II
People talk, in novels, about the delights of a first love. One mayventure to doubt whether everybody exactly knows which was his, or her,first love, of men or women, but about our first loves in books there canbe no mistake. They were, and remain, the dearest of all; after boyhoodthe bloom is off the literary rye. The first parcel of these garrulitiesended when the author left school, at about the age of seventeen. One'sliterary equipment seems to have been then almost as complete as it everwill be, one's tastes definitely formed, one's favourites already chosen.As long as we live we hope to read, but we never can "recapture the firstfine careless rapture." Besides, one begins to write, and that is fatal.My own first essays were composed at school--for other boys. Not longago the gentleman who was then our English master wrote to me, informingme he was my earliest public, and that he had never credited my youngerbrother with the essays which that unscrupulous lad ("I speak of him butbrotherly") was accustomed to present for his consideration.
On leaving school at seventeen I went to St. Leonard's Hall, in theUniversity of St. Andrews. That is the oldest of Scotch universities,and was founded by a papal bull. St. Leonard's Hall, after having been a_hospitium_ for pilgrims, a home for old ladies (about 1500), and acollege in the University, was now a kind of cross between a master'shouse at school, and, as before 1750, a college. We had more libertythan schoolboys, less than English undergraduates. In the Scotchuniversities the men live scattered, in lodgings, and only recently, atSt. Andrews, have they begun to dine together in hall. We had a commonroof, common dinners, wore scarlet gowns, possessed football and cricketclubs, and started, of course, a kind of weekly magazine. It was only amanuscript affair, and was profusely illustrated. For the only time inmy life, I was now an editor, under a sub-editor, who kept me up to mywork, and cut out my fine passages. The editor's duty was to write mostof the magazine--to write essays, reviews (of books by the professors,very severe), novels, short stories, poems, translations, also toillustrate these, and to "fag" his friends for "copy" and drawings. Adeplorable flippancy seems, as far as one remembers, to have been thechief characteristic of the periodical--flippancy and an abundant use ofthe supernatural. These were the days of Lord' Lytton's "Strange Story,"which I continue to think a most satisfactory romance. Inspired by LordLytton, and aided by the University library, I read Cornelius Agrippa,Trithemius, Petrus de Abano, Michael Scott, and struggled with Iamblichusand Plotinus.
These are really but disappointing writers. It soon became evidentenough that the devil was not to be raised by their prescriptions, thatthe philosopher's stone was beyond the reach of the amateur. Iamblichusis particularly obscure and tedious. To any young beginner I wouldrecommend Petrus de Abano, as the most adequate and gruesome of theschool, for "real deevilry and pleesure," while in the wilderness ofPlotinus there are many beautiful passages and lofty speculations. Twowinters in the Northern University, with the seamy side of school lifeleft behind, among the kindest of professors--Mr. Sellar, Mr. Ferrier,Mr. Shairp--in the society of the warden, Mr. Rhoades, and of many dearold friends, are the happiest time in my life. This was true literaryleisure, even if it was not too well employed, and the _religio loci_should be a liberal education in itself. We had debating societies--Ihope I am now forgiven for an attack on the character of Sir WilliamWallace, _latro quidam_, as the chronicler calls him, "a certainbrigand." But I am for ever writing about St. Andrews--writinginaccurately, too, the Scotch critics declare. "Farewell," we cried,"dear city of youth and dream," eternally dear and sacred.
