{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_76184/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_76184","id":"gutenberg_76184","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76184","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Biographies","Category: British Literature","Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Redesdale, Algernon Bertram Freeman-Mitford, Baron, 1837-1916"],"text":"_FURTHER MEMORIES_\n\n\n\n\n11th LARGE EDITION.\n\nMEMORIES\n\nBy the Right Hon. LORD REDESDALE G.C.V.O., K.C.B.\n\n_In two handsome volumes, 32s. net._\n\n_With numerous illustrations._\n\n\n\u201cA very charming book, written by a man who was born some months before\nQueen Victoria came to the throne, yet it contains not a word of\n\u2018twaddle\u2019; its genuine modesty leaves no room for mock modesty, and it\nis never for a moment dull. He has been everywhere and seen everything.\nHe has travelled far and wide, East and West: he has known many Courts\nand Princes. It is useless to attempt analogies of this vast and varied\ntreasury, social, historical, political, personal.\u201d\u2014_Times._\n\n\u201cAt length this much-talked-of book is in our possession and it will\ncause no disappointment. It is a work of genuine and serious interest,\ncuriously varied in its point of view, and supremely graceful in tone and\nform. It will be permanently studied as a contribution to literature and\nhistory.\u201d\u2014Mr. Edmund Gosse in the _Fortnightly Review_.\n\n\u201cOne of the best books of the last five years. Lord Redesdale\u2019s\n\u2018Memories\u2019 are not merely interesting, they are indispensable.\u201d\u2014_Daily\nTelegraph._\n\n                         London: HUTCHINSON & CO.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: _The Author._\n\n_Photographed by Furley Lewis Esq._]\n\n\n\n\n                          _Further Memories. By\n                    Lord Redesdale, G.C.V.O., K.C.B._\n\n               _With an Introduction by Edmund Gosse, C.B._\n\n     _Illustrated with a portrait of the Author in photogravure and_\n      ::      ::     ::     _16 other plates_     ::     ::      ::\n\n                        _LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO.\n                         PATERNOSTER ROW ... 1917_\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                                             PAGE\n\n    INTRODUCTION. BY EDMUND GOSSE, C.B.                        ix\n\n    VELUVANA                                                    1\n\n    BUDDHA AND ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI AND CASTE\u2014THE ARYANS      46\n\n    THE COMMUNE                                                78\n\n    TREES AND THEIR LEGENDS                                    96\n\n    QUEEN VICTORIA AND MARIE THERESIA                         129\n\n    THE WALLACE COLLECTION                                    155\n\n    A NOTE ON RUSSIAN STUDIES                                 203\n\n    VERBA COMPOSITA                                           209\n\n    RUSSIA                                                    246\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n    THE AUTHOR (_photogravure_)                     _Frontispiece_\n      _Photographed by Furley Lewis, Esq._\n\n    SCENE IN THE AUTHOR\u2019S GARDEN                    _Facing p._ 6\n\n    REST-HOUSE IN THE AUTHOR\u2019S GARDEN                    \u201d     10\n\n    FIGURE OF THE BUDDHA                                 \u201d     24\n\n    PROFESSOR MAX M\u00dcLLER                                 \u201d     52\n      _From a photograph by Elliott & Fry, Ltd._\n\n    ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI PREACHING TO THE BIRDS         \u201d     58\n      _From a picture by Giotto_\n\n    GUSTAVE COURBET                                      \u201d     82\n      _From a picture by himself in the Louvre_\n\n    THE EMPRESS MARIE THERESIA                           \u201d    130\n      _From an engraving after a painting by Mytens_\n\n    THE MARQUIS OF HERTFORD                              \u201d    158\n      _From a bust in the Wallace Collection_\n\n    SIR RICHARD WALLACE                                  \u201d    192\n      _From a bust in the Wallace Collection_\n\n    IVAN TURGENIEV                                       \u201d    204\n      _From an etching by E. Hedouin_\n\n    FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE                                  \u201d    212\n\n    RICHARD WAGNER                                       \u201d    218\n\n    THE EMPEROR PAUL                                     \u201d    248\n\n    THE EMPEROR ALEXANDER I.                             \u201d    260\n      _From an engraving after a portrait by Wolkoff_\n\n    THE EMPEROR NICHOLAS II.                             \u201d    284\n      _From a lithograph_\n\n    PRINCE GORTCHAKOFF                                   \u201d    296\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\nBY EDMUND GOSSE, C.B.\n\n\nThe publication of Lord Redesdale\u2019s \u201cMemories\u201d\u2014which was one of the\nmost successful autobiographies of recent times\u2014familiarized thousands\nof readers with the principal adventures of a very remarkable man, but,\nwhen all was said and done, left an incomplete impression of his tastes\nand occupations on the minds of those who were not familiar with his\nearlier writings. His literary career had been a very irregular one.\nHe took up literature rather late, and produced a book that has become\na classic\u2014\u201cTales of Old Japan.\u201d He did not immediately pursue this\nsuccess, but became involved in public activities of many kinds, which\ndistracted his attention. In his sixtieth year he brought out \u201cThe Bamboo\nGarden,\u201d and from that time\u2014until, in his eightieth year, he died in full\nintellectual energy\u2014he constantly devoted himself to the art of writing.\nHis zeal, his ambition, were wonderful; but it was impossible to overlook\nthe disadvantage from which that ambition and that zeal suffered in the\nfact that for the first sixty years of his life the writer had cultivated\nthe art but casually and sporadically. He retained, in spite of all the\nlabour which he expended, a certain stiffness, an air of the amateur, of\nwhich he himself was always acutely conscious.\n\nThis did not interfere with the direct and sincere appeal made to\ngeneral attention by the 1915 \u201cMemories,\u201d a book so full of geniality\nand variety, so independent in its judgments and so winning in its\ningenuousness, that its wider popularity could be the object of no\nsurprise. But, to those who knew Lord Redesdale intimately, it must\nalways appear that his autobiography fails to explain him from what we\nmay call the subjective point of view. It tells us of his adventures and\nhis friendships, of the strange lands he visited and of the unexpected\nconfidences he received, but it does not reveal very distinctly\nthe character of the writer. There is far more of his intellectual\nconstitution, of his personal tastes and mental habits, in the volume of\nessays of 1912, called \u201cA Tragedy in Stone,\u201d but even here much is left\nunsaid and even unsuggested.\n\nPerhaps the most remarkable fact about Lord Redesdale was the redundant\nvitality of his character. His nature swarmed with life, like a drop\nof pond-water under a microscope. There cannot be found room in any\none nature for all the qualities, and what he lacked in some degree\nwas concentration. But very few men who have lived in our complicated\nage have done well in so many directions as he, or, aiming widely,\nhave failed in so few. He shrank from no labour and hesitated before\nno difficulty, but pushed on with an extraordinary energy along many\nvarious lines of activity. But the two lines in which he most desired\nand most determined to excel, gardening and authorship, are scarcely\nto be discerned, except below the surface, in his \u201cMemories.\u201d Next to\nhis books, what he regarded with most satisfaction was his wonderful\ngarden at Batsford, and of this there is scarcely a word of record in\nthe autobiography. He had always intended to celebrate this garden, and\nwhen he was preparing to return to Batsford in 1915 he wrote to me that\nhe was going to write an \u201cApologia pro Horto meo,\u201d as long before he\nhad composed one \u201cpro Bambusis meis.\u201d A book which should combine with\nthe freest fancies of his intellect a picture of the exotic groves of\nBatsford was what was required to round off Lord Redesdale\u2019s literary\nadventures. It will be seen that he very nearly succeeded in thus setting\nthe top-stone on his literary edifice.\n\nOne reason, perhaps, why Batsford, which was ever present to his\nthoughts, is so very slightly and vaguely mentioned in Lord Redesdale\u2019s\n\u201cMemories,\u201d may be the fact that from 1910 onwards he was not living\nin it himself, and that it was irksome to him to magnify in print\nhorticultural beauties which were for the time being in the possession\nof others. The outbreak of the war, in which all his five sons were\ninstantly engaged, was the earliest of a series of changes which\ncompletely altered the surface of Lord Redesdale\u2019s life. Batsford came\nonce more into his personal occupation, and at the same time it became\nconvenient to give up his London house in Kensington Court. Many things\ncombined to transform his life in the early summer of 1915. His eldest\nson, Major the Hon. Clement Mitford, after brilliantly distinguishing\nhimself in battle, was received by the King and decorated, to the\nrapturous exultation of his father. Major Mitford returned to the French\nfront, only to fall on the 13th of May, 1915.\n\nAt this time I was seeing Lord Redesdale very frequently, and I could\nnot but be struck by the effect of this blow upon his temperament. After\nthe first shock of sorrow, I observed in him the determination not to\nallow himself to be crushed. His dominant vitality asserted itself almost\nwith violence, and he seemed to clench his teeth in defiance of the\nblow to his individuality. It required on the part of so old a man no\nlittle fortitude, for it is easier to bear a great and heroic bereavement\nthan to resist the wearing vexation of seeing one\u2019s system of daily\noccupation crumbling away. Lord Redesdale was pleased to be going again\nto Batsford, which had supplied him in years past with so much sumptuous\nand varied entertainment, but it was a matter of alarm with him to give\nup all, or almost all, the various ties with London which had meant so\nmuch to his vividly social nature.\n\nMeanwhile, during the early months of 1915 in London, he had plenty of\nemployment in finishing and revising his \u201cMemories,\u201d which it had taken\nhim two years to write. This was an occupation which bridged over the\nhorrid chasm between his old active life in London, with its thousand\ninterests, and the uncertain and partly dreaded prospect of an exile\nin the bamboo-gardens of a remote corner of Gloucestershire, where his\ndeafness must needs exclude him from the old activities of local life.\n\nHe finished revising the manuscript of his \u201cMemories\u201d in July, and then\nwent down, while the actual transference of his home took place, to the\nRoyal Yacht Squadron Castle, Cowes, where he had been accustomed to spend\nsome of the most enjoyable hours of his life. But this scene, habitually\nthronged with people, and palpitating with gaiety, in the midst of which\nLord Redesdale found himself so singularly at home, was now, more than\nperhaps any other haunt of the English sportsman, in complete eclipse.\nThe weather was lovely, but there were no yachts, no old chums, no\ncharming ladies. \u201cIt is very dull,\u201d he wrote; \u201cthe sole inhabitant of\nthe Club besides myself was Lord Falkland, and now he is gone.\u201d In these\nconditions Lord Redesdale became suddenly conscious that the activity\nof the last two or three years was over, that the aspect of his world\nhad changed, and that he was in danger of losing that hold upon life to\nwhich he so resolutely clung. In conditions of this kind he always turned\nto seek for something mentally \u201ccraggy,\u201d as Byron said, and at Cowes he\nwonderfully found the writings of Nietzsche. The result is described in\na remarkable letter to myself (July 28th, 1915), which I quote because it\nmarks the earliest stage in the composition of his last unfinished book:\n\n    \u201cI have been trying to occupy myself with Nietzsche, on the\n    theory that there must be something great about a man who\n    exercised the immense influence that he did. But I confess I\n    am no convert to any of his various moods. Here and there I\n    find gems of thought, but one has to wade through a morass of\n    blue mud to get at them. Here is a capital saying of his which\n    may be new to you\u2014in a letter to his friend Rohde he writes:\n    \u2018Eternally we need midwives in order to be delivered of our\n    thoughts.\u2019 We cannot work in solitude. \u2018Woe to us who lack the\n    sunlight of a friend\u2019s presence.\u2019\n\n    \u201cHow true that is! When I come down here, I think that with\n    so much time on my hands I shall be able to get through a\n    pile of work. Not a bit of it! I find it difficult even to\n    write a note. To me it is an imperative necessity to have the\n    sympathetic counsel of a friend.\u201d\n\nThe letter continued with an impassioned appeal to his correspondent to\nfind some definite intellectual work for him to undertake. \u201cYou make me\ndare, and that is much towards winning a game. You must sharpen my wits,\nwhich are blunt enough just now.\u201d In short, it was a cry from the island\nof boredom to come over the water and administer first-aid.\n\nAccordingly, I started for Cowes, and was welcomed at the pier with all\nmy host\u2019s habitual and vivacious hospitality. Scarcely were we seated in\nour wicker-chairs in face of the Solent, not twinkling as usual with\npleasure-sails, but sinister with strange instruments of warfare, than\nhe began the attack. \u201cWhat am I to do with myself?\u201d was the instant\nquestion; \u201cwhat means can I find of occupying this dreadful void of\nleisure?\u201d To which the obvious reply was: \u201cFirst of all, you must exhibit\nto me the famous attractions of Cowes!\u201d \u201cThere are none,\u201d he replied\nin comic despair, but we presently invented some, and my visit, which\nextended over several radiant days of a perfect August, was diversified\nwith walks and excursions by land and water, in which my companion\nwas as active and as ardent as though he had been nineteen instead of\nseventy-nine. In a suit picturesquely marine, with his beautiful silver\nhair escaping from a jaunty yachting cap, he was the last expression of\nvivacity and gaiety.\n\nThe question of his intellectual occupation in the future came, however,\nincessantly to the front; and our long talks in the strange and uncanny\nsolitude of the Royal Yacht Squadron Castle always came back to this:\nWhat task was he to take up next? His large autobiography was now coming\nback to him from the printers in packets of proof, with which he was\ncloseted night and morning; and I suggested that while this was going on\nthere was no need for him to think about future enterprises. To tell the\ntruth, I had regarded the \u201cMemories\u201d as likely to be the final labour\nof Lord Redesdale\u2019s busy life. It seemed to me that at his advanced\nage he might now well withdraw into dignified repose. I even hinted so\nmuch in terms as delicate as I could make them, but the suggestion was\nnot well received. I became conscious that there was nothing he was so\nlittle prepared to welcome as \u201crepose\u201d; that, in fact, the terror which\npossessed him was precisely the dread of having to withdraw from the\nstage of life. His deafness, which now began to be excessive, closed to\nhis eager spirit so many of the avenues of experience, that he was more\nthan ever anxious to keep clear those that remained to him, and of these,\nliterary expression came to be almost the only one left. In the absence\nof a definite task his path in this direction led through darkness.\n\nBut it was not until after several suggestions and many conversations\nthat light was found. The friend so pressingly appealed to returned to\nLondon, where he was stern in rejecting several projects, hotly flung\nat his head and then coldly abandoned. A study of the Empress Maria\nTheresa, suggested by a feverish perusal of Pechler, was the latest and\nleast attractive of these. Lord Redesdale then frankly demanded that a\nsubject should be found for him. \u201cYou have brought this upon yourself,\u201d\nhe said, \u201cby encouraging me to write.\u201d What might prove the scheme of a\nvery pleasant book then occurred to us, and it was suggested to the fiery\nand impatient author, who had by this time retired for good to Batsford,\nthat he should compose a volume of essays dealing with things in general,\nbut bound together by a constantly repeated reference to his wild garden\nof bamboos and the Buddha in his secret grove. The author was to suppose\nhimself seated with a friend on the terrace at the top of the garden, and\nto let the idea of the bamboo run through the whole tissue of reflections\nand reminiscences like an emerald thread. Lord Redesdale was enchanted,\nand the idea took fire at once. He replied:\n\n    \u201cYou are Orpheus, with his lute moving the rocks and stones!\n    I shall work all my conceits into your plan, and am now\n    proceeding to my garden shrine to meditate on it. I will try\n    to make a picture of the VELUVANA, the bamboo garden which was\n    the first Vikara or monastery of Buddha and his disciples.\n    There I will sit, and, looking on the great statue of Buddha\n    in meditation, I shall begin to arrange all sorts of wild\n    imaginings which may come into my crazy brain.\u201d\n\nIn this way was started the book, of which, alas! only such fragments\nwere composed as form the earlier part of the present volume. It is,\nhowever, right to point out that for the too-brief remainder of his life\nLord Redesdale was eagerly set on the scheme of which a hint has just\nbeen given. The _Veluvana_ was to be the crowning production of his\nliterary life, and to sum up the wisdom of the East and the gaiety of the\nWest. He spoke of it incessantly, in letters and conversation. \u201cThat will\ndo to go into _Veluvana_,\u201d was his cry when he met with anything rare or\nstrange. For instance, on the 15th of September, 1915, he wrote to me:\n\n    \u201cTo-day, all of a sudden I was struck by the idea that plants,\n    having many human qualities, may also in some degree have\n    human motives\u2014that they are not altogether mere automata\u2014and\n    as I thought, I began to imagine that I could detect something\n    resembling purpose in the movements of certain plants. I have\n    jotted down a few notes, and you will see when I expand them\n    that at any rate the idea calls attention to the movements\n    themselves, some of which seem never to have been noticed at\n    all, or certainly at best very inadequately. You will see that\n    this brings in the bamboo garden and Buddha, and so keeps to\n    the scheme of _Veluvana_.\u201d\n\nThe monasteries of twelfth-century Japanese Buddhism, which he had\nvisited long before in the neighbourhood of Ki\u014dto, now recurred to his\nmemory, and he proposed to describe in what a monk of Hiyeisan differed\nfrom an Indian Buddhist monk. This was a theme of extraordinary\ninterest, and wholly germane to his purpose. It drove him back to his\nJapanese books, and to his friend Sir Ernest Satow\u2019s famous dictionary.\nHe wrote to me:\n\n    \u201cNo praise can be too high for the work which Satow did in the\n    early days of our intercourse with Japan. He was a valuable\n    asset to England, and to Sir Harry Parkes, who, with all his\n    energy and force of character, would never have succeeded as he\n    did without Satow. Aston was another very strong man.\u201d\n\nThese reveries were strictly in accordance with the spirit of _Veluvana_,\nbut unfortunately what Lord Redesdale wrote in this direction proves\nto be too slight for publication. He met with some expressions of\nextremely modern Japanese opinion which annoyed him, and to which he\nwas tempted to give more attention than they deserve. It began to be\nobvious that the enterprise was one for which great concentration of\neffort, and a certain serenity of purpose which was not to be secured at\nwill, were imperatively needed. In leaving London, he was not content,\nand no one could have wished him to be willing, to break abruptly all\nthe cords of his past life. He was still a Trustee of the National\nGallery, still chairman of the Marlborough Club, still occupied with\nthe administration of the Wallace Collection, and he did not abate his\ninterest in these directions. They made it necessary that he should\ncome up to town every other week. This made up in some measure for the\ninevitable disappointment of finding that in Gloucestershire his deafness\nnow completely cut him off from all the neighbourly duties which had in\nearlier years diversified and entertained his country life. He had been\na great figure among the squires and farmers of the Cotswolds, but all\nthis was now at an end, paralysed by the hopeless decay of his hearing.\nIt grieved him, too, that he was unable to do any useful war-work in the\ncounty, and he was forced to depend upon his pen and his flying visits\nto London for refreshment. He was a remarkably good letter-writer,\nand he now demanded almost pathetically to be fed with the apples of\ncorrespondence. He wrote (November 26th, 1915):\n\n    \u201cYour letters are a consolation for being deprived of taking a\n    part any longer in the doings of the great world. The Country\n    Mouse\u2014even if the creature were able to scuttle back into the\n    cellars of the great\u2014would still be out of all communion with\n    the mighty, owing to physical infirmity. And now comes the kind\n    Town Mouse and tells him all that he most cares to know.\u201d\n\nHe had books and his garden to enjoy, and he made the most of both. \u201cI\nhate the autumn,\u201d he said, \u201cfor it means the death of the year, but I\ntry to make the death of the garden as beautiful as possible.