. And on the following day, after taking a great deal oftrouble, he recovered my lost luggage and the pricelesstreasure it contained. It was a proud and happy moment whenI returned his loan, and convinced him, of what he did notseem to doubt, that I was positively50 not a swindler.
But the roofless night and the empty belly51, consequent on anempty pocket, was a lesson which I trust was not thrown awayupon me. It did not occur to me to do so, but I certainlymight have picked a pocket, if - well, if I had been broughtup to it. Honesty, as I have often thought since, is dirtcheap if only one can afford it.
Before departing from my beloved Glenquoich, I must pay apassing tribute to the remarkable52 qualities of Mrs. EdwardEllice and of her youngest sister Mrs. Robert Ellice, themother of the present member for St. Andrews. It was, in agreat measure, the bright intelligence, the rare tact53, andsocial gifts of these two ladies that made this beautifulHighland resort so attractive to all comers.
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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genie
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| n.妖怪，神怪 | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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cumulative
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| adj.累积的，渐增的 | |
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unearth
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| v.发掘，掘出，从洞中赶出 | |
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criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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verities
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| n.真实( verity的名词复数 )；事实；真理；真实的陈述 | |
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advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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atones
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的第三人称单数 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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doughty
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| adj.勇猛的，坚强的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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attest
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| vt.证明，证实；表明 | |
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sobriquet
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| n.绰号 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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addicted
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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lengthen
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| vt.使伸长，延长 | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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toadyism
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| n.谄媚，奉承 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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ravenously
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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