Here we first made acquaintance with Mr. Browning, guided to his works bya parody which a lady wrote in our little magazine. Mr. Browning was nota popular poet in 1861. His admirers were few, a little people, but theywere not then in the later mood of reverence, they did not awfullyquestion the oracles, as in after years. They read, they admired, theyapplauded, on occasion they mocked, good-humouredly. The book by whichMr. Browning was best known was the two green volumes of "Men and Women."In these, I still think, is the heart of his genius beating moststrenuously and with an immortal vitality. Perhaps this, for itscompass, is the collection of poetry the most various and rich of modernEnglish times, almost of any English times. But just as Mr. Fitzgeraldcared little for what Lord Tennyson wrote after 1842, so I have neverbeen able to feel quite the same enthusiasm for Mr. Browning's work after"Men and Women." He seems to have more influence, though that influenceis vague, on persons who chiefly care for thought, than on those whochiefly care for poetry. I have met a lady who had read "The Ring andthe Book" often, the "Lotus Eaters" not once. Among such students areMr. Browning's disciples of the Inner Court: I dwell but in the Court ofthe Gentiles. While we all--all who attempt rhyme--have more or lessconsciously imitated the manner of Lord Tennyson, Mr. Swinburne, Mr.Rossetti, such imitations of Mr. Browning are uncommonly scarce. He islucky enough not to have had the seed of his flower stolen and sowneverywhere till--
"Once again the people Called it but a weed."
The other new poet of these days was Mr. Clough, who has manyundergraduate qualities. But his peculiar wistful scepticism in religionhad then no influence on such of us as were still happily in the ages offaith. Anything like doubt comes less of reading, perhaps, than of thesudden necessity which, in almost every life, puts belief on her trial,and cries for an examination of the creeds hitherto held upon authority,and by dint of use and wont. In a different way one can hardly care forMr. Matthew Arnold, as a boy, till one has come under the influence ofOxford. So Mr. Browning was the only poet added to my pantheon at St.Andrews, though Macaulay then was admitted and appeared to be more thetrue model of a prose writer than he seems in the light of laterreflection. Probably we all have a period of admiring Carlyle almostexclusively. College essays, when the essayist cares for his work, aregenerally based on one or the other. Then they recede into thebackground. As for their thought, we cannot for ever remain disciples.We begin to see how much that looks like thought is really the expressionof temperament, and how individual a thing temperament is, how each of usmust construct his world for himself, or be content to wait for an answerand a synthesis "in that far-off divine event to which the whole creationmoves." So, for one, in these high matters, I must be content as a"masterless man" swearing by no philosopher, unless he be the imperialStoic of the hardy heart, Marcus Aurelius Antoninus.
Perhaps nothing in education encourages this incredulity about "masters"of thought like the history of philosophy. The professor of moralphilosophy, Mr. Ferrier, was a famous metaphysician and scholar. Hislectures on "The History of Greek Philosophy" were an admirableintroduction to the subject, afterwards pursued, in the originalauthorities, at Oxford. Mr. Ferrier was an exponent of other men's ideasso fair and persuasive that, in each new school, we thought we haddiscovered the secret. We were physicists with Thales and thatpre-Socratic "company of gallant gentlemen" for whom Sydney Smithconfessed his lack of admiration. We were now Empedocleans, nowbelievers in Heraclitus, now in Socrates, now in Plato, now in Aristotle.In each lecture our professor set up a new master and gentlydisintegrated him in the next. "Amurath to Amurath succeeds," as Mr. T.H. Green used to say at Oxford. He himself became an Amurath, a sultanof thought, even before his apotheosis as the guide of that bewilderedclergyman, Mr. Robert Elsmere. At Oxford, when one went there, one foundMr. Green already in the position of a leader of thought, and of youngmen. He was a tutor of Balliol, and lectured on Aristotle, and of himeager youth said, in the words of Omar Khayyam, "_He knows_! _he knows_!"What was it that Mr. Green knew? Where was the secret? To a mindalready sceptical about masters, it seemed that the secret (apart fromthe tutor's noble simplicity and rare elevation of character) was a knackof translating St. John and Aristotle alike into a terminology which wethen believed to be Hegelian. Hegel we knew, not in the original German,but in lectures and in translations. Reasoning from these inadequatepremises, it seemed to me that Hegel had invented evolution before Mr.Darw
in, that his system showed, so to speak, the spirit at work inevolution, the something within the wheels. But this was only a personalimpression made on a mind which knew Darwin, and physical speculations ingeneral, merely in the vague popular way. Mr. Green's pupils couldgenerally write in his own language, more or less, and could "envisage"things, as we said then, from his point of view. To do this wasbelieved, probably without cause, to be useful in examinations. For one,I could never take it much more seriously, never believed that "theAbsolute," as the _Oxford Spectator_ said, had really been "got into acorner." The Absolute has too often been apparently cornered, too oftenhas escaped from that situation. Somewhere in an old notebook I believeI have a portrait in pencil of Mr. Green as he wrestled at lecture withAristotle, with the Notion, with his chair and table. Perhaps he was thelast of that remarkable series of men, who may have begun with Wycliffe,among whom Newman's is a famous name, that were successively accepted atOxford as knowing something esoteric, as possessing a shrewd guess at thesecret.