\u201d Among\nhis plants, and up and down the high places of his bamboo-feathered\nrockeries, where little cascades fell with a music which he could no\nlonger hear into small dark pools full of many-coloured water-lilies, his\nactivity was like that of a boy. He had the appearance, the tastes, the\ninstincts of vigorous manhood prolonged far beyond the usual limit of\nsuch gifts, and yet all were marred and rendered bankrupt for him by the\none intolerable defect, the deafness which had by this time become almost\nimpenetrable to sound.\n\nYet it seemed as though this disability actually quickened his mental\nforce. With the arrival of his eightieth year, his activity and curiosity\nof intellect were certainly rather increased than abated. He wrote to me\nfrom Batsford (December 28th, 1915):\n\n    \u201cI have been busy for the last two months making a close\n    study of Dante. I have read all the _Inferno_ and half of\n    the _Purgatorio_. It is hard work, but the \u2018readings\u2019 of my\n    old schoolfellow, W. W. Vernon, are an incalculable help,\n    and now within the last week or two has appeared Hoare\u2019s\n    Italian Dictionary, published by the Cambridge University\n    Press. A much-needed book, for the previous dictionaries were\n    practically useless except for courier\u2019s work. How splendid\n    Dante is! But how sickening are the Commentators, Benvenuto\n    da Imola, Schartazzini and the rest of them? They won\u2019t let\n    the poet say that the sun shone or the night was dark without\n    seeing some hidden and mystic meaning in it. They always\n    seem to _chercher midi \u00e0 quatorze heures_, and irritate me\n    beyond measure. There is invention enough in Dante without all\n    their embroidery. But this grubbing and grouting seems to be\n    infectious among Dante scholars\u2014they all catch the disease.\u201d\n\nHe flung himself into these Italian studies with all his accustomed\nardour. He corresponded with the eminent veteran of Dante scholarship,\nthe Honourable W. W. Vernon, whom he mentions in the passage just quoted,\nand Mr. Vernon\u2019s letters gave him great delight. He wrote to me again:\n\n    \u201cThis new object in life gives me huge pleasure. Of course,\n    I knew the catch quotations in Dante, but I never before\n    attempted to read him. The difficulty scared me.\u201d\n\nNow, on the contrary, the difficulty was an attraction. He worked away\nfor hours at a time, braving the monotonies of the _Purgatorio_ without\nflagging, but he broke down early in the _Paradiso_. He had no sympathy\nwhatever with what is mystic and spiritual, and he was extremely bored\nby the Beatific Vision and the Rose of the Empyrean. I confess I took\nadvantage of this to recall his attention to _Veluvana_, for which it was\nno longer possible to hope that the author would collect any material out\nof Dante.\n\nAn invitation from Cambridge to lecture there on Russian history during\nthe Long Vacation of 1916 was a compliment to the value of the Russian\nchapters of his \u201cMemories,\u201d but it was another distraction. It took his\nthoughts away from _Veluvana_, although he protested to me that he could\nprepare his Cambridge address, and yet continue to marshal his fancies\nfor the book. Perhaps I doubted it, and dared to disapprove, for he wrote\n(March 17th, 1916):\n\n    \u201cYou scold me for writing too much. That is the least of my\n    troubles! You must remember that debarred as I am from taking\n    part in society, the Three R\u2019s alone remain to me, and, indeed,\n    of those only two\u2014for owing to my having enjoyed an Eton\n    education in days when arithmetic was deemed to be no part of\n    the intellectual panoply of a gentleman, I can neither add,\n    subtract, nor divide! I am a gluttonous reader, and only write\n    from time to time.\u201d\n\nHe was really composing more actively than he himself realized. About\nthis time he wrote:\n\n    \u201cJust now I am busy trying to whitewash Lord Hertford\u2014not the\n    Marquess of Steyne, that would be impossible\u2014but the unhappy\n    hypochondriac recluse of the Rue Lafitte, who I believe has\n    been most malignantly traduced by the third-rate English Colony\n    in Paris\u2014all his faults exaggerated, none of his good qualities\n    even hinted at. The good British public has so long been used\n    to look upon him as a minotaur that it will perhaps startle and\n    amuse it to be told that he had many admirable points.\u201d\n\nAt the beginning of last year the aspect of Lord Redesdale was very\nremarkable. He had settled down into his life at Batsford, diversified\nby the frequent dashes to London. His years seemed to sit upon him more\nlightly than ever. His azure eyes, his curled white head thrown back, the\nalmost jaunty carriage of his well-kept figure, were the external symbols\nof an inner man perpetually fresh, ready for adventure and delighted\nwith the pageant of existence. He found no fault at all with life, save\nthat it must leave him, and he had squared his shoulders not to give way\nto weakness. Perhaps the only sign of weakness was just that visible\ndetermination to be strong. But the features of his character had none\nof those mental wrinkles, those \u201crides de l\u2019esprit,\u201d which Montaigne\ndescribes as proper to old age. Lord Redesdale was guiltless of the old\nman\u2019s self-absorption or exclusive interest in the past. His curiosity\nand sympathy were vividly exhibited to his friends, and so, in spite of\nhis amusing violence in denouncing his own forgetfulness, was his memory\nof passing events. In the petulance of his optimism he was like a lad.\n\nThere was no change in the early part of last year, although it was\nmanifest that the incessant journeying between Batsford and London was\nexhausting. The garden occupied him more and more, and he was distracted\nby the great storm of the end of March, which blew down and destroyed\nat the head of the bridge the wonderful group of cypresses, which he\ncalled \u201cthe pride of my old age.\u201d But, after a gesture of despair, he set\nhimself energetically to repair the damage. He was in his usual buoyant\nhealth when the very hot spell in May tempted him out on the 18th of May,\nwith his agent, Mr. Kennedy, to fish at Swinbrook, a beautiful village\non his Oxfordshire property, of which he was particularly fond. He was\nnot successful, and in a splenetic mood he flung himself at full length\nupon a bank of wet grass. He was not allowed to remain there long, but\nthe mischief was done, and in a few hours he was suffering from a bad\ncold. Even now, the result might not have been serious had it not been\nthat in a few days\u2019 time he was due to fulfil certain engagements in\ntown. Nothing vexed Lord Redesdale more than not to keep a pledge. In all\nsuch matters he prided himself on being punctual and trustworthy, and he\nrefused to change his plans by staying at home.\n\nAccordingly, on the 23rd of May he came to London to transact some\nbusiness, and to take the chair next day at a meeting of the Royal\nSociety of Literature, of which he was a vice-president. This meeting\ntook place in the afternoon, and he addressed a crowded assembly, which\ngreeted him with great warmth. Those who were present, and saw his bright\neyes and heard his ringing voice, could have no suspicion that they would\nsee him again no more. His intimate friends alone perceived that he was\nmaking a superlative effort. There followed a very bad night, and he\nwent down to Batsford next day, going straight to his bed, from which he\nnever rose again. His condition, at first, gave rise to little alarm. The\ndisease, which proved to be catarrhal jaundice, took its course; but for\na long time his spirit and his unconsciousness of danger sustained him\nand filled those around him with hope. There was no disturbance of mind\nto the very last. In a shaky hand, with his stylograph, he continued\nto correspond with certain friends, about politics, and books, and even\nabout _Veluvana_. In the beginning of August there seemed to be symptoms\nof improvement, but these were soon followed by a sudden and final\nrelapse. Even after this, Lord Redesdale\u2019s interest and curiosity were\nsustained. In his very last letter to myself, painfully scrawled only one\nweek before his death, he wrote:\n\n    \u201cHave you seen Ernest Daudet\u2019s book just published, \u2018Les\n    auteurs de la guerre de 1914\u2019? Bismarck is the subject of\n    the first volume; the second will deal with the Kaiser and\n    the Emperor Joseph; and the third with \u2018leurs complices.\u2019 I\n    know E. D.; he is a brother of Alphonse, and is a competent\n    historian. His book is most illuminating. Of course there are\n    exaggerations, but he is always well _document\u00e9_, and there is\n    much in his work that is new. I don\u2019t admire his style. The\n    abuse of the historic present is bad enough, but what can be\n    said in favour of the historic future with which we meet at\n    every step? It sets my teeth on edge.\u201d\n\nBut he grew physically weaker, and seven days later he passed into an\nunconscious state, dying peacefully at noon of the 17th of August,\n1916. He was saved, as he had wished to be, from all consciousness of\ndecrepitude.\n\n                                                             EDMUND GOSSE.\n\n_August, 1917._\n\n\n\n\nFURTHER MEMORIES\n\n\n\n\nVELUVANA\n\n\nThese chapters are simply an attempt to record the gist of some\nconversations and noonday thoughts, which have arisen from time to time\nin idle moments spent in a garden on the Cotswold Hills, where there are\ngathered together certain features unusual in Western pleasances. Our\nthoughts are largely the creations of our surroundings, and when at every\nstep I am met by some work of art or a plant which has travelled perhaps\ntwelve thousand miles to bring me a greeting from afar, then I, too,\nbegin to travel and am carried away beyond the seas. If here and there\nI think and talk of things nearer home, my thoughts are still those of\na wanderer\u2014still those which are suggested by the mysterious thrilling\nof one of those chords for which there is nothing to account, but which\nnever vibrate as they do in my Veluvana, the bamboo grove of Buddha,\nwhich thus becomes a temple dedicated to Mnemosyne.\n\nOne thing I wish to disclaim. I am often told that people believe that\nI have a Japanese garden. I have nothing of the kind. A Japanese garden\nis a mystery hard to be understood; it is a work of art depending upon\ncertain fixed laws and canons prescribed, many centuries ago, by a school\nof Aesthetes, whose lives were spent in the punctilious observance of the\nrules prescribed for tea-drinking and incense-burning and the writing\nof sonnets, in grounds laid out upon principles, of which the slightest\nviolation would be an outrage upon the decencies of culture. In such\ngardens flowers play but a small part, but the shapes, the position and\nthe orientation of quaint rocks, the introduction of miniature lakes,\nand even of the similitude of rivers carried out in sand or gravel, with\nstepping stones by which they may be crossed without disturbing the\nsmooth surface, these and many other whims are the important but sober\nand yet fantastic features upon which the Japanese landscape gardener\ninsists.\n\nTrees and flowering shrubs\u2014such as cherries and plums\u2014lianes like the\nWistaria and the ornamental vines, are used with the utmost discretion,\nas they are with us. But the introduction of alien plants, the exhibition\nof bronze ornaments and lanterns, or the naturalistic arrangement of\nrockwork with a streamlet crossed by lacquered bridges, no more give a\ngarden the claim to be called Japanese than the possession of a piece of\nold Greek sculpture would liken a house to the Acropolis of Athens, or\nthan skill in the pretty and very difficult game of kicking shuttlecocks\nwith the heel would entitle a Pekingese boy to claim kinship with a Rugby\nfootball player.\n\nA Japanese garden has a certain poetry and secret charm of its own. To\nthose who are adepts in its mysteries it is full of suggestion, but it is\nhighly artificial; everything that you see in it is a contradiction of\nNature, who, poor dear! is forced into obeying every craze and vagary of\nthe artist, not being allowed to see a twig or a bud take the direction\nwhich she destined for it. In that it lacks the sweet simplicity and\ncountrified untutored grace of our English Edens. It is not a place in\nwhich a young maiden would gather a posy bejewelled with May dew, or\nstoop to consult the ray-florets of a daisy as to the beating of her\nlover\u2019s heart.\n\nThere are many crafts in which we English folk have much to learn from\nabroad; in gardening that is not so\u2014there we are not unskilled, indeed\nrather copied than copiers. We have our own gardens and we may rest\ncontent with them, since they give us without stint the full joys of\nform and colour, beauty and fragrance. What more do we want? The gardens\nof the Japanese may suit the fairies of their own legends, but the\ngreat god Pan would surely rather see his Dryads and Wood-nymphs tread\na measure on the velvet of a trim English lawn, than picking their way\namong cruel stones to the torture of their rosy feet.\n\nBut though we may not be minded to imitate in our own homes the\neccentricities and fancies of Japanese garden experts\u2014whims and fancies\nhandicapped by the severities of austere tradition\u2014there is no law to\nhinder us from taking a hint from some of the effects which they achieve,\nnor from introducing into our gardens some great masterpiece of one of\nthose exquisitely imaginative artists whose smaller and daintier works\nare gems welcomed with such warmth elsewhere.\n\nSome months after the above lines were written there appeared in the\n_Times_ of May 6th, 1916, one of those charming articles on gardening\nwith which we are from time to time favoured, in which the writer\nexpresses much the same view of the Japanese gardener\u2019s art that I hold.\nOnly in one point I differ from him. It is not \u201ca close study of nature\u201d\nwhich guides the Japanese landscape maker; on the contrary, he follows\nwhims and symbols hard to be understood. Every distorted stone which he\nbrings at great expense from a huge distance must be so placed as to be\nin harmony with some cryptic principle of \u00e6stheticism. Nature is not what\nhe aims at.\n\nThe Japanese, who have an exquisite system of their own of natural\ngardening, though of gardening in which all is designed and nothing\nleft to chance, are very sparing of flowers. They would rather have one\nblossom where it will tell as a delightful surprise than a thousand where\nthey merely make a mass of colour. Placing is everything to them, but\ntheir principles of placing and grouping are got from the close study of\nnature, like an artist\u2019s principles of composition. We must not imitate\nthem, for if we do, we shall merely parody them. Bamboos and stones and\nlanterns will not make a Japanese garden.\n\nBut we can grasp the principles on which they express their love of\nnature in a garden; we can see clearly what is the difference between\nformal and natural gardening, and avoid the mistake of trying to combine\nthe beauties of both. One is always uncomfortable in a garden when there\nare a thousand flowers where a hundred would be better. One may not be\naware of the waste, but it wearies one all the same.\n\nThe fascination of the East never dies. But there comes a fatal time\nwhen, to the voice of the Siren, sing she never so tenderly, there is\nno response. Age and new duties have forged fetters, sweet and soft as\nrose-leaves, but so binding that not even the loadstone mountain of\nSindbad the Sailor would avail to tear them away from us, and so we are\nfain to satisfy our travel-hunger as best we may, feeding upon memory.\nThen it is that the relics gathered together during the adventures of\nmany years acquire a new and almost sacred value. They speed the flight\nof our thoughts like the wings of Pegasus. The man who has chaffered with\nthe Jew merchants in the picturesque gloom of the bazaars of Stamboul;\nwho has bathed in Jordan and Scamander, and slept in the black tents\nof the Bedouin; who has wandered through the mysterious portals of the\nCh\u012den M\u0115n, the frowning gate of the Tartar city, to sip tea with some art\nexpert in the Liu Li Ch\u0103ng, the Paternoster Row of Peking, listening to\nstories of the dilettanti in the reign of Ch\u012den Lung the magnificent\u2014such\na man, if now he can do no more than trim the silken sails of his\nimagination, bound for the lands of enchantment, must have about him\nmany a treasure which, if he but shut his eyes and give himself up to\nthe luxury of dreaming day-dreams, will bring back to the old wanderer\na whiff from the birthplace of the Sun, a whiff sweeter in his nostrils\nthan those cloying perfumes to which the \u00e6sthetes, according to their\naffected euphuist jargon, \u201clistened\u201d centuries ago in the lovely gardens\nof Ginkakuji, the Silver Pavilion of the sacred city of Ki\u014dto.[1]\n\nAs for me, I have been all my life bitten by the collector\u2019s mania,\nand so the wings of my Pegasus have many feathers; for my house, and\neven my gardens, are full of curious odds and ends, the spoil of many\nlands. On the terrace standing sentry at the entrance to the house are\ntwo huge bronze Kylins (in Pekingese, Chih Ling), representations of the\nmystic beast which was seen last at the birth of Confucius, and will not\nreappear until ten thousand years shall have elapsed from that date.\n\n[Illustration: SCENE IN THE AUTHOR\u2019S GARDEN.\n\n[_To face p. 6._]\n\nThe male has a single horn and is very fierce, but not more so than\nhis hornless mate, which, with her cruel tusks, grins defiance at the\nworld. Just such another pair in the Imperial Park of the Ten Thousand\nLongevities at Yuen Ming Yuen used to raise my wonder fifty years ago.\nBuilt into the wall of one of the two little gazebos which are at the\neast and west ends of my terrace are two bricks\u2014the one rough and rugged,\nsun-dried and splashed with the mortar of more than two thousand years\nsince, from the Great Wall of China at Ku Pei K\u014fu; the other white,\nsmooth and richly glazed from the famous Porcelain Tower of Nanking,\nwhich was destroyed by the Tai Ping rebels some sixty years ago, before\nthey were overtaken by the Vengeance of Gordon and \u201cthe Ever-Victorious\nArmy.\u201d\n\nShall I ever forget the tramp of a couple of miles under an August sun\nin 1865 with that huge brick from the Great Wall seeming to bite into\nmy aching shoulder? Over against the little summer-house, guarding the\nentrance to the garden from the attacks of evil spirits, are small\nstatues of the Ni-\u014d, the two kings whose ugliness is enough to scare away\nany inauspicious demons who might be about. They must miss the ritual of\ntheir own country where the pious pilgrim, having written his prayer on\nto a scrap of paper, chews it into a pellet, and spits it at the sacred\nfigure. If it sticks, all is well, and the prayer will be heard; if it\nfalls to earth, the fates will be unkind\u2014so outside a fashionable temple\nthe two gods are bespattered all over with an eruption of moist pellets.\nHere from that holy rite they are immune.\n\nHigh up in the wildest part of the wild garden, under the shade of a\nspreading oak, there stands, or rather sits, turned towards the East,\nas is fitting, a bronze statue of Buddha of heroic size. His hand is\nraised in the attitude of preaching; his features are expressive of the\nholy calm and noble abstraction which are traditional in the effigies\nof the great reformer; the centre of the skull is slightly raised, and\nbetween the brows is a curl, representing the wind, the mystic white\nlock. These two are among the many secret birth-signs by which the\nsoothsayers and diviners recognize in a newly-born babe the advent of\nBodhisatva, or future Buddha. Surrounding the figure are planted chusan\npalms from China and bamboos from the Himalaya mountains, among which a\nstag and a hind, life-sized bronze representations of the small Japanese\ndeer, watch over the loneliness of the thinker. Facing the statue is a\nrest-house, flanked by two huge bronze lanterns bearing the chrysanthemum\nand the Pawlonia flower, the two crests of the Mikado, and on either\nside of the door are two small white granite elephants, brought from\nCeylon, Buddhistic symbols, full of significance. A little higher up the\nhill a pergola leads to a tiny spring, with a dolphin spout, from which\nfitfully, for it is often dry, a runlet of pure water trickles into a\nstone basin.\n\nImmediately opposite is an ishi-dori, one of those granite lanterns\nwhich you will see in every Japanese temple. Lower down the hill is\na grand bronze lion, with his paws resting upon a ball of cloisonn\u00e9\nenamel, symbolical of the strength of Buddha, and in the middle of the\nwalled garden is a dragon fountain, spouting water into a tiny pond full\nof pink water-lilies and gold-fish. We Westerns are wont to talk of\nfiery dragons; not so the Orientals. With them the dragon is a creature\nof the water, and so is used in art for fountains just as we use the\nlion\u2019s head, taking the idea from the Egyptian, who imagined that the\nrising of the Nile took place when the Sun was in Leo. In China the\ndragon represents the principle of good, the tiger that of evil; the\nthunderstorm is a fight between the two.\n\nAll these things have their meaning, and here, as you sit in the broad\nverandah of the rest-house, represent two scenes in the life of the\nBuddha; firstly, the preaching of the first sermon in the Mrighadeva, the\ndeer forest near Benares, where the stags and hinds come to listen to\nthe Holy One, and, secondly, the Veluvana, or Bamboo grove, which King\nBimbisara presented to the Buddha and which became the first Vihara,\nmonastery or meeting-place, of the new sect\u2019s adherents and monks. The\nstory of the Veluvana is that of Ahab and Naboth the Jezreelite over\nagain. Some six hundred years more or less before our era\u2014how much more\nor how much less is a matter of small moment, though the learned must\nneeds break their heads in the vain attempt to fix the exact dates of\nthese events\u2014there reigned in Maghada King Bimbisara, a monarch not a\nlittle feared.\n\nBefore he mounted the throne he greatly had set his heart upon a certain\ngrove, or garden belonging to a householder who would not part with it.\nSo he determined to bide his time until he should become king, and then\nto kill the man and take his land. This he did, and the lawful owner,\nwho after death was born again in the shape of a poisonous snake, sought\nan occasion to fix his deadly fangs in the king. One day the king had\ngone into the garden with his wives, and fell asleep while only one of\nthe women was by him. Then the snake, crawling close to him, was about\nto strike, when some Kalantaka birds seized it and began to scream. This\nwoke the woman, who jumped up and killed the snake.\n\n[Illustration: REST HOUSE IN THE AUTHORS GARDEN.\n\n[_To face p. 10._]\n\nIn gratitude to the birds who had saved his life, the king caused the\ngarden to be planted with bamboos, which they love, and the place\nbecame known as the Kalantakanivasa Veluvana, or the Bamboo grove of\nthe Kalantaka birds. Barth\u00e9lemy St. Hilaire, following the story of the\nChinese pilgrim Hs\u00fcan Chwang (of whom I hope to speak later), gives a\nless romantic derivation to the name Kalantakanivasa. Kalanta, as he\ntells the tale, was a rich merchant, who had originally given his garden\nto the Brahmans, but having received the sublime Law, he took it away\nfrom them and transferred it to the Buddha. I hope that this may not be\nthe true story, for in that case the name would simply mean the Bamboo\ngrove, or garden of Kalanta, and so the birds and the snake must fade\ninto the clouds of fancy.\n\nAccording to the more legendary version of the story, it is written that\nwhen the Blessed One, having attained the supreme wisdom, entered upon\nhis ministry, after six years of meditation, and an asceticism which had\nalmost starved his very life, he came with his disciples to Rajagriha,\nwhere he was visited by Bimbisara, King of Maghada. This king had had\nfive wishes: (1) That a Buddha might appear during his reign; (2) that he\nmight himself see him; (3) that he might learn the truth from him; (4)\nthat he might understand it; (5) that he might follow his commandments.\nWhen the king saw the Buddha and listened to his preaching, he was\nconverted with many of his people, and invited the Blessed One to come to\nhis city, where he set a great feast before him. When the feast was over,\nthe king solemnly poured water over the hands of the Blessed One, saying,\n\u201cI give the Kalantakanivasa Veluvana to the Blessed One to dispose of as\nmay please him.\u201d And that is how it came to pass that a grove of bamboos\nwas the first Vihara, or meeting-place of Buddha and his saints.\n\nFull of poetry and Indian mysticism are the legends and fairy tales\nwhich monkish superstition has woven round the life of the Buddha, doing\nhim and his memory no good service thereby; for when truth is overgrown\nwith fables, like some fair flower choked by weeds, it becomes lost to\nsight and strangled, and men begin to doubt whether, indeed, it had any\nexistence. In this way some doctors have been led to deny that such a\nman as the Buddha ever lived upon earth; men of learning have spent much\nprofound scholarship on proving that he was merely a sun-myth; others\nhave explained him away as being in some sort an astronomical allegory.\nIt would be as easy to explain away Napoleon Buonaparte\u2014indeed, did not\nthat cunning logician, Archbishop Whately, making fun out of his own\nscience, prove irrefutably by rule of syllogism that no such man as\nNapoleon ever did or ever could have existed?\n\nThat Buddha was a very real man, inspired by the highest ideals, is a\nfact which all advance in knowledge proves more and more conclusively.\nFacts cannot be swept away like cobwebs; indeed, cobwebs are facts, as\nevery housewife knows, and though a besom may annihilate them, their\nrebirth remains a demonstrable truth. So it is with the Buddha. The\ntravels of Fa Hsien and Hs\u00fcan Chwang, Chinese pilgrims, who in the fifth\nand seventh centuries of our era went to India to collect Buddhist books\nand study the dogmas and history of the religion, have been recorded with\nall the scrupulous care and minuteness peculiar to their nation, and show\nthe veneration in which the sites and monuments sacred to the Buddhist\nstory were still held in their day. Nor is that all.\n\nWithin the last twenty years, under the authority of the Indian\nGovernment, researches have been carried on by a learned Babu named\nChandra Mukherji, under the direction of Mr. Vincent A. Smith, and\nthose researches, which are of the highest interest, corroborate the\nstatements of the two Chinese monks, in whose accounts the differences\nare no more than what would be expected in the work of men separated by\nan interval of two hundred years.\n\nIf we must remember that Prince Siddartha claimed no divinity\u2014nor even\ndivine inspiration or revelation\u2014then stripped of the husk of fable\nand vain tales with which monkish folly has overlaid and obscured it,\nthere is no more touching story in man\u2019s record than that of the great\nrenunciation with which Buddha entered upon the work to which he felt\nhimself called. Brought up in the soul-stealing languor of an Oriental\ncourt, he left everything in order to face the hardships of a solitude\nand asceticism in which he was to find that peace which the world could\nnot give to him, but which, if only he could attain the supreme wisdom,\nhe might give to the world.\n\nPrince Siddartha, the Buddha that was to be, was the son of Suddh\u014ddana,\nKing of Kapilavastu in the Tarai of Nepal, under the shadow of the giant\nHimalaya mountains. Suddh\u014ddana was the chief of the Shakya, a proud clan,\ndescended from the solar race of the Gautama. It puzzles the uninstructed\nreader to find the Buddha often referred to as Shakya Muni, or Gautama\nBuddha. The first of these titles means the hermit or recluse of the\nShakya clan, and Barth\u00e9lemy St. Hilaire connects the word _muni_ with\nthe Greek \u03bc\u03cc\u03bd\u03bf\u03c2, the French _moine_, etc. Gautama Buddha simply means\nthe Buddha of the Gautama race, in contradistinction to the many Buddhas\nthat preceded him during the countless \u00e6ons in which the Indians believe,\nand to those Buddhas that are yet to be, the next of whom is the Maitriya\nBuddha, the Buddha of brotherly love, for whom we have to wait many\nthousand years, and who is often represented as lying down and laughing\u2014a\nfavourite subject with Chinese sculptors and artists. The Queen of King\nSuddh\u014ddana was the daughter of King Suprabuddha, a neighbouring monarch,\na princess of such surpassing loveliness, wisdom and virtue, that she was\ncalled Maya the Illusion, for men could not believe that so wondrous a\nbeing could be aught but a dream, a vision, an unreal phantasy.\n\nOne night Queen Maya dreamt a dream: in her sleep it seemed to her that\na white elephant with six golden tusks entered her side. She dreamt,\nmoreover, that she was moving in heavenly space, that she ascended a\ngreat rocky mountain, and that a vast multitude bowed down before her.\nWhen the soothsayers came to interpret her dream, they declared that\nthey meant that she would bring forth a son who should be marked with\nthe thirty-two signs which indicate a great man. Either he would remain\nin his kingdom and become conqueror and monarch of the universe, or he\nwould forsake home and the world and receive the full light of wisdom\nas a perfect Buddha. Now, when the time of her delivery came near to\nbeing fulfilled, Maya betook herself to her father\u2019s city, and went to\nthe garden which he had dedicated to his Queen Lumbini, and as she stood\nleaning against a certain tree the pains of travail came upon her\u2014for the\nmother of a Buddha must bring forth her child standing. Then the great\ngod Indra raised a mighty tempest, and scaring away all Maya\u2019s women,\ntook upon himself the disguise of an old midwife, and prepared to receive\nthe babe in his arms; but the child, pushing the god aside, would have\nnone of him, but by himself took seven steps towards each of the four\ncardinal points of heaven.\n\nTo the East he said: \u201cI will reach the highest Nirvana.\u201d\n\nTo the South: \u201cI will be the first of all creatures.\u201d\n\nTo the West: \u201cThis will be my last birth.\u201d\n\nTo the North: \u201cI will cross the ocean of Existence.\u201d\n\nMany signs and wonders followed. A heavenly choir of gods and Yakshas\nappeared in the sky, hovering over the birthplace and singing hymns of\ngladness to celebrate the birth of a Bodhisatva, who after years of\ndevotion should one day become Buddha and attain supreme wisdom. Two\ndragons came out of the clouds, the one spouting warm water, the other\ncold, and so the god-like babe was washed. Moreover, it came to pass that\nwhen the appointed time for the child to be taken, as was the custom\namong Shakyas, to do homage at the shrine of Shakya Vardana, the statue,\ninstead of receiving obeisance, bowed down in worship at the babe\u2019s feet.\n\nThen the king knew what manner of son this was, and he perceived that\nthe soothsayers had spoken truth. Of the two alternative futures which\nthey had foretold for him, the king would have preferred that he should\nbecome the monarch of the whole world. But the gods knew better. They\nknew that he was to be not the monarch of the world, but its freer: the\nsacrifice and renunciation of his life were to strike off from millions\nthe shackles of sin and misery. They knew, moreover, that all the king\u2019s\nendeavours to turn the Blessed One from his purpose would be vain; yet\nmust the king needs try, and so throughout the prince\u2019s youth every\ntemptation that riches and luxury and pleasure could offer was put in his\nway. In the life of the Buddha it is easy to separate the wheat from the\nchaff, the facts from the fairy-tales. The great central truth remains\nuntarnished in spite of all, and so in telling the story we, seeking to\nshow the inspiration of Oriental mysticism, need hardly rob it of the\nmystic glamour of that poetical embroidery in which the rich imagination\nof Indian priests has enwrapped it.\n\nSeven days after the birth of her son the beautiful Queen Maya died, and\nthe babe was given over to the care of her younger sister, Prajapati\nGautami, who was also one of King Suddh\u014ddana\u2019s wives.\n\nIt is strange that in his picturesque Buddhist poem, \u201cThe Light of Asia,\u201d\nSir Edwin Arnold should have omitted many of the legends with which he\nmust have been familiar, and which would well have fitted the rather\nsensuous character of his verse. Moreover, he mixes up the stories of the\ntwo wives of Prince Siddartha, Yas\u014ddhara and Gop\u0101, and altogether omits\nany mention of the birth in the Lumbini Garden. Now the Lumbini Garden\nis one of those places connected with the Buddhist records which have\nbeen identified with the utmost certainty. The early Chinese pilgrims\nwere shown the spot, and were careful with accuracy to describe the\nmonuments which now, after all these centuries, the Babu Chandra Mukherji\nhas been able to verify. On the spot where stood the sacred tree under\nwhich, grasping one of its boughs, Maya the Queen gave birth to her son,\ncontemporary piety, or perhaps at latest that of King As\u014dka, who lived\ntwo hundred years afterwards, erected a chapel in which stood a sculpture\nportraying the nativity.\n\nThe ruins of the sacred building may yet be seen, and, much damaged, the\nstone image which it enshrined\u2014a barbaric but expressive group. Hard by\nthere still runs the little stream which Hs\u00fcan Chwang tells us was called\nthe \u201criver of oil,\u201d a name which it still bears. Twenty or twenty-five\npaces from the sacred tree is the tank in which Maya bathed, still full\nof pure water.\n\nIn the days of the Chinese pilgrims there was a great stone pillar which\nhad been erected by King As\u014dka; but it had been struck by lightning,\nand lay on the ground when they saw it, split in the middle. The pillar\nwith a perfectly preserved inscription by King As\u014dka stands close to the\ntemple. But the most striking proof of all is in the name Lumbini, or\nLummini, which is preserved to this day as Rummin Dei, the initial R of\nSanscrit being changed into L in the Magadhi language of the inscription.\n\nSo he who visits the Rummin Dei to-day knows of a certainty that he is\nstanding on the very spot where some twenty-five centuries ago Prince\nSiddartha was born\u2014he who was to found a religion which, above all\nothers, has, so far as numbers go, dominated mankind. For his disciples\nhave, indeed, been \u201cas the stars of heaven and as the sand which is upon\nthe seashore.\u201d\n\nThe years went on and the child grew in grace and beauty of mind and\nbody. His teachers were amazed at the precocity of his knowledge and\nwisdom. Learning seemed to come to him by instinct, until at last one\nof his masters said to him: \u201cIt is thou that art the Guru, not I.\u201d His\nstature and strength were phenomenal, qualities upon which tradition was\nnot slack in embroidering. Was he not sixteen, some say eighteen, feet\ntall, and did he not toss a dead elephant over a moat with as great ease\nas an ordinary strong man would fling a cat across a ditch?\n\nBut with all this he was a child of moods. At an age when other children\nare careless of aught save their toys and their games, he would lose\nhimself in the solitude of the forests and remain wrapped in thought,\ndeep in meditation. The king, his father, who watched him narrowly,\nperceived this, and felt that it boded no good for his own dynastic\nambition. He thought of the prophecy of the soothsayers, and had a\npremonition that his son\u2019s greatness would be spiritual rather than\ntemporal. He foresaw that, however much he might try to turn the boy\u2019s\nthoughts towards the world, his labour would be but vain.\n\nStill, he would leave no stone unturned to win him over by the perfumed\nsoftness of Oriental luxury to the pomp and pride of his rank. Three\npalaces did he build for him, one for each of the three seasons of the\nyear\u2014spring, summer and winter\u2014and the plenishing of these was such as\nwould appeal to every \u00e6sthetic sense. The sweetest singers, the daintiest\ndancers, were enlisted to brighten the life of the palaces. But against\nall the spells of the enchantresses the young prince, already almost a\nrecluse, was as hard as adamant.\n\nSoon the time came when it was fitting that he should take a wife, and\nupon this the king and his councillors based their last hope of turning\nhis mind to earthly things. We are told that the prince thought long and\nanxiously before he could assure himself that marriage would not engross\nhim to such an extent as to rob him of the calm which was needful for\nthe contemplation and the search for wisdom, to which he was minded to\ndedicate his life.\n\nIn the end he consented, but he stipulated that the wife chosen for him\nshould be no ordinary woman, but such a one as might be a spiritual\nhelpmate to him. Caste was not to weigh in the scale. She might be a\nKshatriya, a Vaisiya (householder), or even a Sudra (serf). That was of\nno account. The mind alone, or perhaps rather what we should call the\nsoul, must be the test. It is difficult to imagine the consternation\nwhich, if it be true, as it probably is, such a declaration on the part\nof a royal prince would arouse among the bigoted Brahmans of his father\u2019s\ncourt.\n\nThere was, however, no need to fear a degrading marriage, for when the\nmaidens of the noble Shakya clan were brought together, Yas\u014ddhara was\nchosen for her beauty and her sweet nature. And greatly blessed the\nprince was in his choice, for she believed in him as Kadijah did in\nMohammed during the humble days of his life as camel driver, and when\nafter his long self-banishment in the wilderness, he at last entered\nupon his ministration as Buddha, she with her young son Rahula, followed\nhim as a disciple. But many years were to pass\u2014years fraught with great\nhappenings\u2014before that should take place.\n\nIt is my misfortune that I have no first-hand knowledge derived from\nthe study in the originals of those books in which the Buddhist legend\nis enchased. I am ignorant of Sanscrit, ignorant of Pali\u2014as ignorant,\nindeed, as those holy monks and priests who drone out their texts without\nany spark of light as to the meaning of the words which they recite by\nrote. But, after all, I am not attempting to write any learned treatise\non the religion of Buddha, but simply to give some account as best I may\nof the legends which satisfy the spiritual cravings of millions of those\npeople among whom I have spent several years of my life\u2014legends which\nhave inspired the art of the Far East just as our own beautiful religion\nhas inspired that of the West, and which for old sake\u2019s sake, I have\ntried to represent in my own Veluvana.\n\nAnd so I have to cull from a whole garden of books written by French and\nEnglish scholars what flowers I can, trying to weld together into some\nharmony of story their many dissonances. The chief difficulty begins\nwith the tales of the marriage or marriages of Prince Siddartha. Not Sir\nEdwin Arnold alone is responsible for the tangled skein which we have to\nunravel. Barth\u00e9lemy St. Hilaire, Rhys Davids, Rockhill, Beal, and many\nothers, have each of them their own version of the traditional events.\nWith fairy-tales that is inevitable, but the salient facts of truth\nremain, and these are the same in all the books.\n\nOn the day of Prince Siddartha\u2019s birth there had appeared a mystic tree,\nwhich was called \u201cThe Essence of Virtue.\u201d When the prince was twenty\nyears old this tree was blown down and dammed the water which supplied\nDevadeha, which was the city of King Suprabuddha. In vain did the people\ntry to remove it; but Chandana, the prince\u2019s charioteer, drove him out to\na certain garden whence he could hear the cries of the people, and he was\nabout to go to their help when a wounded wild goose, the Hansa of Indian\nmyth, fell at his feet.\n\nThe prince took it up and tended it and bound up the wound. Now the goose\nhad been shot by his kinsman Devadatta, and this was the beginning of a\ngreat enmity between them. For Devadatta sent a messenger to the prince\nto demand the bird of him, claiming it as the prize of his bow; but the\nprince would not yield it up, saying that the bird belonged to him who\nhad saved its life rather than to him who would fain have taken it. From\nthat time forth Devadatta hated him, and appears throughout the whole\nstory of the Buddha\u2019s life, and even in what are known as the \u201cBirth\nStories\u201d of previous existences, as his bitter enemy.\n\nThen the prince left the garden, and seizing the tree which had defied\nall the strength of the people, threw it into the air so that it broke\nin two, the halves falling on the two different sides of the stream.\nAs, after having performed this feat, he was returning home, he saw a\nbeautiful maiden who was looking out from the terrace in front of her\nfather\u2019s house. The prince stopped his chariot and a great love sprang up\nbetween the two. The damsel was Gop\u0101, the daughter of Dandapani, a noble\nof the Shakya clan.\n\nWhen King Suddh\u014ddana heard what had happened, he was overjoyed, and asked\nthe father for the maid as a bride for his son. But Dandapani scorned\nSiddartha as a dreamer of dreams. The Kshatriya was like the Samurai of\nJapan, whose sword is his soul, and full of this spirit he declared that\nit would bring shame upon a warrior were he to give his daughter in\nmarriage to one who cared not a jot for those manly sports and contests\nwhich beseemed a Kshatriya, but spent his time in idle thought and vain\nimaginings. If he wanted Gop\u0101, let him prove his mettle; let him fight\nfor her and win her against all comers. So a great tourney was held, of\nwhich Gop\u0101 was to be the prize.\n\n[Illustration: FIGURE OF THE BUDDHA IN THE AUTHOR\u2019S GARDEN.\n\n_See p. 8._\n\n[_To face p. 24._]\n\nThe prince and his two kinsmen, Ananda, who loved him and afterwards\nbecame his disciple, and Devadatta, the betrayer, with all the young\nbraves of the clan, entered the lists. But it mattered little who opposed\nhim; none could hold his own against Prince Siddartha. Disputing with\nthe most learned Gurus, he was always the conqueror. In manly exercises,\nhorsemanship, wrestling, archery, and many other sports, he defeated all\nrivals. He alone could bend the mystic bow of the ancient Shakyas, and\nwhen he shot an arrow into the air and it fell to earth, from that spot\nthere sprang a jet of healing water, which to this day is shown as the\nArrow Fountain. And so Gop\u0101 fell a willing prize to the bow and spear of\nthe king\u2019s son whom she loved. But Devadatta, beaten at all points, went\nhis way more than ever bearing hatred and jealousy in his heart.\n\nIn spite of all the charms and gentle goodness of his wives, in spite\nof the arts and graces of the singing and dancing girls of his palaces,\nPrince Siddartha was haunted by pity for the world\u2019s sin and sorrow,\nwhich he divined but which he had not yet seen face to face. The king had\nbeen very careful that all ugly and disquieting sights should be kept out\nof his way. But it was all in vain; sooner or later the revelation must\nneeds come. The four famous drives furnished the certainty. It happened\nthat once, when he was in his chariot with Chandana, his charioteer, on\ntheir way to the Lumbini Garden, before coming to the city gate, they met\na man bowed, decrepit, toothless, white-haired, tottering feebly with\nthe help of a stick, stumbling at every step. The prince asked Chandana\nwhat this meant, and Chandana explained to him the misery of old age.\nSadly he turned back, unwilling to go further. Another time they met a\nleper stricken with foul disease; a third time they were met by wailings\nand lamentation, men carrying a bier, women weeping and beating their\nbreasts. This was death. Yet once again they drove out, and this time\nthey met a bikshu\u2014a pious mendicant\u2014with his alms-bowl. Poor, indeed, he\nwas and ragged, but in his face was written the calm of holy happiness.\n\nThen Prince Siddartha knew that he had found his calling. \u201cVanity of\nvanities,\u201d said the Jewish preacher some four hundred years before\nBuddha\u2019s time, \u201call is vanity.