"None the less I still came out no wiser than I went."
All of these masters and teachers made their mark, probably won theirhold, in the first place, by dint of character, not of some peculiarviews of theology and philosophy. Doubtless it was the same withSocrates, with Buddha. To be like them, not to believe with them, is thething needful. But the younger we are, the less, perhaps, we see thisclearly, and we persuade ourselves that there is some mystery in thesemen's possession, some piece of knowledge, some method of thinking whichwill lead us to certainty and to peace. Alas, their secret isincommunicable, and there is no more a philosophic than there is a royalroad to the City.
This may seem a digression from Adventures among Books into the Book ofHuman Life. But while much of education is still orally communicated bylectures and conversations, many thoughts which are to be found in books,Greek or German, reach us through the hearing. There are many pupils whocan best be taught in this way; but, for one, if there be aught that isdesirable in a book, I then, as now, preferred, if I could, to go to thebook for it.
Yet it is odd that one remembers so little of one's undergraduatereadings, apart from the constant study of the ancient classics, whichmight not be escaped. Of these the calm wisdom of Aristotle, in moralthought and in politics, made perhaps the deepest impression. Probablypoliticians are the last people who read Aristotle's "Politics." Thework is, indeed, apt to disenchant one with political life. It ismelancholy to see the little Greek states running the regularround--monarchy, oligarchy, tyranny, democracy in all its degrees, the"ultimate democracy" of plunder, lawlessness, license of women, children,and slaves, and then tyranny again, or subjection to some foreign power.In politics, too, there is no secret of success, of the happy life forall. There is no such road to the City, either democratic or royal. Thisis the lesson which Aristotle's "Polities" impresses on us, this and theimpossibility of imposing ideal constitutions on mankind.
"Whate'er is best administered is best." These are some of theimpressions made at Oxford by the studies of the schools, the more orless inevitable "curricoolum," as the Scotch gentleman pronounced theword. But at Oxford, for most men, the regular work of the schools isonly a small part of the literary education. People read, in differentdegrees, according to their private tastes. There are always a few men,at least, who love literary studies for their own sake, regardless oflectures and of "classes." In my own time I really believe you couldknow nothing which might not "pay" in the schools and prove serviceablein examinations. But a good deal depended on being able to use yourknowledge by way of literary illustration. Perhaps the cleverest of myown juniors, since very well known in letters, did not use his ownspecial vein, even when he had the chance, in writing answers toquestions in examinations. Hence his academic success was much below hisdeserts. For my own part, I remember my tutor saying, "Don't write as ifyou were writing for a penny paper." Alas, it was "a prediction, cruel,smart." But, "as yet no sin was dreamed."
At my own college we had to write weekly essays, alternately in Englishand Latin. This might have been good literary training, but I fear theessays were not taken very seriously. The chief object was to make thelate learned Dr. Scott bound on his chair by paradoxes. But nobody eversucceeded. He was experienced in trash. As for what may be calledunacademic literature, there were not many essays in that art. Therehave been very literary generations, as when Corydon and Thyrsis "livedin Oxford as if it had been a great country house;" so Corydon confessed.Probably many of the poems by Mr. Matthew Arnold and many of Mr.Swinburne's early works were undergraduate poems. A later generationproduced "Love in Idleness," a very pleasing volume. But the gods hadnot made us poetical. In those days I remember picking up, in the UnionReading-room, a pretty white quarto, "Atalanta in Calydon," by A. C.Swinburne. Only once had I seen Mr. Swinburne's name before, signing abrief tale in _Once a Week_. "Atalanta" was a revelation; there was anew and original poet here, a Balliol man, too. In my own mind"Atalanta" remains the best, the most beautiful, the most musical of Mr.Swinburne's many poems. He instantly became the easily parodied model ofundergraduate versifiers.
Swinburnian prize poems, even, were attempted, without success. As yetwe had not seen Mr. Matthew Arnold's verses. I fell in love with them,one long vacation, and never fell out of love. He is not, and cannot be,the poet of the wide world, but his charm is all the more powerful overthose whom he attracts and subdues. He is the one Oxford poet of Oxford,and his "Scholar Gypsy" is our "Lycidas." At this time he was Professorof Poetry; but, alas, he lectured just at the hour when wickets werepitched on Cowley Marsh, and I never was present at his discourses, athis humorous prophecies of England's fate, which are coming all too true.So many weary lectures had to be attended, could not be "cut," that weabstained from lectures of supererogation, so to speak. For the restthere was no "literary movement" among contemporary undergraduates. Theyread for the schools, and they rowed and played cricket. We had nopoets, except the stroke of the Corpus boat, Mr. Bridges, and heconcealed his courtship of the Muse. Corpus is a small college, but Mr.Bridges pulled its boat to the proud place of second on the river. B. N.C. was the head boat, and even B. N. C. did Corpus bump. But the triumphwas brief. B. N. C. made changes in its crew, got a new ship, drank thefoaming grape, and bumped Corpus back. I think they went head next year,but not that year. Thus Mr. Bridges, as Kingsley advises, was doingnoble deeds, not dreaming them, at that moment.
There existed a periodical entirely devoted to verse, but nobody knewanybody who wrote in it. A comic journal was started; I remember thepride with which when a freshman, I received an invitation to join itscouncils as an artist. I was to do the caricatures of all things. Now,methought, I shall meet the Oxford wits of whom I have read. But thewits were unutterably disappointing, and the whole thing died early andnot lamented. Only one piece of academic literature obtained anddeserved success. This was _The Oxford Spectator_, a most humorouslittle periodical, in shape and size like Addison's famous journal. Theauthors were Mr. Reginald Copleston, now Bishop of Colombo, Mr. HumphryWard, and Mr. Nolan, a great athlete, who died early. There have beengood periodicals since; many amusing things occur in the _Echoes from theOxford Magazine_, but the _Spectator_ was the flower of academicjournals. "When I look back to my own experience," says the _Spectator_,"I find one scene, of all Oxford, most deeply engraved upon 'the mindfultablets of my soul.' And yet not a scene, but a fairy compound of smelland sound, and sight and thought. The wonderful scent of the meadow airjust above Iffley, on a hot May evening, and the gay colours of twentyboats along the shore, the poles all stretched out from the bank to setthe boats clear, and the sonorous cries of 'ten seconds more,' all downfrom the green barge to the lasher. And yet that unrivalled moment isonly typical of all the term; the various elements of beauty and pleasureare concentrated there."
Unfortunately, life at Oxford is not all beauty and pleasure. Things gowrong somehow. Life drops her happy mask. B
ut this has nothing to dowith books.
About books, however, I have not many more confessions that I care tomake. A man's old self is so far away that he can speak about it and itsadventures almost as if he were speaking about another who is dead. Aftertaking one's degree, and beginning to write a little for publication, thetopic has a tendency to become much more personal. My last undergraduateliterary discoveries were of France and the Renaissance. Accidentallyfinding out that I could read French, I naturally betook myself toBalzac. If you read him straight on, without a dictionary, you begin tolearn a good many words. The literature of France has been much morepopular in England lately, but thirty years agone it was somewhatneglected. There does seem to be something in French poetry which failsto please "the German paste in our composition." Mr. Matthew Arnold, adisciple of Sainte-Beuve, never could appreciate French poetry. A poet-critic has even remarked that the French language is nearly incapable ofpoetry! We cannot argue in such matters, where all depends on the tasteand the ear.