\u201d It was in the spirit of King Solomon that\nthe prince went to his father and prayed to be relieved of all the pomp\nand burthen of royal state and to be allowed to fly the world in quest\nof wisdom. But the king would not listen to him, and, on the contrary,\ncaused the gates of Kapilavastu to be closely guarded lest by any chance\nhis son should try to escape.\n\nLet me insert here a wonderful coincidence. At the end of the seventh\nand beginning of the eighth centuries of our era there lived in the\nmonastery of Marsaba, that wonderful laura in the wilderness of Jud\u00e6a,\na monk of great piety and learning, St. John of Damascus, the greatest\necclesiastical writer of his age, and so eloquent a preacher that, like\nanother John, the famous Patriarch of Constantinople, he was known as\nChrysostom, the golden-mouthed, or Chrysorrhoas, gold-flowing. What, it\nwill be asked, has this Syrian monk to do with Prince Siddartha and the\nfour drives? Listen!\n\nAmongst the many books which St. John of Damascus wrote, or is supposed\nto have written, is the story of Barlaam and Josaphat. St. John said that\nhe received it from travellers coming from India, and so firmly did he\nbelieve in its truth, that at the end of the story he appealed to the two\nsaints for their intercession on his behalf.\n\nMax M\u00fcller sums up the tale as follows: \u201cA king in India, an enemy and\npersecutor of the Christians, has an only son. The astrologers have\npredicted that he will embrace the new doctrine. His father, therefore,\ntries by all means to keep him ignorant of the miseries of the world, and\nto create in him a taste for pleasure and enjoyment. A Christian hermit,\nhowever, gains access to this prince, and instructs him in the doctrines\nof the Christian religion. The young prince is not only baptized, but\nresolves to give up all his earthly riches; and, after having converted\nhis own father and many of his subjects, he follows his teacher into the\ndesert.\u201d[2]\n\nBut that is not all. In the story of Josaphat, as told by St. John, we\nhave also the tale of the drives\u2014with this distinction: Whereas the\nBuddhist canon, the Lalita Vistara, represents Buddha as seeing on three\nsuccessive drives, first an old, then a sick, and at last a dying man,\nSt. John makes Josaphat meet two men on his first drive, one maimed,\nthe other blind, and an old man who is nearly dying on the second\ndrive. That is but a slight difference which would be accounted for by\noral tradition. The coincidence is striking, and has been pointed out\nindependently by English, French and German scholars; and, as Max M\u00fcller\nsays, it is \u201cas clear as daylight\u201d that \u201cJoannes Damascenus took the\nprincipal character of his religious novel from the Lalita Vistara.\u201d The\nfirst European scholar to notice this was M. Laboulaye.\n\nAnd now comes the strangest part of the story. So popular did St. John\u2019s\ntale become, that it was translated into every European language. Barlaam\nand Josaphat were canonized both in the Eastern and Western Churches. In\nthe Greek Church the 26th of August is their saints\u2019 day, in the Western\nChurch the 27th of November. \u201cIf all that is human and personal in the\nlife of St. Josaphat is taken from the Lalita Vistara, what follows? It\nfollows ... that Josaphat is the Buddha of the Buddhist canon. It follows\nthat Buddha has become a saint in the Roman Church; it follows that,\nthough under a different name, the sage of Kapilavastu, the founder of\na religion which, whatever we may think of its dogma, is in the purity\nof its morals nearer to Christianity than any other religion, and which\ncounts even now, after an existence of 2,400 years, 455,000,000 of\nbelievers, has received the highest honours that the Christian Church\ncan bestow. And whatever we may think of the sanctity of saints, let\nthose who doubt the right of Buddha to a place among them read the story\nof his life in the Buddhist canon. If he lived the life that is there\ndescribed, few saints have a better claim to the title than Buddha; and\nno one, either in the Greek or Roman Church, need be ashamed of having\npaid to Buddha\u2019s memory the honour that was intended for St. Josaphat,\nthe prince, the hermit, and the saint.\u201d[3]\n\nOne night, when the palace was hushed in sleep, the prince roused his\nfaithful charioteer Chandana, and bade him to saddle his horse Kantaka\nand prepare to follow him. He passed through the many halls where the\nwomen, beautiful and graceful by day, were lying asleep in careless and\nugly attitudes. It was the reverse of the medal, the repulsive side of\nluxury, and the sight filled him with loathing. Accompanied by Chandana,\nhe left the palace and entered the slumbering streets of the city. By a\nmiracle they cheated the watchfulness of the guard at the gate and rode\nout into the open country. When they had gone some way the prince took\noff all his jewels and sent Chandana back with injunctions to give them\nto Prajapati Gautami, who had been a mother to him when her sister Maya\ndied. Then he went on alone into the wilderness. By the way he met a\nhunter, with whom he exchanged his stately attire for rough countryman\u2019s\nclothes, and in this fashion entered upon the six years of an asceticism\nsuch as the world has perhaps never seen. In his loneliness five men\ncame and joined him as his disciples, sharing the hardships of his\nself-imposed penance.\n\nAt the end of those six long years of starvation and wretchedness and\nmortification of the flesh, when the Blessed One, resisting all the\ntemptations of Mara, the evil spirit, and his three beautiful daughters,\nhad reduced his body to a mere shadow, there came a moment when it was\nrevealed to him that not by asceticism alone could he hope to attain his\ngoal. Not in that way could he destroy the power and misery of sin. He\ndetermined to go back to the world, not, indeed, as a warrior-prince, a\nmighty conqueror, but as a poor and humble teacher, striving to bring\nhelp and virtue to his fellow-men. A young village maiden, whose name\nwas Sujata, took pity upon his abject state, and brought him bowls of\nsweet milk to comfort him and restore his wasted strength. Naturally\nenough, legend worked upon this pretty idyll, telling how Sujata milked\na thousand cows, and \u201cwith their milk fed five hundred cows, with theirs\ntwo hundred and fifty, and so on down to eight. Thus aspiring after\nquality and sweetness, she did what is called working the milk in.\u201d Then\nshe boiled the milk of the eight cows, and, to the accompaniment of many\nmiracles, fed the Buddha with this restoring essence of milk. (Rhys\nDavids, \u201cBirth Stories,\u201d Vol. I., page 91, etc.) But his five friends,\nangry with him for leaving the ascetic life, turned away from him as a\nrenegade and left him.\n\nSo the Blessed One departed out of the wilderness and came to Rajagriha\nand entered the Mrighadeva, the deer forest, hard by the city. There for\nseven days and nights he sat in meditation under the Bo tree (_Ficus\nreligiosa_), until at the end of that time he became conscious that he\nhad attained the supreme wisdom and was now Buddha. Under that tree he\npreached the first sermon, and the five friends who had deserted him were\nconverted and came back. Countless numbers of people from the king of\nthat country, Bimbisara, downwards, flocked to listen to his teaching.\nAmong others came his own wife Yas\u014ddhara, bearing him no grudge for\nhaving left her, and bringing her young son Rahula. By that name there\nhangs a tale. When it was told to the Blessed One that a son had been\nborn to him, he answered: \u201cThere has been born to me an impediment.\u201d This\nanswer was repeated to King Suddh\u014ddana, and he said, \u201cLet the boy be\ncalled Rahula, The Impediment.\u201d\n\nWhen the king heard that his grandson and his mother had gone to follow\nin the wake of the Buddha, he was sorely grieved. His son had left him.\nEight messengers whom he had sent begging him to return had failed in\ntheir mission, and themselves remained as disciples with the Blessed One;\nand now he had but this child to look to for the perpetuation of his name\nand of his dynasty. Blind\u2014and no wonder, for who can read the future?\u2014he\ncould not see that this son of his would win for himself and for his\nfather a name beside which all the glory and pride of their Heaven-born\nancestors would be but a cloud dispelled by the first ray of morning sun.\nThree influences have ruled the spirits of men since the dawn of the\nworld\u2014Buddha, Mohammed and One other, the greatest of the three. But that\nother was God.\n\nWhat would have been the winning of one or more provinces, what the\nslaughter of a few hundreds or even thousands of bowmen and spearmen,\ncompared with the conquest of the souls of billions of fellow-creatures\nthrough the length and breadth of Asia? The old king\u2019s name lives, but it\nlives as that of the father of no warrior, but of a great teacher whose\ndoctrine has given peace and happiness to the souls of men instead of\nshedding the blood which clogs the footsteps of the earthly conqueror.\n\nWe, holding fast the Christian creed, may say with confidence that of all\nmere _men_ who have lived since the creation of the world Buddha was the\ngreatest. Next to him, I should count Confucius, and after Confucius,\nMohammed.\n\nNothing in Buddha\u2019s life seems to me greater than the victory which he\nachieved over himself when he became convinced of the aimlessness of the\nascetic life. He had left his palaces, his wife, and all the pomp of\nhis father\u2019s court, in order to fly from the world and its temptations\nand lead a life of privation and meditation. After six years he saw the\nfutility of such a life. His aim was to do something that should redeem\nthe world from sin and its miseries. How could solitude, starvation and\nmere meditation achieve that?\n\nSo, in spite of the indignation of the five men who had followed him into\nthe ascetic life, he determined to go back into the world and live for\nthe good of others instead of sitting wrapped in his own thoughts. He\nbelieved that he had achieved the great good, and he realized the fact\nthat his attitude was one of utter selfishness, barren of all result,\nand leading to nothing. The disappointment and the desertion of his\nfive followers must have been bitter. But comfort came to him in time,\nfor they grew to know that he was right and were converted as trusty\ndisciples to his new creed. From the time that he left the shade of the\nBodhi tree his ministration began. He knew that he had received the\nsublime gift of wisdom, and that the gift was not for himself alone, but\nfor the purification and happiness of all mankind. It was no doubt a\ngreat struggle to give up the illusion of six long years and the dream of\nmany more. But it was also a great triumph, the turning-point of a life\nthat was so full of destiny.\n\nI have already told how the first Vihara was established in the Veluvana,\nthe pious gift of King Bimbisara, but the chief home of the Buddha was\nanother garden or grove called the J\u00e9tavana, which a certain minister\nnamed Anatha Pindaka had bought at a great price from J\u00e9ta, the son\nof the King of Sravasti. Here the Buddha dwelt for more than twenty\nyears, and there he uttered the J\u0101takas, or Birth Stories, which have\nbeen preserved mainly thanks to his kinsman Ananda. For it is a strange\ncoincidence that, as in Christianity so in Buddhism, there is no written\nword by the Master. These J\u0101takas are of the nature of parables by which\nthe Buddha was wont to illustrate the events of the present by stories of\nwhat had taken place in a former state of existence; and as the Buddha\u2019s\nlife was one long struggle against the treacherous designs of his enemy\nDevadatta, so in the J\u0101takas we find a constant reference to the feud as\nhaving existed in previous incarnations.\n\nWhen first the Buddha began to preach, women were not admitted into the\nHoly Order; but there soon came a moment when they, too, yearned to\nlisten to the teaching of the Master. A certain noble of the Shakya clan\ntook his wife and a number of Shakya ladies to sit at the feet of the\nBlessed One. Among them it is to be inferred were Gop\u0101 and others of the\nBuddha\u2019s wives. But Yas\u014ddhara was not among the very first, for she still\nlonged for her lost husband, and hoped against hope that he might yet\ncome back to her. But when she saw that this could not be, she, too, was\nconverted and became a saint, earning the praise of the Blessed One for\nher modesty and virtue.\n\nNow Devadatta, seeing the great power of the Tath\u0101gata (Buddha), had,\nagainst his will, for it would deprive him of all chance of sovereignty,\nbecome a Bhikshu, and carrying the beggar\u2019s bowl, had set up a Vihara in\nrivalry to that of the Buddha. He, too, must needs convert disciples,\nboth men and women. It chanced that among the latter there was a young\nmarried woman, who, though she knew it not, was with child when she\njoined the sisterhood. When she discovered how matters stood with her,\nshe made no attempt at concealment, but told her superiors of her case.\nUpon report being made of this to Devadatta, he was wroth, and declared\nthat as she had broken her vows she must be disgraced and banished from\nthe community. In shame and sorrow she came to the Blessed One and laid\nher case before him.\n\nHe was moved with pity, but saw that it would do harm to the Holy Order\nand give offence to the weaker brethren and sisters if he were to admit\na nun who had been rejected as unchaste by Devadatta, unless she could\nprove her innocence. So he ordered that an inquiry should be made, and\nupon the assurance of a wise woman, named Visakha, that the girl\u2019s\ncondition was not due to any violation of the rules of the order, but\nwas only the natural result of her marriage before she entered the\nsisterhood, he accepted her, and when the nun\u2019s child was born, he was\nknown as Kassapa the Prince, and was brought up in royal state. The\nMaster justified his action by the story told in the following J\u0101taka,\nwhich is given at great length by Rhys Davids.\n\nLong ages ago the Bodhisatva came to life as a deer. When he was born\nhe was of a golden colour, his eyes were like round jewels, his horns\nwere white as silver, his mouth was red as a cluster of Kamala flowers,\nhis hoofs were bright and hard as lacquer-work, his tail as fine as the\ntail of a Tibetan ox, and his body as large as a foal\u2019s. He was known as\nthe Banyan deer, and lived in a forest with an attendant herd of five\nhundred deer, over which he was king. Near him dwelt another deer, also\ngold-coloured, with a like herd of deer under him. He was known as the\nMonkey deer.\n\nNow the King of Benares at that time was a mighty hunter, and made his\npeople neglect their work in order to go and beat for him. So the people\ntook counsel together, and resolved to make an enclosure, driving all the\ndeer into it and giving them over to the king, so that their work should\nbe no longer hindered. So the two herds were driven into the enclosure,\nand when the king went there, he saw the two gold-coloured deer and\ngranted them their lives. But he, loving venison, would go sometimes to\nshoot a deer and at other times sent his cook to kill one. At last, when\nthe deer, terrified and often wounded, were in despair, they went to the\nBodhisatva and told him of their piteous case. So he made a bargain with\nthe king of the other herd\u2014the Monkey deer\u2014that the two herds should in\nturn each day by lot send a deer to the place of execution, so that at\nthe least there should be no more wounding.\n\nOne day it happened the lot fell upon a hind in the herd of the Monkey\ndeer. But she being great with young, went to the Monkey deer and said:\n\u201cLord! I am with young. When I have brought forth my son, we will both\ntake our turn. Order that the turn shall pass me by.\u201d But the Monkey deer\nrefused, saying that he could not make her lot fall upon others, and sent\nher away.\n\nSeeing that there was no help in him, she appealed to the Bodhisatva, and\nhe took pity upon her, and went himself and put his neck upon the block\nof execution and lay down. When the cook came and saw that the king of\nthe deer whose life had been promised him was there, he went and told\nthe king, who, seeing the Bodhisatva, said: \u201cMy friend, the king of the\ndeer! Did I not grant you your life? Why are you here?\u201d The Bodhisatva\nanswered: \u201cO great king! A hind with young came and told me that the lot\nhad fallen upon her. How could I transfer her miserable lot to another?\nSo I, giving my life for hers, am lying here. Have no suspicion, O\nmighty king!\u201d Then was the king moved to great compassion, and saying\nthat never, even among men, had he seen so great pity, gave their lives\nboth to him and to the hind. But more than that, after listening to the\nBodhisatva, he decreed that no beasts or birds or fish should thenceforth\nbe killed.\n\nAfter that, the deer, sure of their lives, began to lay waste and eat\nthe crops of the people, so they complained to the king, who bade them\nbegone, for he might give up his kingdom, but not his oath. Then the\nBanyan deer called together the herds and forbade them to eat the crops;\nand he sent a message to the husbandmen, telling them that they need put\nup no fences, but that it would be enough if they tied leaves round the\nedge of the fields as a sign. But he continued to instruct the deer thus\nthroughout his life, and passed away with his herd according to their\ndeeds. The king also hearkened to the words of the Bodhisatva, and then\nin due time passed away according to his deeds.\n\nWhen the Master had finished this story of the Banyan deer he explained\nits meaning to the assembled disciples.\n\n\u201cHe who was then the Monkey deer was Devadatta, his herd was Devadatta\u2019s\nfollowing, the hind was the Nun, her son was Kassapa the Prince, the King\nwas Ananda, but the royal Banyan deer was myself.\u201d (Rhys Davids, \u201cBirth\nStories,\u201d Vol. I., pages 201-210.)\n\nPurged of its wild extravagances, the Lalita Vistara, the story told by\nAnanda, gives much insight into the purity and sweet reasonableness of\nthe Blessed One\u2019s teaching. Shortly before descending upon earth to be\nborn of Queen Maya, he is seated in the Tsushita (Heaven) surrounded\nby gods and saints, to whom he delivers this last parting message (I\nam translating from the version of Foucaux, quoted by Barth\u00e9lemy St.\nHilaire):\n\n\u201cBe careful to avoid all immodesty. All the divine and pure pleasures are\nthe fruit of good work. Take heed, then, of your deeds. If you have not\nlaid up for yourselves these previous virtues, you are hurrying to that\ngoal where, far from happiness, we experience misery and suffer every\nill. Desire is neither lasting nor consistent; it is even as a dream, a\nmirage, the lightning, the foam of the sea. Observe the practice of the\nLaw; the man who faithfully observes these holy practices meets with no\nevil. Loving tradition, morality and charity, be constant in patience\nand purity. Act in a spirit of mutual loving-kindness, in a spirit of\nhelpfulness. Remember the Buddha, the Law and the congregation of the\nfaithful. All that you see in me of supernatural power, of science, and\nof strength is produced by the agency of virtue, which is its cause,\nand comes from tradition, from morality and from modesty. Do you, too,\npractise this perfect restraint. It is not by phrases, nor by words, nor\nby crying that we can attain the doctrine of virtue. Acquire it by deeds;\nact according to your professions; never cease in making efforts. Not\nevery one who acts is rewarded, but whoso does not act obtains nothing.\nBeware of pride, of haughtiness, and of arrogance; always gentle, and\nnever straying from the straight path, be diligent in following the road\nwhich leads to Nirvana. Bestir yourselves in the search after the Road\nof Salvation, and with the lamp of wisdom dispel utterly the darkness\nof ignorance. Rid yourselves of the net of sin which is accompanied by\nrepentance. But what skills it to say more? The Law is full of reason and\nof purity. When I shall have obtained the supreme intelligence, when the\nrain of the Law which leads to immortality shall fall, then come back to\nlisten anew to the Law which I shall teach you.\u201d\n\nThen were the Gods consumed by sorrow at the loss of the Blessed One; but\nhe comforted them by leaving in his place the Bodhisatva Maitriya, whom\nhe consecrated by giving him his tiara and his diadem. Maitriya, then,\nwill become Buddha (_vide supra_), when the corrupted world shall have\nlost all memory of the teaching of Shakya Muni.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Buddha\u2019s life upon earth was prolonged far beyond the span which is\nallotted to most men. He was some thirty years old when he first began to\npreach, and his ministration lasted fifty-three years. Surely it is not\nirreverent to apply to him the words of the Hebrew Psalmist: \u201cMark the\nperfect man and behold the upright: for the end of that man is peace.\u201d\nRender \u201cPeace\u201d by \u201cNirvana,\u201d no bad translation, indeed, and you have\nthe Buddha. When at the last he felt that the dark mystery of death\nwas overshadowing him, and that the end was at hand, he bade Ananda go\nand tell the Mallas of Kusin\u0101r\u0101 that their master would pass away at\nmidnight, and invited them to come to him. There was at that time in\nKusin\u0101r\u0101 an old and decrepit man a hundred and twenty years of age, upon\nwhom the people looked as a saint. His name was Subhadra. This venerable\nman, believing in the greatness of the Blessed One, begged of him the\nboon of passing away before him; and, this being granted, Subhadra gave\nup the ghost. But when the assembled Bhikshus, being astonished at this\nfavour, inquired the reason, the Blessed One told two last Birth Stories.\n\n\u201cBhikshus, in days gone by there lived in a valley a deer, the master of\na thousand deer; he was prudent, wide-awake and of quick perception. One\nday a hunter espied him and told the king. So the king assembled his army\nand surrounded all the deer and their leader. Then the leader thought:\n\u2018If I do not protect these deer they will all be destroyed.\u2019 So looking\nabout the place in which they were penned, he perceived a torrent flowing\nthrough the valley; but the stream was so swift that the deer feared lest\nit should carry them away. But the leader jumped into the water, and\nfinding foothold in the middle, cried to the herd: \u2018Come, jump from the\nbank on to my back and thence to the other bank; it is the only means of\nsaving your lives; if you do not do this you will surely die!\u2019 The herd\nof deer obeyed, and though their hoofs striking his back cut the skin\nand tore the flesh, he never flinched. When as it seemed all the deer\nhad crossed the water, he looked back, and saw a calf that had been left\nbehind and could not cross over. Then, torn and bruised and racked with\npain, he took the calf on his back, and crossed the stream with it. All\nthe herd had now passed over, but the great stag knew that death was\nnear, and he cried: \u2018May what I have done to preserve the joy of life to\nthese deer and this calf make me cast off sin, and obtain boundless and\nperfect light; may I become a Buddha, cross over the sea of regeneration\nto perfection and salvation, and pass beyond all sorrow.\u2019 ...\n\n\u201cWhat think ye, Bhikshus? I am he who was then the leader of the herd.\nThe deer are now the five hundred Mallas and the fawn is Subhadra.\u201d\n(Adapted from Rockhill\u2019s \u201cLife of Buddha,\u201d page 137 _et seq._)\n\nOne more J\u0101taka he uttered, and that was the last. He warned his weeping\ndisciples not to mourn for him, or to look upon him as lost, for inasmuch\nas they had his law and his doctrine, he would still be with them. He\nspoke to them of the four places where pious men would rear monuments\nin his honour: (1) The Lumbini Garden, where he was born; (2) the place\nunder the Sacred Fig-tree, where he became Buddha; (3) the Mrighadeva,\nthe deer forest, from where the first sermon was preached; (4) the place\nwhere he died at Kusin\u0101r\u0101.\n\nAt the last the Blessed One, uncovering his body, said to the Bhikshus:\n\u201cBrethren, look well at the Tath\u0101gata\u2019s body, for it is as hard to find\na Tath\u0101gata as to see a flower on a fig-tree. Bhikshus! never forget\nit: decay is inherent to all things!\u201d These were the last words of the\nTath\u0101gata. And so in the fullness of time, calm and holy, he entered\nNirvana, that state in which all the desires, all the cares and all\nthe sorrows of life have ceased to be. Is not that the ideal of \u201cPeace,\nperfect peace?\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere is a Japanese proverb which says: \u201cMeeting is the beginning of\nparting.\u201d Pregnant, indeed, are those six words, for in them are summed\nup all the sorrows and the one inevitable certainty of life. When the\nparting with those who are dear to us takes place, how we treasure some\ntrifle which brings to life recollections of the sweet communion of the\npast! And so it is with those relics of which I spoke at the beginning of\nthis chapter. When Assheton Smith, the famous sportsman, was told that\nhe must take his ailing wife to the South of France, he, being a wealthy\nman, answered: \u201cThat I cannot do, but I can and will bring the South of\nFrance to her.\u201d And so there arose that marvellous conservatory, a glass\npalace, which I remember well, when nearly sixty years ago I used to go\nand stay with Lord Broughton, Byron\u2019s friend, who rented the place. In\nour humble way we bring home to ourselves the lands endeared to us by the\ncareless gaiety of former days, scenes which are peopled by the ghosts of\nold friends whom we conjure up, living once more in the sunshine of happy\nyouth. Is not that the chief sanity of the collector\u2019s madness?\n\n\n\n\nBUDDHA AND ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI AND CASTE\u2014THE ARYANS\n\n\nThere are few days in the year, even in mid-winter, or, what is worse\nstill, in March, when I cannot sit out in my Veluvana, a sun-trap snugly\nsheltered from the north and the biting east. It is my thinking-place,\nand on this 28th of January, for some mysterious reason, with his image\nbefore me, my thoughts have been held entirely by the Buddha himself.\nNot that I am a Buddhist, or in the remotest degree likely to become\none, though we hear of convinced followers of that religion even among\nEnglishmen; but, as those who condescend to read me will have guessed,\nthe story of his life has a great attraction for me, and that none the\nless because it is the record of one of the greatest rebellions that ever\ntook place. Indeed, there is something weirdly fascinating in the history\nof all revolution even where we most hate it. What show-place can possess\ngreater interest than the tragic collections of the Mus\u00e9e Carnavalet in\nwhat was once Madame de S\u00e9vign\u00e9\u2019s home in Paris? Yet it is made up of\nrelics which make men shudder, especially those few still left who, like\nmyself, long ago knew not a few people who had lived through the days of\nthe Terreur.\n\nI have stood in that house of gruesome memories spellbound by a\nfascination such as that by which a snake paralyses its victim. In\nquite another way I am entranced by the upheaval which was the work\nof the Buddha. There was not the faintest likeness between the two\nrevolutions\u2014indeed, they were diametrically opposites. The one all fury,\nflame and murder\u2014hatred, the guillotine, and the _noyades_ of the Loire.\nThe other, the calm extinction of all passion, all human desire, all\nambition; a life spent in holy contemplation and in the wooing of that\nsupreme wisdom which is virtue.\n\nAnd yet Martin Luther himself, when he passionately scourged the Pope\nand his Bishop for the sale of indulgences, was not a more zealous rebel\nthan this calm and contemplative Buddha, who, renouncing all honours and\ntitles and worldly possessions for himself, contented, like St. Francis,\nto don the monk\u2019s robe and to carry the beggar\u2019s bowl, entered his\npeaceful protest against the usurpations and pretensions of the crafty\nBrahmans, who had long since drifted away from the simple and poetically\nbeautiful teaching of the Rig Veda, albeit they acknowledged its\nauthority as Sruti\u2014inspiration, looking upon it as their one inspired\nsacred Book.[4] In that wonderful collection of hymns and prayers about\nwhich I wish to say a few words later there is no allusion to suttee\u2014the\nawful institution under which widows are burnt with their dead husbands;\nnone to child-marriages, another cruelty; none to caste. All of these\nwere inventions of the Brahmans, and it was upon the doctrine of caste\nthat they founded their claim to superiority over the kings and princes\nwhom they had gradually supplanted.\n\nSo long as the king and priest were one\u2014so long, that is to say, as the\nking conducted the ceremonies and sacrifices of religion\u2014the authority\nof the king was unchallenged.[5] But there came a moment when the\nkings grew weary of a tedious ritual and delegated their religious\nduties to substitutes. That was the opportunity of the priestcraft,\nwho, as the intercessors between the people and their gods\u2014a powerful\nposition indeed\u2014were able to claim a rank higher than that of the king\nhimself. Here was the beginning of Caste. When Buddha entered upon his\nministry there were four castes: (1) The Brahmans, or priests; (2) the\nKshatriya, the warrior and governing class, to which the kings and\nprinces belonged\u2014a class analogous to the Samurai or Bushi of Japan;\n(3) the Vaisiyas\u2014farmers, traders, etc. These three classes, all of\nAryan descent, were, and are, \u201cthe twice-born,\u201d whose second birth is\nsymbolized by their being invested with the sacred cord at an age which\nmore or less corresponds to that of confirmation with us. (4) The Sudras\nwere the fourth class; they were the lowest of all\u2014despised as the\ndescendants of the Dasyu, the enemies of the bright gods, the aborigines\nwho were defeated by the migration of the white Aryan herdsmen descending\nupon India from the lofty plains of the Pamirs.\n\nWe talk glibly enough of Caste, yet there are not many of us who have any\nglimmering of light as to its real meaning or origin. The majority of\nEuropeans speak of the word as if it were of Hindu origin, whereas it is\nsimply a Portuguese word signifying race or family. In its present sense,\nindeed, it is of quite modern birth, for the old Portuguese Barbosa,\nwriting in the sixteenth century, only uses the word _casta_ in the sense\nof family, speaking of men and women _de boa casta_, of good family. When\nhe wished to indicate the mysterious divisions of Indian society, he used\nthe word _leis_, laws, _leis de gentios_, laws of the heathen. (Sir Henry\nYule\u2019s glossary.) Apart from the word, we are apt to speak of Caste as if\nit were an institution, respectable at any rate on account of its hoary\nantiquity. Old it certainly is, yet it was not known to the sacred poets\nof the Rig Veda.\n\nThe word which comes nearest to caste in Sanskrit is \u201cVarna\u201d (colour),\nand in the early days of the Aryan invasion of India there were only\ntwo classes: the white conquerors and the \u201cDasyu,\u201d or enemies, who were\nblack, and, as the conquered people, looked down upon. What we call\ncaste, then, which was originally a question of skin, had already in the\nBuddha\u2019s time, five centuries before our era, become far more complicated\nthan that. Ethnologically, the division between the white man and the\nblack, the Arya and the Dasyu, the conqueror and the conquered, was as\nsharp as ever. But whereas the dark man remained as he was\u2014the lowest\nof the castes\u2014political reasons and the lust of power had subdivided\nthe conquering race into three distinct classes, and, as I have said\nabove, it was upon that subdivision that the Brahmans laid the \u201cprecious\ncorner-stone\u201d of their priestly tyranny.\n\nWhen the glorious young prince, a Kshatriya and the heir to the throne,\nthe incomparable scholar and athlete, the man whom men envied and women\nloved, cast aside his royal rank and went forth into the wilderness,\ntaking upon himself all the burthens and privations of the poorest and\nmeanest, in order that for them he might work, striving for the good\nof all mankind without distinction of colour or race, the Brahmans\nwere forced to see in him a hostile champion, armed to attack their\nstronghold. He went further than this: he denied the divine authority of\nthe Veda, without which the whole structure of Brahmanism crumbles to\ndust, and so he finally was branded as a heretic.\n\nWhat cannot fail to excite surprise is the fact that although Buddhism\n\u201cbecame the state religion of India under As\u014dka, the Constantine of\nIndia, in the middle of the third century B.C.\u201d (Max M\u00fcller), and was\nonly declining in the seventh century A.D., caste should not utterly\nhave disappeared. But that was not the case\u2014on the contrary, it has\nbecome more and more involved, for there are now not only the three\ndivisions of the twice-born Aryas, and the outcast Sudras, but there are,\nmoreover, the subdivisions to which professions and occupations have\ngiven rise; the goldsmith, for example, looking down upon the bootmaker\nand leather worker, and he, in his turn, refusing to hold communion with\nsome craftsman whose superior he deems himself to be. No wonder caste\nhas been described as \u201ca standing puzzle to governors and the despair of\nall employers of labour.\u201d Life is, indeed, complicated when the shadow\nof a man of meaner birth falling upon a boiling pot defiles the food\nwhich it contains by an impurity which is almost worse than poison. As\nin an Oriental household, perhaps even in a European household, it\nhas been said that no matter how low a menial may be, there is always\nsomeone a step lower to whom by payment he may assign some of his duties;\nso below the Sudras there is the Pariah, the outcast, who, as the word\nimplies, should carry a bell to give timely warning of the approaching\ncontamination of his shadow.\n\nMax M\u00fcller, in his \u201cChips from a German Workshop,\u201d quotes a table by\nBerghaus showing the relative numbers of the people professing the chief\nreligions into which the world is divided. Nothing can better show the\nextent of the influence which Buddhism, with an advantage of 500 years\nand more over Christianity, 1,100, and more, over Mohammedanism, has\nexercised upon mankind.\n\n    Buddhists         31.2\n    Christians        30.7\n    Mohammedans       15.7\n    Brahmanists       13.4\n    Various heathens   8.7\n    Jews               0.3\n\nIn a note, Max M\u00fcller adds that: \u201cAs Berghaus does not distinguish the\nBuddhists in China from the following of Confucius and Lao Tze, the first\nplace on the scale belongs really to Christianity. It is difficult in\nChina to say to what religion a man belongs, as the same person may\nprofess two or three. The Emperor himself, after sacrificing to the\nritual of Confucius, visits a Tao-ss\u016d Temple, and afterwards bows before\nan image of Fo in a Buddhist chapel.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: PROFESSOR F. MAX-M\u00dcLLER.\n\n_After a copyright photograph by Elliott & Fry, London._\n\n[_To face p. 52._]\n\n_Ex Oriente lux._ We see from this table that all the chief religions of\nthe world have their rise, like the sun, in the East.\n\nI have observed with no little astonishment that certain pundits of\nto-day speak in somewhat offensively patronizing tones of Max M\u00fcller, as\nif he were a thing of the past, all very well in his day, but not up to\ndate, and already superseded. As to that, whether his theories upon the\nsubject of mythology and comparative religion were sound or not, I am not\ncompetent to judge; but I feel that if others have pushed his work a step\nfurther than the point at which he left it, we may fairly ask whether,\nwithout his great labours, these sages would have attained their own\nsuccess. There is no finality in science, and a Newton or a Faraday is in\nno way dethroned if others have built on the foundations which he laid.\nThe world does not stand still, and it is the common fate of the pioneer\nthat some new man should go beyond what he has reached. However that may\nbe, the collating, translating and editing of the sacred books of India,\nand the editing of the thirty volumes of the sacred books of the East,\nincluding Chinese and Arabic works, were a colossal labour\u2014the work of a\nlifetime, which has been of national and international value. All honour\nto the workman!\n\nI first met Max M\u00fcller sixty years ago at the Deanery at Christ\nChurch, where the evening parties were gatherings of all that was\nmost distinguished in university life. He was then a most attractive\npersonality, brilliant, of course, still young, not very tall, but\nextremely good-looking, an accomplished musician, the friend of\nMendelssohn. His conversation was delightfully illuminating, and he\nwas generous enough not to grudge the enjoyment of it to a humble\nundergraduate who was only too ready to sit at his feet. It was a regret\nto me that I left Oxford to enter the Foreign Office without having had\nthe chance of attending his lectures; but his works on the Science of\nLanguage, and especially his \u201cChips from a German Workshop,\u201d written at\nthe behest of the great Bunsen, who persuaded the directors of the old\nEast India Company on public grounds to defray the expense of his edition\nof the Vedas, have been to me the joy of many years, and still continue\nto fill many an idle moment, robbing it of its idleness, for who could be\nidle with Max M\u00fcller?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA very charming book is Sabatier\u2019s \u201cLife of St. Francis of Assisi.\u201d To\nme one of its chief attractions lies in the strong parallel between\nthe life of the medi\u00e6val saint and the Eastern reformer. The points of\ndivergence are no more than would be accounted for by the differences of\ntime, place and surroundings. St. Francis was not a prince of the blood\nroyal like the Buddha, but he was the son of a rich man, one of those\nmerchants and men of mark who travelled through the world, visiting all\nthe important fairs of those days, and received as welcome guests by\nthe great nobles. Indeed, they, too, had a sort of patent of nobility\nof their own, belonging to a guild of popularity\u2014for in those days\nwhen newspapers were not, the rare visits of a man who could bring the\nlatest court gossip from Paris or London, and whose waggons were often\nladen with golden tribute sent from beyond the sea to the Pope, were\nlooked forward to with no little pleasure. So Francis, in his gilded\nyouth, became one of the leading youngsters of the town, foremost in all\nmischief and riotous living, a fighter and a daredevil, ruffling it in\nall the fantastic coxcombry of weapons and dress which the ingenuity of\nmedi\u00e6val tailors and armourers could devise.\n\nFighting there was in plenty in the Italian cities of the twelfth and\nthirteenth centuries, and who so ready to fight as the extravagant\nyoung scapegrace, who was as keen to throw away his life as his money?\nAfter one of the local raids came imprisonment for a year\u2014then more\nfighting, followed by illness, fever and repentance; after that solitude,\nmeditation, and the final renunciation of the world, the flesh and the\ndevil, when the manifest likeness to the Buddha first asserted itself.\n\nThe long, lonely silences in the _carceri_, the little natural caves\non the side of Mount Subasio, when the saint, plunged in profoundest\nthought, was dreaming dreams of founding an order which was to save\nmankind, cannot but remind us of the royal prince starving in the\nwilderness, he, too, dreaming of the rescue of the world from sin. Both\nfounded their orders on principles which involved the giving up of\neverything to which men hold most firmly. There was to be no property,\nno house, no home, no family. Rags and beggary were no disgrace\u2014rather\nthe hall-mark of a spiritual nobility. Homeless, their disciples were\nto wander forth, trusting in Providence and charity, which should do\nsomething towards filling the beggar\u2019s bowl. Neither saw at first that\nthese were conditions which sooner or later must break down. Religion\nneeds its luxuries and will have them: a school of absolute effacement\nof the world was impossible in the West as it had been in the East. To\nventure any minute sketch of the aims of the two reformers is beyond\nwhat I can do here. Both were animated by the most perfect spirit of\nself-sacrifice with which they vainly endeavoured to inspire their\norders, but no founder of religion has yet succeeded in establishing\nprinciples from which their so-called disciples have not sooner or later\nfound self-justified means of breaking away.\n\nOne prominent feature in the characters of these two saintly men has in\nit a touch of poetry which it were ill to miss. Both loved animals with\na love that was almost holy. The Buddha held the taking of all life to\nbe a sin, and it is impossible to read the Birth Stories, to which I\nhave alluded elsewhere, without feeling that they were inspired by the\ntenderest sympathy. St. Francis preached to the birds, and when Buddha\ntaught in the Deer Forest near Benares, stags and hinds stood still and\nlistened.\n\n\u201cBirds, my brethren,\u201d said St. Francis to the birds that fluttered round\nhim, \u201cit is your duty greatly to praise and love your Creator. He has\ngiven you feathers for raiment, wings to fly, and filled all your needs.\nHe has made you the noblest of His creatures; He allows you to live in\nthe pure air: you have no need to sow or to reap, but He cares for you,\nprotects you and directs you.\u201d And the birds stretched their necks,\nspread their wings, opened their beaks and looked at him as if thanking\nhim, while he walked about amongst them, caressing them with the hem of\nhis robe. Then he gave them his blessing and took leave of them.\n\nWhen he was preaching at Alviano the swallows made such a noise with\ntheir twittering that he could not make himself heard. The gentle saint\nrebuked them: \u201cIt is my turn to speak,\u201d he said. \u201cSwallows, little\nsisters, listen to the Word of God, be silent and hold your peace, until\nI shall have said my say!\u201d But for all this and much more, how St.\nFrancis praised God for all His creatures and specially for \u201cMy Lord\nthe Sun, for of Thee, oh! Most High, he is the symbol,\u201d[6] we must turn\nto the pages of Sabatier. To St. Francis, as to the Buddha, all God\u2019s\ncreatures and the life which He gave them were sacred.\n\nIf there was much that was alike in the two men, there was one point in\nwhich they essentially differed. St. Francis was no scholar. He knew a\nlittle Latin, which he had learnt from the monks of St. George; that was\na necessity for a man in his position, for Latin was a sort of lingua\nfranca in his day, and was the language of sermons and of political\ndiscussions. Writing was a difficulty to him; he rarely took a pen in\nhis hand and could do little more than sign his name. The autograph\nof the Sacro Convento, which is held to be genuine, gives evidence of\ngreat awkwardness. For the most part, he dictated, and would sign his\nletters with a simple T, the symbol of the Holy Cross. The Buddha, on\nthe contrary, like St. Paul among the Pharisees, was a man of learning,\ndeeply versed in the classics of the Brahmans, and well able to hold\nhis own in discussions with the priests upon religion and upon the\ninterpretation of the poems of the Rig Veda.\n\n[Illustration: ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI PREACHING TO THE BIRDS.\n\n_By Giotto._\n\n[_To face p. 58._]\n\nThere is no ancient historical problem of so great interest as that of\nthe Aryas, that mysterious people of whom we talk so much and know so\nlittle, as has been pointed out. The movements of the planets, the orbits\nof comets, have been accurately calculated; Nature is continually being\ncompelled to yield many of her secrets to the patient investigations of\nscience. But of this masterful white race, some of whom, from the high\ntablelands of Central Asia, swarmed down upon India as conquerors, while\nothers, wandering by the shores of the Caspian Sea, overran Europe to\nbecome the progenitors of all that is noblest in mankind, there is no\nrecord, no history, and in regard to them even fable is silent. Where\nthere is no writing, not so much as a graven stone, there can be no\nChampollion, no Rawlinson. The migrations of the Aryas, which meant so\nmuch for the children of men, were long unsuspected, and only in recent\ntimes realized. Even so, the few men of learning who gave thought to this\ncrucial human enigma were travellers in a dense and dark forest, until\nin the Cimmerian gloom comparative philology opened out vistas\u2014none too\nbroad\u2014through which they were enabled to gain glimpses of a civilization\nand people of whom all trace had been lost in the mist of many decades of\ncenturies. Narrow as they were, they afforded the \u03c0\u03bf\u1fe6 \u03c3\u03c4\u1ff6, from which the\ninvestigation of the lost history was set in motion.