Our ancestors, like the author of the "Faery Queen," translated andadmired Du Bellay and Ronsard; to some critics of our own time this tasteseems a modish affectation. For one, I have ever found an original charmin the lyrics of the Pleiad, and have taken great delight in Hugo'samazing variety of music, in the romance of Alfred de Musset, in thebeautiful cameos of Gautier. What is poetical, if not the "Song ofRoland," the only true national epic since Homer? What is frank, naturalverse, if not that of the old _Pastourelles_? Where is there _naivete_of narrative and unconscious charm, if not in _Aucassin et Nicolette_? Inthe long normally developed literature of France, so variously rich, wefind the nearest analogy to the literature of Greece, though that ofEngland contains greater masterpieces, and her verse falls more winninglyon the ear. France has no Shakespeare and no Milton; we have no Moliereand no "Song of Roland." One star differs from another in glory, but itis a fortunate moment when this planet of France swims into our ken. Manyof our generation saw it first through Mr. Swinburne's telescope, heardof it in his criticisms, and are grateful to that watcher of the skies,even if we do not share all his transports. There then arose at Oxford,out of old French, and old oak, and old china, a "school" or "movement."It was aesthetic, and an early purchaser of Mr. William Morris's wallpapers. It existed ten or twelve years before the public "caught on," asthey say, to these delights. But, except one or two of the masters, theschool were only playing at aesthetics, and laughing at their ownperformances. There was more fun than fashion in the cult, which waslater revived, developed, and gossiped about more than enough.
To a writer now dead, and then first met, I am specially bound ingratitude--the late Mr. J. F. M'Lennan. Mr. M'Lennan had the most acuteand ingenious of minds which I have encountered. His writings on earlymarriage and early religion were revelations which led on to others. Thetopic of folklore, and the development of custom and myths, is notgenerally attractive, to be sure. Only a few people seem interested inthat spectacle, so full of surprises--the development of all humaninstitutions, from fairy tales to democracy. In beholding it we learnhow we owe all things, humanly speaking, to the people and to genius. Thenatural people, the folk, has supplied us, in its unconscious way, withthe stuff of all our poetry, law, ritual: and genius has selected fromthe mass, has turned customs into codes, nursery tales into romance, mythinto science, ballad into epic, magic mummery into gorgeous ritual. Theworld has been educated, but not as man would have trained and taught it."He led us by a way we knew not," led, and is leading us, we know notwhither; we follow in fear.
The student of this lore can look back and see the long trodden waybehind him, the winding tracks through marsh and forest and over burningsands. He sees the caves, the camps, the villages, the towns where therace has tarried, for shorter times or longer, strange places many ofthem, and strangely haunted, desolate dwellings and inhospitable. Butthe scarce visible tracks converge at last on the beaten ways, the waysto that city whither mankind is wandering, and which it may never win. Wehave a foreboding of a purpose which we know not, a sense as of will,working, as we would not have worked, to a hidden end.
This is the lesson, I think, of what we call folklore or anthropology,which to many seems trivial, to many seems dull. It may become the mostattractive and serious of the sciences; certainly it is rich in strangecuriosities, like those mystic stones which were fingered and arrayed bythe pupils in that allegory of Novalis. I am not likely to regret theaccident which brought me up on fairy tales, and the inquisitivenesswhich led me to examine the other fragments of antiquity. But the poetryand the significance of them are apt to be hidden by the enormous crowdof details. Only late we find the true meaning of what seems like a massof fantastic, savage eccentricities. I very well remember the momentwhen it occurred to me, soon after taking my degree, that the usual ideasabout some of these matters were the reverse of the truth, that thecommon theory had to be inverted. The notion was "in the air," it hadalready flashed on Mannhardt, probably, but, like the White Knight in"Alice," I claimed it for "my own invention."
These reminiscences and reflections have now been produced as far as1872, or thereabouts, and it is not my intention to pursue them further,nor to speak of any living contemporaries who have not won their way tothe classical. In writing of friends and teachers at Oxford, I have notventured to express gratitude to those who still live, still teach, stillare the wisest and kindest friends of the hurrying generations. It is asilence not of thanklessness, but of respect and devotion. Aboutothers--contemporaries, or juniors by many years--who have instructed,consoled, strengthened, and amused us, we must also be silent.