\n\nOf this modern learning we must acknowledge Max M\u00fcller as the foremost\nprophet. Bopp, Schlegel, Humboldt, Grimm and Burnouf were great men,\nbut Max M\u00fcller, like Saul among the Benjamites, \u201cfrom his shoulders and\nupward was higher\u201d than any of them, and he it was who introduced the\nscience of language into this country. To one who, like myself, has been\na faithful believer in his teaching, it is a matter of unceasing wonder\nthat there should be men of undoubted scientific and literary merit who\nhold in opposition to him that the Aryas were originally a European\nrace, who in remote times found their way into Central Asia. This bold\ntheory was started about the year 1839 by a famous Belgian geologist\nand ethnologist, Omalius d\u2019Halloy, and it was taken up by no less a man\nthan Robert Gordon Latham, by Benfey, Spiegel, Poesche, Penka, Schrader\nand others. Max M\u00fcller appears to attribute the idea to Benfey, a Jew,\nwho was a learned Orientalist and professor of comparative philology at\nG\u00f6ttingen. In Vol. IV., page 223, of Max M\u00fcller\u2019s \u201cChips from a German\nWorkshop,\u201d we read: \u201cWe have all accustomed ourselves to look for the\ncradle of the Aryan languages in Asia, and to imagine these dialects\nflowing like streams from the centre of Asia to the south, the west\nand the north. I must confess that Professor Benfey\u2019s protest against\nthis theory seems to me very opportune, and his arguments in favour of\na more Northern, if not European, origin of the whole Aryan family of\nspeech deserve, at all events, far more attention than they have hitherto\nreceived.\u201d\n\nIn spite of this, Max M\u00fcller does not seem to have bestowed that\nattention upon them, for I can find nothing either in confirmation or\ncontradiction of the theory. He at once goes off at a tangent on the\ncomparative inter-relations of the various Aryan _languages_ among\nthemselves, but on the supposed European origin of the Aryan _race_ he\nis silent. I think it just possible that Max M\u00fcller may have wished to\npay Benfey a compliment without committing himself to an endorsement of\nhis views. Benfey had been strongly recommended to him by Bunsen, his\nown great friend and patron, for whom he cherished the most grateful\naffection.\n\nIn a letter, dated from Heidelberg, February 26th, 1855, Bunsen writes:\n\u201cI wish you would take advantage of my communication to put yourself\ninto correspondence with Benfey. He is well disposed towards you, and\nhas openly spoken of you as the \u2018apostle of German science in England.\u2019\nAnd then he stands infinitely higher than the present learned men of his\ndepartment.\u201d The desire to please Bunsen would account for Max M\u00fcller\u2019s\nfaint praise of Benfey\u2019s theory, but its adoption would have seemed\nnothing less than the negation of all that he had so long striven to\nteach. (Cf. \u201cChips from a German Workshop,\u201d Vol. III., page 469.) Of\nOmalius d\u2019Halloy, Latham and the rest, Max M\u00fcller seems to take no heed.\nAt any rate, I do not find them mentioned either in the \u201cChips\u201d or in the\nlectures on the Science of Language.\n\nI, for my part, should as soon accept the doctrine, in which I saw the\nother day that there is still here and there a believer, that the world\nis a flat surface, justifying the terrors of the sailors of Columbus\nlest, when they reached the extreme west, they should topple over, ship\nand all, into space or Hades, by whatever name you choose to call it.\n\nTo some men disputation and contradiction are an intellectual\nnecessity\u2014witness the beliefs that Bacon wrote _Romeo and Juliet_,\nand that Homer was an unlimited liability company of prehistoric\nballad-mongers. According to the ethnological faith in which I have lived\nfor the last sixty years, there existed in times so remote that they\ngo back beyond the birth of chronology a white folk of shepherds and\nhusbandmen who fed their flocks and tilled the soil in the valleys of\nthe Highlands of Central Asia. There they increased and multiplied until\nthe land of their birth could no longer hold them, and their pastures\nbecame insufficient for their flocks and herds. Then began their many\nwanderings. Toughened by a climate in which they had to live under most\ntrying conditions of burning heat and extreme cold, they were a hardy\nrace, having little to fear from the opposition of the weaker tribes who\nmight seek to bar their way.\n\nThere is one point in regard to the theory that the Aryas were originally\na European race, which, so far as I know, has not been taken into\nconsideration. The Aryas were obviously a superior people. That they\nproved wherever they went. In every migration they came, conquered and\nremained. Has there ever been known a case where a superior race\u2014not a\nhandful of men, like the crew of the _Mayflower_, but a whole nation\u2014has\nmigrated, taking all the risks and uncertainties incident to travel and\nclimate, and leaving the inferior race to enjoy the old well-proved home\nundisturbed?\n\nYet that is what the Aryas must have done if they left Europe for the\nterrors and privations of the Highlands of Asia, remaining to face the\nhardships of that inhospitable region for long centuries, until its\ninsufficiencies drove them to seek the kindlier soil and climate which\ntheir forbears had deserted. But whether the Aryas left Europe for Asia\nand thence again descended upon Europe, or whether they were originally\nan Asiatic race of dominant nobility, that is a question over which we\nmay leave the doctors to break their learned heads, in the confident\nassurance that never can they arrive at any certainty. Theory without a\nbacking of facts, without documentary evidence, must remain valueless.\n\nOnly one thing in regard to the European migration or migrations is\ncertain, and that is the fact that all the European languages, barring\nthose of the Huns, their cousins the Finns, the Basques and the Turks (if\nwe may call them Europeans, which let us hope will soon no longer be the\ncase), can be traced back to the speech of the old tribe which perhaps\nthree or four thousand years ago flitted south, east and west from the\nstorm-vexed valleys of the Pamirs, conquering and civilizing, driving the\naborigines before it like chaff before the wind.\n\nWhen I was a lad we used to be taught by such pedagogues as were\nsufficiently advanced to have heard of Sanskrit, that this and that Greek\nor Latin or other European word was \u201cderived from the Sanskrit.\u201d That is\nall changed, and no teacher would nowadays dare to preach such nonsense.\nWe know now that Sanskrit, which must have been more or less a dead\nlanguage in Buddha\u2019s time, only known at any rate by the more learned\namong the priests, was the descendant, like Greek, Latin, Russian,\nEnglish, the Celtic tongues and others, from a much older language which\nwas spoken by our forefathers in the Highlands of Central Asia. But\nSanskrit, albeit not our parent speech, but rather a distant cousin of\nour own European tongues, dead and buried though it has been for some two\nthousand years, has been the key by which the learned have unlocked the\ndoor of the most secret muniment-room of ethnological lore.\n\nIt is not possible to realize all that the Buddha achieved in the world\nunless we have some conception of the religious and social condition\nof Asia at the time of his great renunciation. That condition was the\nresult of the two great inroads of the Aryas, the one of the south into\nPersia, the other to the south and east overrunning India. The one\nwas that of the fire-worshippers and Zarathustra (Zoroaster), whose\nsacred canon was the Zend Avesta; the other that of the Brahmans, whose\ninspired message was the Rig Veda. From the former are descended the\nmodern Parsees and Guebres, and there is some justification for believing\nthat the separation of these two streams of invasion may have been due\nto religious dissent; for to the Parsee\u2014the believer in Ahura Mazda\n(Ormuzd), the one God, Creator of the Universe\u2014the gods of the Brahmans\nare an abomination, and no book is to a pious Parsee so much to be\nabhorred as the Rig Veda. In the Veda the Gods are called Deva. This\nword in Sanskrit means bright, brightness or light being one of the most\ngeneral attributes shared by the various manifestations of the Deity,\ninvoked in the Veda as Sun, or Sky, or Fire, or Dawn, or Storm.... In\nthe Zend Avesta the same word Deva means evil spirit. Like the Buddha,\nZarathustra was a heretic and a dissenter, and his sacred book, the Zend\nAvesta, was an attempt to replace the worship of the forces of nature\nby a religion\u2014purer and more spiritual\u2014under one Divine Creator, Ahura\nMazda, the wise spirit.\n\nIt is much to be regretted that, like our Lord, the Buddha should have\nleft no written word of his own. It would have been interesting to\nknow whether he held the Brahmanic gods in the same contempt as did\nZarathustra and his followers. Inasmuch as he denied the inspiration of\nthe Veda, he obviously must have repudiated them, and in his teaching,\nas it has been recorded, they play no part. But Max M\u00fcller certainly\nunderestimates the respect assigned to them in the later Buddhism of the\nmonks when he says: \u201cIn Buddhism we find these ancient Devas, Indra and\nthe rest, as merely legendary beings carried about at shows, as servants\nof Buddha, as goblins or fabulous heroes; but no longer worshipped or\neven feared by those with whom the name of Deva had lost every trace of\nits original meaning.\u201d\n\nNow it is impossible to deny that all over the East, wherever there is a\nBuddhist temple, there the images of the old Devas, grim and repellent,\nare devoutly worshipped and propitiated by prayer, even by people who\nhave no inkling of their significance. Moreover, it has been for many\ncenturies the policy of Buddhist missionaries to claim the native saints\nin countries which they seek to convert as reincarnations of the Buddha,\nand therefore to be worshipped. For instance, in Japan, Hachiman, the\nindigenous God of War, is adored in Buddhist temples, and there are many\nsuch cases, where there is no question of \u201cgoblins or fabulous heroes.\u201d\nIn modern times the Jesuits adopted the same policy in China, in regard\nto so-called Worship of Ancestors and of Tien\u2014Heaven; thereby bringing\ndown upon themselves the wrath of the meddling and muddling Dominicans\nand Franciscans and the interference of the Pope, between whom and the\nEmperor-King Hsi there arose a controversy, in which the former was\nworsted and the cause of Christianity in China was set back for centuries.\n\nI have spoken of the Aryas as of \u201ca people of whom we know so little,\u201d\nand yet, in truth, the wonder is that we should know so much with the\nalmost mathematical certainty afforded by the study of language and\nof the Rig Veda, those beautiful hymns for which the Brahmans claim\nSruti\u2014divine inspiration\u2014and which are by far the oldest document of the\nwhole Aryan race. That there should exist any writing of the age to which\nthey belong is a physical impossibility; the heat and damp of the Indian\nclimate are swift and ruthless in their work of destruction. Even in the\nBuddha\u2019s time the very language of the Vedas was dead and understood only\nby the priests. But we know from the journals of the Chinese pilgrim,\nHs\u00fcan Chwang\u2014as Max M\u00fcller points out\u2014with what painful care the hymns\nwere preserved orally by the Brahmans in the seventh century A.D. We\nhave also, as he further points out, the analogy of Hebrew, the MSS. of\nthe Old Testament, none of which is older than the tenth century, but\nof which the truth is tested by comparison with the Septuagint. We know\nthat \u201cevery hymn, every verse, every word and syllable in the Veda were\naccurately counted by native scholars about five or six hundred years\nbefore Christ.\u201d It is supposed that the collection of hymns was finished\nsome eleven or twelve hundred years B.C. But some of the hymns were then\nancient, some modern, \u201cso that we cannot well assign a date more recent\nthan 1200 to 1500 before our era for the original composition of those\nsimple hymns which up to the present day are regarded by the Brahmans\nwith the same feelings with which a Mohammedan regards the Koran, a Jew\nthe Old Testament, a Christian his Gospel.\u201d[7]\n\nSome of the hymns appear to me to contain passages of almost sublime\nbeauty, though Max M\u00fcller says: \u201cThe historical importance of the Veda\ncan hardly be exaggerated, but its intrinsic merit, and particularly\nthe beauty or elevation of its sentiments, have by many been rated far\ntoo high. Large numbers of the Vedic hymns are childish in the extreme:\ntedious, low, commonplace.\u201d And then he goes on to show how the Gods are\ninvoked to grant long life, food, large flocks, large families, for which\nthey are to be rewarded with sacrifices, etc. Here I cannot but think\nthat the great professor, for whom I entertain such sincere respect, is\na little unfair. Is not the idea of looking to their God as the Giver of\nall good things common to all primeval peoples?\n\nThe Jews, for instance, though they were full of wise words about the\nvanity of riches, still looked to Jehovah to enable them to \u201ceat the\nriches of the Gentiles,\u201d and to lead them to \u201ca land of wheat and barley\nand fig trees and pomegranates: a land of oil olive, and honey,\u201d and of\nmineral wealth. Again Solomon says: \u201cMy son, forget not my law, but let\nthine heart keep my commandments; for length of days, and long life, and\npeace shall they add to thee.\u201d Prayers for material prosperity to God,\nunder whatsoever name He may be worshipped, are common to all religions,\nand it is hardly just to brand the hymns of the Veda as \u201ctedious, low,\ncommonplace,\u201d because the ancient herdsmen of the Pamirs were no more\ndisinterested in their prayers than the rest of mankind, but addressed\ntheir material petitions to God just as King David and King Solomon did.\n\nIt was natural enough that these men, abiding in the fields, keeping\nwatch over their flocks and herds by day and by night, under the eternal\nice and snow of the heaven-reaching mountains, should worship the\nlight\u2014all that was Deva (light) was to them sacred and symbolical of the\nGodhead\u2014and so the Deus of the Latins was originally Light, and when we\ntalk of \u201cdivine,\u201d \u201cdivinity,\u201d we are looking back to the worship of our\nancestors when they prayed to the Sun, the Fire, the Sky, the Dawn, which\nwere the givers of all good things. Sometimes they are invoked under the\nnames of Varuna, Mitra, Indra. \u201cIn one hymn Agni (fire) is called the\nruler of the universe, the lord of men, the wise king, the father, the\nbrother, the son, the friend of men.... In another hymn, Indra is said\nto be greater than all; the Gods, it is said, do not reach Thee, Indra,\nnor men; Thou overcomest all creatures in strength. Another God, Soma,\nis called the King of the World, the King of Heaven and Earth, the\nConqueror of all. And what more could human language achieve in trying to\nexpress the idea of a divine and supreme power, than what another poet\nsays of another God, Varuna: \u2018Thou art Lord of all, of Heaven and earth;\nthou art the King of all, of those who are Gods and of those who are\nmen?\u2019\u201d\n\nHow beautiful is the following litany:\n\n\u201cIn the beginning there arose the golden child. He was the one born Lord\nof all that is. He established the earth and this sky; who is the God to\nWhom we shall offer our sacrifice?\n\n\u201cHe who gives life, He who gives strength, Whose command all the bright\nGods revere; Whose shadow is immortality; Whose shadow is death; Who is\nthe God to Whom we shall offer our sacrifice?\n\n\u201cHe who through His power is the one King of the breathing and awakening\nworld; He who governs all, man and beast; who is the God to Whom we shall\noffer our sacrifice?\n\n\u201cHe Whose greatness these snowy mountains, Whose greatness the seas\nproclaim with the distant river; He Whose regions are, as it were, His\ntwo arms; who is the God to Whom we shall offer our sacrifice?\n\n\u201cHe through Whom the sky is bright and the earth firm\u2014He through Whom the\nheaven was \u2019stablished, nay, the highest heaven\u2014He who measured out the\nlight in the air; who is the God to Whom we shall offer sacrifice?\n\n\u201cHe to Whom heaven and earth, standing firm by His will, look up\ntrembling inwardly\u2014He over Whom the rising sun shines forth; who is the\nGod to Whom we shall offer our sacrifice?\n\n\u201cWherever the mighty waterclouds went, where they placed the seed and lit\nthe fire, thence arose He who is the sole life of the bright Gods; who is\nthe God to Whom we shall offer our sacrifice?\n\n\u201cHe who by His might looked even over the waterclouds, the clouds which\ngave strength and lit the sacrifice, He who alone is God above all Gods;\nwho is the God to Whom we shall offer our sacrifice?\n\n\u201cMay He not destroy us\u2014He, the creator of the earth; or He, the\nrighteous, who created the Heaven\u2014He also created the bright and mighty\nwaters; who is the God to Whom we shall offer our sacrifice?\u201d\n\nWell might Max M\u00fcller, who has unearthed them, redeem his dispraise of\nthe hymns by saying: \u201cHidden in this rubbish there are precious stones!\u201d\nRight well do the hymns, or, at any rate, those which he admits to be\n\u201cprecious stones,\u201d deserve their title Rig Veda, the knowledge of Praise.\nNothing can be finer, more masculine, than a propitiatory hymn to the\nMaruts, the Storm Gods, of which he gives us a translation: \u201cThey make\nthe rocks to tremble, they tear asunder the kings of the forest. Come\non, Maruts, like madmen, ye Gods, with your whole tribe.\u201d No wonder\nmen, whose lives had to face the terrors of the icy wilderness, sought\nthe favour of the unruly forces whose rage meant death to them and to\ntheir herds and flocks. A hymn to Agni (fire), \u201cthe son of strength, the\nconqueror of horses, the highborn,\u201d is less striking, but the zenith of\nthe Vedic poetry is reached, as it seems to me, in a prayer addressed to\nUshas, the Dawn. What a picture it suggests of the old herdsman in those\nfrozen solitudes, falling on his knees when the stars grow pale before\nthe first glimmer of light that stretches along the eastern horizon,\nthankfully to worship the radiant Goddess who puts to flight the dark\nshadows of the night and its unseen dangers. Listen to his song of praise:\n\n\u201cShe shines upon us, like a young wife, rousing every living being to go\nto his work. When the fire had to be kindled by men, she made the light\nby striking down darkness.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe rose up, spreading far and wide, and moving everywhere. She grew in\nbrightness, wearing her brilliant garment. The mother of the cows (the\nmornings), the leader of the days, she shone gold-coloured, lovely to\nbehold.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe, the fortunate, who brings the eye of the Gods, who leads the white\nand lovely steed (of the sun), the Dawn, was seen revealed by her rays,\nwith brilliant treasures, following every one.\n\n\u201cThou who art a blessing where thou art near, drive far away the\nunfriendly; make the pasture wide, give us safety! Scatter the enemy,\nbring riches! Raise up wealth to the worshipper, thou mighty Dawn.\u201d\n\n\u201cShine for us with thy best rays, thou bright Dawn, thou who lengthenest\nour life, thou the love of all, who givest us food, who givest us wealth\nin cows, horses and chariots.\u201d\n\n\u201cThou daughter of the sky, thou highborn Dawn, whom the Vasishthas\nmagnify with songs, give us riches high and wide; all ye Gods protect us\nalways with your blessings.\u201d[8]\n\nSo the old shepherd prays, and the Goddess, answering to his call,\nspreads her rosy mantle over the sky, and tinges the snowy peaks and\nridges of the ice-bound mountains: the sun rises in his glory, and the\npeace of a new day is born to the world.\n\nThe piety of the old Aryans admits of no doubt. We are told that the\nconsciousness of sin is a prominent feature in their religion. The poet\nof the Veda searches eagerly for his sin, and finds it not in his will\nbut in his condition, which even in his dreams holds up evil before his\neyes, and at last he turns to his God, the God of Grace who enlightens\nthe simple. He believes in the power of the gods to take away from\nman the heavy burden of his sins. \u201cVaruna is merciful to him who has\ncommitted.\u201d\n\nOne more point should be noticed in any attempt, however slight, to give\na sketch of the religion of the Veda. Max M\u00fcller tells us that it knows\nof no idols. This is the more remarkable when we think of the innumerable\nidols of savage and revengeful Gods by which Indian, Chinese and Japanese\ntemples are degraded; all the nightmares of later monks who knew nothing\nof the pure and clean-minded Aryans, whose Gods, as Oldenberg tells us,\nin contrast to others, were bright and friendly beings without malice,\ncruelty and deceit.\n\nIt has been well said that the highest value of the sacred poems of the\nAryans is historic, and that value has been revealed by the comparatively\nrecent study of Sanskrit. That is in the school in which we learn who\nthe Aryans were, what was the manner of their lives, their religion and\ntheir thoughts; and we can, in a measure, trace much of what, after many\ncenturies, led to the development of a Hindu school of metaphysics, in\ncomparison with which the much vaunted Pythagoreans and Greek thinkers\nwere as babes and sucklings. The very name Arya tells us that this\nancient people was a race of husbandmen and tillers of the soil, the\nroot _ar_ from which the word is derived being found again in the Latin\n_arare_, to plough, _aratrum_, a plough, and in the Greek \u1f04\u03c1\u03bf\u03c4\u03c1\u03bf\u03bd; and\nwhen we talk of our \u201cdaughters,\u201d it is well that we should remember\nthat our ancestors on the Steppes, many thousand years ago, themselves\ninvented the word \u201cduhitar,\u201d the milk-maid, the very word with which we\nEuropeans, in one shape or another, caress our women-children. The hymns\nand prayers of the Vedas abound in allusions to the herds and flocks of\nthese old farmers, whose best friends\u2014and therefore the objects of their\nadoration\u2014were the sun, the stars, the rains of heaven; just as their\nenemies\u2014therefore to be propitiated\u2014were the storms, the snow and the\ncruel winds: these were\u2014the life-givers and death-givers. The life of the\nlonely watcher of the Steppes was of its essence one of contemplation,\nreflection and introspection.\n\nLet me give one pregnant quotation from Max M\u00fcller\u2019s \u201cHistory of Ancient\nSanskrit Literature\u201d: \u201cAt the first dawn of traditional history we see\nthese Aryan tribes migrating across the snow of the Himalaya southward\ntoward the Seven Rivers (the Indus, the five rivers of the Punjab and the\nSarasvati), and ever since India has been called their home. That before\nthat time they had been living in more northern regions, within the same\nprecincts, with the ancestors of the Greeks, the Italians, Slavonians,\nGermans, the Celts, is a fact as firmly established as that the Normans\nof William the Conqueror were the Northmen of Scandinavia. The evidence\nof language is irrefragable, and it is the only evidence worth listening\nto with regard to ante-historical periods. It would have been impossible\nto discover any traces of relationship between the swarthy natives of\nIndia and their conquerors, whether Alexander or Clive, but for the\ntestimony borne by language.\u201d (\u201cSanskrit Literature,\u201d pp. 12, 13.)\n\nTo the learned Jew\u2014a Semite, to the Hungarian, the Finn, or the Basque,\nwho are Turanian settlers in Europe, the history of the Aryans is an\ninteresting study, linguistic or racial. To us true Europeans, to us\ntrue Aryans, it has a far greater significance. It has all the charm of\nan inquiry into a piece of remote family history\u2014all the glamour of a\npedigree, not to be measured by a few puny centuries, but reaching far\naway into the clouds of incalculable \u00e6ons.\n\nTalking idly in a garden, we can do no more than touch the mere fringe\nof a mighty problem, even though it should be suggested by the great\nsilent Buddha. For instance, we have summoned as witness the one word\n\u201cdaughter,\u201d when there are so many others that we use a dozen times a day\nwhich are equally strong links in the long chain of evidence by which we\nprove our descent. But no matter\u2014we have started the clue: let who will\npick it up. It will reward him.\n\n\n\n\nTHE COMMUNE\n\n\nMy Pegasus is not always inclined to take long flights. Sometimes when\na lazy fit is upon him he will venture no more than a trip across the\nChannel, carrying me to Germany, Italy, Switzerland\u2014perhaps landing me no\nfurther off than some place in France. But of that beloved country I have\nso many recollections, some gay, some sad, that I crave to go no further.\nOne such trip is very short but very tragic. Forty-six years have passed\nsince the episode of which I write, but the scenes of those few days\nare graven so deeply in my mind that no lapse of time can ever efface\nthem. They haunt me like the pathetic thoughts which are aroused by the\nsolitary little pink slipper of the Princesse de Lamballe in the Mus\u00e9e\nCluny. Thoughts are such obstinate vagabonds that they must needs choose\ntheir own road, and not even the Buddha, in his Veluvana, can drive them\neastward unless such be their will.\n\nThe final tragedy of 1871 (from a repetition of the horror of which,\nmay Heaven preserve France and ourselves!) is no doubt in these days\neclipsed by the brutal outrages upon which _Kultur_ is ever improving.\nWhat will forty-five more years do? That mechanical invention and\nchemical discoveries should come into play is, I suppose, inevitable.\nThe strange thing is that the whole coarse-fibred soul of the German\nseems to be infected by the very potentialities of all these ghastly\nnew discoveries, which seem to urge him on to new cruelties and new\ncrimes. In 1870 he knew how to spare. Witness Paris. Now it is otherwise.\nStill, to us who lived in those days what will always be known as the\nFranco-German war remains as a poignantly painful memory; though the\nravages of war and the carnage were terrible, it was the parricidal fury\nof anarchy and its monads which made men\u2019s blood run cold.\n\nThe Commune, that hideous catastrophe which reversed the unnatural, crime\nof Saturn\u2014the children murdering and devouring their own parent\u2014ended\ntragically with the month of May, 1871. One morning I got a note from\nthe Duke of Sutherland, saying that he had received information that the\nfirst train would be allowed into Paris the next day, and suggesting that\nwe should go over and see whether we could be of any use. We started the\nfollowing morning\u2014the Duke, George Crawley, Wright, the Duke\u2019s secretary,\nand myself; but the train was stopped at Creil that afternoon, and we had\nto stay there rather miserably for the night. The place was swarming\nwith Prussian soldiery, scowling and truculent-looking, clanking their\nspurs defiantly all about the station and town. The people returned their\nevil looks with interest, but it was of no use\u2014they were the masters. _V\u00e6\nvictis!_ It is a terrible sight to see a great people trampled on and\ntortured by the savagery of a victorious army; but when that army is a\nPrussian army\u2014ask the Belgians.\n\nThere was no difficulty the next day; the train started early, and we\nwere in Paris betimes. There were not many cabs at the station, but there\nwas no great competition, so we were soon suited. I got on the box by the\ndriver, as I was curious to hear what he had to say of the siege and the\nCommune. Strange to say, he, like every Parisian with whom I talked, was\nfar more bitter against the Commune than against the Prussians. After\nall, men said, the Prussians spared our monuments; the Commune destroyed\nthem. When we arrived arrests were taking place all over the town, and\nthere was still some shooting of men in the streets, though we did not\nsee it. Full of pathetic suggestion were the little heaps of clothes\npiled up in the squares and at the corners of streets.\n\nThere were some uniforms, but mostly they were made up of humble blouses\nand the civilian caps of what we should call street arabs\u2014the _titis_ of\nold Paris. The owners, as the cabman said, were all rotting in the Fosse\nCommune; he himself was full of belated valour. \u201cIf there had only been\nten men like me,\u201d he protested, \u201cten determined stalwarts, a horror like\nthe Commune would have been impossible.\u201d I asked him what he did. \u201cMon\nDieu! Monsieur! Que pouvais-je faire contre tous ces brigands? J\u2019\u00e9tais\ntout seul. Je me suis refugi\u00e9 dans la cave.\u201d\n\nThe next day a worthy shopkeeper held just the same language. Ten\nmen such as himself could have held the Rue de la Paix and kept the\nCommunards at bay. He tried to persuade his neighbours, but they would\nnot join with him, so, regretfully, he, too, hid in the cellar. It was\nstrange to listen to these bourgeois who had shown such courage and\ndetermination and endurance during the siege, when the Prussians were\nbattering them out of existence. They could face the Prussians gallantly;\nbefore the Commune they quailed.\n\nThe Rue de Rivoli was a piteous sight. The Minist\u00e8re des Finances was\nburnt and gutted; the roof had fallen in, the windows were all gaping,\nand out of one of them there was a bit of charred blind fluttering\ndismally in the light summer air like the ghost of a flag. The Tuileries\nwere nothing but a pile of charred stones, hardly the skeleton of a\npalace left; but the Louvre was luckily to all intents and purposes\nunharmed. It was enough to make a man weep to see the havoc, the ruins,\nand everywhere the signs of murder and violence. The Communards and\np\u00e9troleuses had done their work thoroughly.\n\nWe dropped the luggage at the hotel, dismissed the cabman, still fully\nconvinced of the potentiality of his own valour, and started forth for a\nmorning stroll on foot.\n\nWhen we came to the Place Vend\u00f4me, the great column, the bronze record\nof the past glories of the French army, was lying prone on a bed of\nstraw, torn down by the sacrilege of Gustave Courbet, the Ministre des\nBeaux-Arts under the Commune. It had been badly smashed, and some small\nfragments had been carried away as souvenirs, but many of these were,\nI was told, recovered. As we drew near to look at the cruel misdeed, a\n_peloton_ of soldiers came along with a civilian in their midst, whom\nthey were carrying off to a guard-room hard by. It was Courbet himself,\nwhom I knew well by sight. I was not the only man to recognize him. An\nelderly gentleman with a little boy of about fourteen years was passing\nby. When he saw the prisoner he dashed forward, and before the guards\ncould stop him, knocked off Courbet\u2019s hat, shouting out: \u201cAu moins,\nsc\u00e9l\u00e9rat, tu te d\u00e9couvriras devant la colonne que tu as fait tomber.\u201d\nCourbet, dazed by this fury of explosive patriotism, picked up his hat\nand said nothing, while the gentleman, well pleased with himself, walked\non with his little son, and the guard grinned satisfaction, but took no\nfurther notice.\n\n[Illustration: GUSTAVE COURBET.\n\n_From a painting by himself in the Louvre._\n\n[_To face p. 82._]\n\nI had often seen Courbet in former days at the Caf\u00e9 Royal, where he\nused to go for his midday meal. As he was something of a _sommit\u00e9_, a\ncelebrity in art as elsewhere for all his rebellious proclivities, the\nma\u00eetre d\u2019h\u00f4tel used to receive him with the greatest ceremony, bowing\nto the ground and rubbing his hands: \u201cBonjour, Monsieur Courbet. Que\npourrai-je offrir \u00e0 Monsieur ce matin. J\u2019ai un Chateaubriand qui est de\ntoute confiance,\u201d etc., etc., etc. Courbet would sit down with majestic\ncondescension, like a true anarchist, deigning to be waited upon with all\nthe adulation which was due to him.\n\nWell, it so happened that after the little scene which I have described\nin the Place Vend\u00f4me, we went on to the Caf\u00e9 Royal, where we were\nreceived with effusive welcome by the ma\u00eetre d\u2019h\u00f4tel. Like everybody\nelse, he began talking about the recent tragedies and inveighing against\nthe Commune. I told him of the arrest of Courbet, his old patron, and he\nat once launched out into the most violent abuse of him. \u201cOh! Monsieur,\nne me parlez pas de ce sale communeux! Si jamais il ose remettre les\npieds ici c\u2019est \u00e0 moi qu\u2019il aura affaire!\u201d I asked him why he used the\nword \u201ccommuneux,\u201d I thought the word was communard. \u201cOui, Monsieur,\u201d he\nreplied sententiously, \u201cmais on dit _crapule_, _crapuleux_, _commune_,\n_communeux_, c\u2019est plus m\u00e9ritant.\u201d Courbet was sentenced to six months\u2019\nimprisonment, and was condemned, moreover, to pay a very heavy fine\nfor the fall of the column\u2014none too severe a punishment in all the\ncircumstances of the case.\n\nSome time after the expiration of the six months I was again in Paris,\nand went to the Caf\u00e9 Royal for luncheon. Who should come in a few minutes\nlater but the great Courbet. Up rushed the ma\u00eetre d\u2019h\u00f4tel to meet him,\nand I anticipated a first-rate row. Not a bit of it! To my amazement\nI heard the old welcome: \u201cBonjour, Monsieur Courbet! Qu\u2019est-ce-qu\u2019on\npeut vous offrir ce matin?\u201d etc. The old story, the old refrain, the\nobsequious bows, the festive rubbing of hands. I could not resist\nreminding my friend of what he had said a few months before. Ah! he said,\nthat was all so long ago! \u201cD\u2019ailleurs,\u201d he added, \u201cil ne faut pas oublier\nqu\u2019il a \u00e9t\u00e9 ministre, et on ne sais jamais ce qui peut arriver!\u201d\n\nOld Lady Edward Thynne used to tell a capital story of Courbet, whom she\nmet a few years before 1870 at some artistic gathering in Paris. He had\nbeen airing his political views for some minutes, when to draw him out\nshe said: \u201cBut then it seems that all this while I have been talking\nwith a real red republican.\u201d \u201cRouge, Madame,\u201d was the answer, \u201cdites,\nplut\u00f4t, violet,\u201d and then he went off again at score. \u201cBut why,\u201d she\nasked, \u201cdo you say that you want to pull down the Tuileries?\u201d \u201cMadame,\nparce que tant que cette sacr\u00e9e maison durera il y aura toujours des\ncoquins qui voudront venir y demeurer.\u201d\n\nAnother notable arrest was that of Paschal Grousset, the so-called\nMinister of Foreign Affairs. He was caught disguised as a woman in the\nRue Condorcet, which created a great sensation. Sir Edward Malet, who as\nsecond secretary of the British Embassy, had been obliged to have some\ndealings with him, told me that he was really a very pleasant little\nman, who was always civil and obliging to foreigners. \u201cNot a bad little\nfellow,\u201d Malet used to say. I saw him some years later in London, when\nhe was correspondent of I forget which of the French newspapers, and he\ncame to me at the Office of Works to ask for an admission to a volunteer\nreview which the Queen was to hold in Hyde Park. He was so agreeable that\nI quite understood Malet\u2019s verdict on him.\n\nIn the evening we went to dine at Voisin\u2019s, where I had heard that the\nmembers of the Government of the Commune had been dining and breakfasting\nevery day during their short lease of power. Good old Bellanger, the\nfamous _sommelier_, was delighted to see us. I asked after a certain\nold chambertin\u2014had he any left? \u201cPour Monsieur il y en aura toujours,\u201d\nwas the answer. But I said, \u201cI wonder that your late patrons did not\ndrink it all up!\u201d \u201cAh! Monsieur, si vous croyez que j\u2019allais donner de ce\nvin l\u00e0 \u00e0 ces charapans! Monsieur, lorsque j\u2019ai su qu\u2019ils allaient venir\nici je suis descendu dans la cave et j\u2019ai chang\u00e9 toutes les \u00e9tiquettes.\nIls croyaient boire les meilleurs crus\u2014s\u2019ils avaient su ce que je leur\nservais! Mais j\u2019\u00e9tais s\u00fbr de mon affaire! Est-ce qu\u2019ils s\u2019y connaissaient\nces animaux-l\u00e0?\u201d And then he went on grumbling: \u201cAh! mais non, non! Du\nchambertin\u2014jamais de la vie!\u201d Truly there is a comic element in every\ntragedy, and a grave-digger in every Hamlet.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOf all the crimes and cruelties which disgraced the Commune, none excited\ngreater horror than the murder of Monseigneur Darboy, the Archbishop\nof Paris, and the priests who with him and many others were seized as\nhostages. The flames of the Tuileries and other monuments, the hell-fire\norgies of the mob and the p\u00e9troleuses drunken with the lust of blood\nand incendiarism\u2014when the very firemen pumped petrol instead of water\non to the burning buildings\u2014were almost forgotten in the execration\nof that sacrilege. Upwards of sixty hostages, all innocent peaceable\nmen, against no one of whom could any misdeed be alleged, were put to\ndeath. They were imprisoned in La Roquette, and on the 24th of May the\nArchbishop and the Abb\u00e9 de Guerry, the Cur\u00e9 of the Madeleine, with\nMonsieur Bonjean, the president of the Cour de Cassation, and three\nJesuit priests (Fathers Ducondray, Allard and Clair), after a sham trial,\nwere led into the courtyard of the prison and shot. The Archbishop, who\nwas the second of the victims to suffer, met his death like the hero and\nChristian martyr that he was. He stepped to the front, and praying to God\nfor the forgiveness of his murderers, gave them his pastoral blessing.\nTwo of the firing party, less hardened than the others, knelt down and\nasked his pardon. When the butchery was over the ruffians stripped the\nArchbishop\u2019s honoured body, and that no degradation might be wanting,\ncarted it off to be thrown like the carrion of a malefactor into the\nFosse Commune. Even decent burial was to be denied to him.\n\nAfter the last desperate fight at the cemetery of P\u00e8re la Chaise, in\nwhich men and women fought like tigers and tigresses, neither giving\nnor asking for quarter, all mad to kill, and kill, and kill, the body\nwas recovered and carried to the archiepiscopal palace, where it lay in\nstate, with those of the other priests. All Paris flocked to do homage\nto one of God\u2019s saints, and take a last look at the beloved old man.\nThose who could afford it were in deep mourning, but all were weeping\nfrom the richest down to the poorest and humblest, as I saw them march\npast the body. The Archbishop, lying mitred and robed, looked like a\nwaxen image. There was no sign of pain in his face, no trace of the cruel\nsorrow and long suspense by which his last days must have been racked; on\nit was written only that divine peace which passeth all understanding.\n\nThe hour-glass had been turned and the sands of the Commune had run out.\nThe prison of La Roquette, the scene of so many horrors, was now in\nthe hands of the Versaillais, and the cells of the hostages were more\nfitly tenanted by the murderers who but a few days before, when to be\nrespectable was a deadly crime, had ruled Paris with a rod of terror.\nPassing by the prison, after leaving the Archbishop\u2019s palace, we saw\nthat the great gates were open, and a crowd was gathered outside eagerly\nwatching and craning necks to see what was going on within. I asked what\nthe people were waiting for? A batch of prisoners was to be led out to\nthe fortifications to be shot. Next to me was standing a rather pretty\nyoung girl of about fifteen or sixteen years, nicely but very simply\ndressed, evidently the daughter of well-to-do bourgeois parents. In\ncharge of her was a bonne, an elderly woman wearing a linen cap, and the\ntypical tartan fichu pinned across her breast.\n\nPresently the excitement began. First came three omnibuses, their usual\nfunction, as their placards showed, being to take pleasure-seekers to\nthe Jardin des Plantes; they were driven by soldiers, other soldiers\nor gendarmes sitting on the top and acting as conductors. Inside an\nevil-looking crew of scowling ruffians, some of them wounded, all dirty,\nunshaven and truculent-looking\u2014villains who knew that for them even hope\nwas dead. The omnibuses were followed by litters, in which other soldiers\nwere carrying men who had been seriously wounded, some of them terribly\nmangled.\n\nIn one of the litters lay a dark, fierce-looking man, with a shock mass\nof black hair. His head and face, pale and haggard, with a beard of three\nor four days\u2019 growth, were tied up with blood-stained linen bandages. His\neyes were closed, and he seemed hardly conscious, too feeble to move, too\ntired to care. He was respectably, even well dressed in a frock coat.\nEvidently a man in a superior position to that of those who had gone\nbefore. As he came, and owing to some obstruction, his bearers paused for\na minute, the girl near me gave a piercing shriek, and crying out: \u201cPapa!\nAh, Papa, c\u2019est Papa!\u201d fell sobbing into the arms of her nurse. She had\ncome on the chance of one last look, and had, as the bystanders said,\nbeen waiting for hours.\n\nThe wounded man, hearing the cry and recognizing the dear young voice,\nopened his eyes, and pulling himself together for a supreme effort,\ntried limply to wave his hand. His lips moved, and during the short halt\ntried to utter a few words, but voice would not come to his bidding; he\nuttered no sound, his eyes closed again, and quickly his bearers turned\nthe corner and he was out of sight. That dumb farewell was the last of\nhim. The final act can have been but a small matter to him, for he was,\nindeed, little more than a corpse already. The poor child stood there\nshaking from head to foot and weeping on the bosom of her bonne, and the\ncrowd dispersed. It was a harrowing scene, it was a pathetic scene, the\npathos of which could hardly be forgotten by any who witnessed it. After\nnearly half a century I can still see that grim procession of death, and\nthe young girl\u2019s shriek of agony rings in my ears.\n\nThose were days of horror. Retribution had come with no halting foot;\nshrifts were short, and justice wasted no time over inquiries; it was\neven said that a good many innocents perished with the guilty. Whether\nthat is true or not is hard to say, but it was an accusation which in the\ncircumstances was sure to be made. An outcry was raised against the four\ngenerals of the Republican armies, Vinoy, Ladmisault, Cissey and Donay,\nto whom the guardianship of Paris, divided into four parts, was entrusted.\n\nBut far more virulent than any of the attacks upon them were the charges\nthat were brought\u2014most unfairly, since they only obeyed orders\u2014against\nthe Marquis de Gallifet and his dragoons. Those charges came from the\nwhite-livered party, set on by such Communists as had managed by hook\nor by crook to escape observation and save their skins. These did not\nhesitate to accuse Gallifet of wholesale murders of innocent men and\nwomen when the executions took place outside the Arc de l\u2019Etoile. From\ninquiries which I made on the spot and at the time, I believe that he did\nno more than his duty.\n\nGallifet was a most determined man, to whom duty was something sacred,\nbound to be carried out to the letter at any cost. He was, moreover, a\nborn soldier, loving his men as they loved him, and cut to the quick by\nthe deaths of so many comrades. As a cavalry leader, all men recognized\nhis great worth. Brave as the steel of his own sword, utterly reckless\nof his life, as he had shown in the disastrous Mexican campaign and in\nthe Great War, his courage was so infectious that his troopers would have\nfollowed him had he ordered the charge to be sounded against all the\nhosts of Satan. War was for him something very real, not to be treated\nwith half measures or milksop compromises. He was a fighter, and he\nfought in deadly earnest.\n\nWe hear much in these days from peacefully-minded lawyers of the iniquity\nof reprisals. It would be a good thing if some of these learned gentlemen\nwould remember the old adage, \u201cInter arma silent leges;\u201d adding to it the\nwords, \u201cet juris consulti.\u201d It is good to see on this 3rd of February,\n1916, that there is at least one great leader of thought left in this\ncountry who takes a saner and more masculine view of reprisals than that\nwhich is held by some bishops and semi-parsonic lawyers. Lord Rosebery\u2019s\nletter to the _Times_ of this day is inexorable in its logic and in its\njustice.\n\nWe must protect our women and children. This is an age of cruel\ninventions, and if our enemies take advantage of them, so must we, unless\nwe would wish to be as the archers of Edward the Third and the Black\nPrince would be if we sent them into the trenches to-day, forbidden for\nchivalrous reasons to use aught but their bows against modern artillery\nand high explosives. If Germany uses poison gas and liquid fire, so must\nwe. If she drops bombs from airships upon innocent civilians, women, and\nchildren, we must follow suit. God forbid that it should be in the spirit\nof revenge; but what other deterrent is possible? \u201cVous l\u2019avez voulu,\nGeorges Dandin.\u201d It is much that Lord Rosebery has lifted his voice in\nthis sense.\n\nGallifet did not hesitate to adopt reprisals, and nobody can say that\nhis methods failed. He knew that the crimes with which he had to deal\ncould not be prevented in the future by the sprinklings of rose-water and\nsoft-sawder. Reprisals in the sense of cruelty to prisoners and murders\nsuch as that of Nurse Cavell and Captain Fryatt, are, of course, quite\nanother matter.\n\nI could not help taking a great interest in Gallifet\u2019s proceedings,\nbecause, although I had only had the very slightest acquaintance with him\nsome ten years before, he was the intimate friend of many friends of my\nown, both English and French. The Prince of Wales, as he then was, had\ngreat regard for him, and never failed to send for him when he went to\nParis.\n\nIt must have been about the year 1859 or 1860 that he, with Madame de\nGallifet, the Sagans and the Pourtal\u00e8s\u2019s, came over to London for a\nweek or ten days in the height of the summer season, and I was asked by\nMadame de Persigny, the French ambassadress, to do what I could to make\ntheir stay pleasant. The three ladies, with Madame de Metternich as a\nfourth, were at that time the recognized queens of Paris society, or, at\nany rate, of that part of it which bowed the knee at the Imperial Court.\nMadame de Gallifet was very good-looking, and the Princesse de Sagan\nhandsome and distinguished, but neither of them could compare with the\nComtesse de Pourtal\u00e8s, who had all the subtle charm and teasing beauty of\nwhich the eighteenth century portrait painters are the celebrants.\n\nMadame de Metternich, who did not come to London with them, was not a\npretty woman; indeed, she spoke of herself as \u201cle singe \u00e0 la mode;\u201d but\nshe was witty and very attractive, and so became the high priestess\nof that religion of which Worth, the famous man-milliner, a former\napprentice of Swan and Edgar\u2019s, who had raised his temple in the Rue\nde la Paix, was the Pope, on the hierarchy of fashion. She was perhaps\none degree greater than the other three ladies, but above them all was\nenthroned the Empress Eug\u00e9nie, a divinity at whose altar all men and\nwomen were fain to fall down and worship.\n\nThese are strangely frivolous recollections of pretty women and smart\ndresses and coxcombry of men-milliners that came thrusting themselves\ninto the midst of one of the great tragedies of history. But these are\nthe tricks which memory plays us: the most grotesque ideas surging up in\nthe midst of acute sorrow, the dance of death serving to accentuate the\nfollies of a farce\u2014so unstable are our minds. All this is conjured up by\nthe recollection of Gallifet, before he became a famous cavalry general,\nwhen he was a brilliant young officer, the spoilt child of a court, the\nfavourite officer of an emperor, popular with men and women, idolized by\nhis soldiers, long before the cruel wounds of the Mexican campaign\u2014when\nhe showed what the man about town was worth when brought face to face\nwith grim war\u2014the last man in Europe of whom I should have thought that\none day he would have to experience those emotions which cause the most\ncallous judge\u2019s voice to falter when he puts on the black cap.\n\nLater in life, with his closely-cropped white hair and moustache dyed\nblack, he was a picturesque figure in Paris\u2014still a beau sabreur, still\na soldier at every point\u2014a name to conjure with had the opportunity\npresented itself.\n\n\n\n\nTREES AND THEIR LEGENDS\n\n\nSolitude, surrounded by memories of which I have spoken, and by the\nfanciful brood of thoughts to which they give birth, has a mystic power\nof banishing all trammels of time and of place. The plants in the garden\nbegin to take strange forms: the bamboos are drawn up out of their puny\nWestern stature into gracefully-waving plumes of Brobdingnagian growth,\nsuch as we see in the Peradeniya Gardens of Ceylon; the oak under which\nthe great Buddha sits, solemnly holding up a warning hand, changes into\na holy B\u014d-tree, its long-stalked, pointed leaves quivering in a gentle\nbreeze, laden with the heavy perfume of the sacred Champak flower; the\nfleece of clouds sails away into space and the soft English sky hardens\ninto the metallic blue of the glaring East.\n\nAll of a sudden a slight chilly gust chases away the whole illusion.\nKapilavastu, Rajagriha, the deer forest, the Veluvana, with its crowd of\nyellow-robed monks carrying their begging bowls, fade away, and we are\nsobered into the commonplace realities of life on a spur of the Cotswold\nHills. It is like the awakening after the intoxication of Hashish, or\nafter the short death dealt by laughing gas.\n\nThe dream may have been fascinating, but there are glorious compensations\nin the awakening, for though our peaceful gardens are not so wildly\nfantastic, not such an orgy of colour, as those of the gorgeous tropics,\nour woodlands in their grave dignity are matchless: they touch the heart;\nthe others stir the senses.\n\nIt was a lovely day in early summer, and the show of the Royal\nHorticultural Society was in full swing in the gardens of Chelsea\nHospital. All the world was there\u2014all the world, and everybody else\u2019s\nwife. A few of us were standing looking at a grand display of orchids,\nwhen a charming lady turned round to me and said: \u201cOh! how delicate, how\nbeautiful and how distinguished they are! Surely the very aristocracy of\nplant life!\u201d \u201cNo,\u201d I answered, \u201cthey are only the nouveaux riches. It is\nthe old oaks of our parks and forests that are the aristocracy of plants.\u201d\n\nSurely there is nothing more proud, nothing more wonderful in nature,\nthan the noble old age of those patriarchs which centuries ago chequered\nwith their quivering shade the glades in which Robin Hood and Little\nJohn drew the bow, and holy Friar Tuck made his quarter-staff spin round\nhis head like the sails of a windmill. Indeed, all our indigenous trees\nare glorious. The beech, the ash, the wych-elm, and even the so-called\nBritish elm, which, sooth to say, is only a naturalized alien that came\nto us from Italy and has been so long among us, living in trusty alliance\nwith our natives, that we have come to treat him as our own\u2014all these, in\ncompany with the oak, truly make up what Wordsworth called \u201ca brotherhood\nof venerable trees.\u201d\n\nIn Britain, and probably all over Europe, there is no tree which commands\nso much veneration as the oak. We talk of hearts of oak, and of the\nwooden walls of old England, and we endow our hoary, gnarled giants with\nall the attributes of stateliness and royal honour. One squire of high\ndegree I once knew who, shortly before his death, thanking God for a long\nlife, boasted, not that his eighty years had been spent in the practice\nof piety and virtue, as doubtless was the case, but that he had never\ncut down an oak. With the oaks we connect the stories of old British\nkings and the mysterious liturgies of the golden-sickled Druids, those\nBrahmans of the Cassiterides\u2014the Tin Islands\u2014who, if we may believe C\u00e6sar\nand Pliny, who are our only authorities\u2014for the priesthood, even if they\ncould do so, might write down nothing\u2014exercised power greater than those\nof popes. Woe to him who denied their authority or questioned their law!\nFor their excommunication was more terrible than that of Rome, making a\nman an outcast, a pariah, a social leper, with whom no man might deal or\nhold intercourse; for if he did, he, too, would fall under the awful ban.\nAfter a lapse of two thousand years we have heard of something of the\nsame kind in our sister island.\n\nAnd our beloved Scotch fir! What of that true Briton? Happily there are\nstill here and there in remote Highland glens a few of the old primeval\nforests of that great tree left. Probably the most picturesque of these\nis the King\u2019s forest of Ballochbine, where you may see it in all the\nfullness of its nature\u2014veterans borne down with age, stalwarts in full\nvigour, youngsters in their nonage, babies just born from the seed. Their\nred stems, glowing in the evening sun, spring out of a carpet of heather,\nblaeberries and ferns, among mossy rocks and lichen-starred stones. Close\nto them are their graceful consorts, the birches, which Lowell called\n\u201cthe most shy and ladylike of trees,\u201d drooping their delicate plumes\nover the pools and musical rills of brown peat-stained burns. What a\nsuccession of pictures, hard to beat, does this old forest of Ballochbine\ngive! And that is as it should be, for is it not the King\u2019s own?\n\nThe happy union between the pine and the birch has been sung by some\nScottish poet in a simple but touching Epithalamium:\n\n    \u201cThe Pine\u2019s the King of Scottish glens:\n      The Queen, ah! who is she?\n    The fairest tree the forest kens.\n      The bonnie birken tree!\u201d\n\nWe may be asked, since we have so grand a pine of our own, why import\nfrom abroad so many aliens, many of which are certainly not its superiors\nin beauty? I suppose that the answer must be that of the daily partridge\nwhich the domestically faithless French king brought in argument against\nthe remonstrances of his father-confessor. Besides, it can hardly be\ndenied that many of them are exquisitely beautiful. One of the lovely\nblue spruces from Pike\u2019s Peak in Colorado, looking as if it had been\ndyed in the mystic waters of the Grotto Azzurra of Capri,[9] strikes an\naltogether new note in our garden landscape; the steeple of a tapering\ncypress will give that perpendicular line which is so valuable to the\npainter, as we may see in Italian gardens, in the picturesque cemeteries\nof Constantinople, and all over the Levant. A blue cedar from the Atlas\nrange in North Africa, its branches feathering down to the ground in\ngraceful profusion, catches the slanting rays of the sun and sends them\nback to you as if its leaves were sprinkled with hoar-frost or wrought\nin some luminous metal. But it is idle to compile lists and catalogues.\nThey make dull writing and duller reading. Suffice it to say that the\nintrinsic beauties of the many trees, shrubs, lianes and vines, which\nhave been added to our own lovely flora, furnish an ample justification\nfor their admission into our homes.\n\nBut apart from this there is the collector\u2019s mania to be reckoned with.\nMost men take a pride in showing their friends some gem, some treasured\nrarity, and the gardener is as proud of his collection of unique\nplants as the Hertfords, the Rothschilds and the Pierpont Morgans have\nbeen of their pictures and miniatures, their S\u00e8vres porcelain, or the\nmasterpieces of Riesener, Gouthi\u00e8re and Caffieri. The plant collector\nhas this advantage over those famous lovers of the living works of dead\nartists that he can gratify his whims and vanity so much more cheaply.\n\n    \u201cWhat brought Sir Visto\u2019s ill-got wealth to waste?\n    Some Demon whispered\u2014Visto, have a taste.\u201d\n\nEven orchids are cheap in comparison with Rembrandts, Vandycks, Sir\nJoshuas and Gainsboroughs. It stands to reason that the gathering\ntogether of such treasures as may be seen at Westonbirt, at Aldenham, at\nFrensham, and in one or two other collectors\u2019 gardens, cannot be achieved\nwithout a considerable expenditure of money, guided by consummate\nknowledge; but, even so, the cost is relatively small. And the owners of\nlesser pleasaunces with small outlay can profit by the experience and\npublic spirit of those gardening magnates, both professional and amateur,\nwho combine to send out costly expeditions to new fields of adventure\nand discovery in order to add to the treasure stores of horticulture.\n\nIf there be any who are so jealous of the honour of our British forests\nand woods that they resent any competition with their beauty, and look\nupon all new-comers from over the sea as undesirable aliens, they should,\nat any rate, allow that, though they would be out of tune in a wild\nforest, they bring lovely harmonies of colour and form into the more\nartificial scenes with which we adorn the immediate surroundings of our\ncountry houses. They are no more foreign than the numberless flowers with\nwhich our predecessors used to furnish their beds and borders, and they\nhave two great advantages over these, as I hope to show presently.\n\nAs to the question of fitness or unfitness, that is a matter of\nconditions and arrangement. I know a vast park in which the old oaks and\nbeeches used to make up a sylvan scene of incomparable grandeur. Some\nyears ago the owner, fired with a new and wholly uneducated enthusiasm,\nstudded the stately forest with lovely little Japanese maples, but\nwithout any intervening masses of cultivation to make the garden blend\nwith the primeval trees. The effect was deplorably ludicrous\u2014nay, it was\nworse than ludicrous: it was an act of desecration. Had my friend been\nmore judicious, what charming effects he might have conjured up in a\nsuitable place with those same little crimson bushes which he condemned\nto play so silly a part in among his glorious secular oaks! What magical\nscenes have been called up with their help at Westonbirt! But those\npictures were produced by knowledge.\n\nThere was a time when in spring and summer I used to look forward to the\nautumn, hailing its advent as the season of sport, when every day brought\nsome new joy. Now that I have left the autumn of life far behind me and\nam deep in its winter, I have no love left for the shortening days, the\nrustle of falling leaves, and the cold patter of the rain on the dimmed\npanes of glass. And yet when the sun shines, how beautiful is the Indian\nsummer! How lovely the dismissal of the haze floating away across the\nvalley! Yes! Autumn has its consolations.\n\nForeigners who have never been in this country generally think that we\nlive like newts and frogs in a land of marshes and dismal morasses,\ncurtained by fogs through which the sun\u2019s rays never pierce, a land\nsadly breeding a mysterious disease which they call \u201cLe spleen.\u201d In the\nfifties, as Disraeli once put it, they looked upon us as \u201can insular\npeople subject to fogs, and possessing a powerful middle class,\u201d both,\nin their eyes, equally objectionable. All the greater was their surprise\nand admiration when they came to realize the soft loveliness of our\nlandscapes. Sixty years ago and more I was sent home from Eton for a few\ndays\u2019 change after some trifling ailment, and my father took me, and a\nFrench friend of his who was staying with him, to Richmond. Never shall I\nforget that man\u2019s astonished enthusiasm when the view from Richmond Hill\nburst upon his sight.\n\nIt was, as good luck would have it, a rarely beautiful afternoon in\nOctober. The trees in the park were clothed in the golden russets\nof autumn. The sunlight was dancing upon the river running like a\nbroad silver ribbon through the valley\u2014a delicate blue mist threw an\nexquisitely diaphanous veil over the distance. Our friend, brought up in\nthe fallacies of the French novelists of those days, lifted his hands in\namazement and stood silent.\n\nIt was my first sight of Richmond. I have travelled far and wide since\nthen, and have seen many more startling scenes, but the haunting beauty\nof that autumn evening remains one of my happiest dreams. There is a\nmysterious charm in that landscape, with the oaks which were veterans\nwhen Henry the Eighth hunted the deer under their boughs, the lush grass,\nand the Thames, that sacred river, for an Eton boy without its peer in\nthe world. It is a scene which neither Alps nor Rockies, neither the\nBosphorus and the Golden Horn, nor the Great Wall of China, nor the\nwonders of the tropical jungle, can efface. And\u2014it is home.\n\nSome thirty years ago when, as I have said, autumn was still the welcome\nherald of sport, I, happily inspired, laid the foundation of what to-day\nrobs it of some of its sadness. Now that the stalls in my stable are\nempty and the guns lie idle in the racks of the gun-room, I reap the\nreward. I sent to America for acorns, I bought seed of the giant Japanese\nvine (_Vini coignettia_) in Tokio. From Veitch (alas! for the death of\na noble firm!) I procured specimens of all the species and varieties of\nJapanese maples: Thunberg\u2019s berberis, the Persian parrottia\u2014these, with\nthe various forms of rhus and other choice plants, make up a palette of\ncolours to cheer the dool of the dying year. In October one after another\nthe maples begin to send up tongues of fire, setting the hill-side in\nflames.\n\nIt is a rare treat to see the sun shining through the leaves of some\ntrees red as the pigeon\u2019s-blood ruby; rare to see the fretted lace-work\nof others clothing them in a gorgeous panoply of old gold. Their\nneighbours are gleaming like the jewels in Oriental fable. The hollies\nand thorns and taller trees are draped with flamboyant curtains sent\ndown by the huge vines\u2014red, yellow, tawny orange, festoons falling in a\nriotous feast of colour.\n\nAmong all these proud foreigners the more modest yet no less beautiful\nnative spindle-tree suffers no eclipse. A little later the American\noaks begin to assert themselves. These, a little while before they turn\ncrimson, assume all the quality of an old Chinese bronze which the patina\nof time has painted with the many hues of Joseph\u2019s coat mysteriously\nblended together in an exquisite harmony. When we watch all these, we\nunderstand the poetry of the Japanese when they talk of their mountains\nand forests clothed in the brocade of the maples.\n\nIt must be obvious that gardening, the object of which is the production\nof a succession of varied pictures which, being inspired by the\nobservation of Nature in her many moods, might appeal to the artistic\ntaste of a painter or stir the emotion of a poet, presents difficulties\nundreamt of by the flower-bed manufacturers of fifty or sixty years ago.\nTheir gardening was all done with compasses and straight-edge, and the\ngeometrical result, the eccentric \u201cknottes\u201d worked out in alternantheras,\necneverias, golden feather and the like, savoured of nothing nearer to\nnature than the Tottenham Court Road.\n\nThose were the days in which the garden, like the kitchen, was the\nspecial province of the mistress of the house. Of the latter she might\nknow something, of the former generally nothing; and the consequence was\nthat it was handed over to men, who, though they might be most admirable\ncultivators, had had no artistic training, had not had the opportunity of\nlearning by travel, and were content to carry on certain rule-of-thumb\ntraditions, which turned out every man\u2019s garden in the likeness of that\nof every other man. In the uniformly unrelieved brilliancy of geraniums,\nverbenas and calceolarias, of imagination or poetry there was not a\ntrace\u2014not even the merit of invention.\n\nIn his brilliant book, \u201cForm and Colour,\u201d Mr. March Phillips divides the\nhuman mind into two great categories\u2014the intellectual and the emotional.\nThe intellectual faculty is characteristic of the West, the emotional\nfaculty prevails in the East. Next comes the question of Form and Colour\nin Art. \u201cForm,\u201d he says, \u201chas dominated Art whenever and wherever the\nintellectual faculty was dominant in life; colour has dominated Art\nwhenever and wherever the emotional faculty has dominated life.\u201d Later in\nthe book, when speaking of the contrast between the Art of the West and\nthe Art of the East, he proceeds: \u201cForm, as we were saying, is chiefly\na matter of the intellect. The arts which deal with form convey ideas.\nTheir appeal is to the mind. _Colour, on the other hand, conveys no\nideas._ [My italics.] It is emotional and appeals to the senses rather\nthan to the intellect. And this being so, it seems natural that the\nWestern temperament, intellectual rather than sensuous, should excel\nin form rather than in colour; while the Eastern, sensuous rather than\nintellectual, should excel in colour rather than in form.\u201d\n\nThis theory of colour and form gives us much food for thought, and it\nis impossible not to be struck by the aptness with which it may be\napplied to the gardener\u2019s craft. The gorgeous colour of the one school of\ngardening appeals directly to the senses, and, like other similar appeals\nwhere there is no relief from monotony, it soon satiates and wearies.\n\nThe kaleidoscopic beds which remind us of Pallas Athene springing fully\narmed from the brain of Zeus, are at the outset the same as they will be\nfour months later, when their glory will be ignominiously wheeled away to\nthe rubbish heap. Day after day you look out from your window and there\nis no change\u2014nothing but an eternal Oriental glare of scarlet and yellow.\nHow can such a garden create ideas? Compare with this the garden of form.\nHere there is plenty to excite ideas and fire the imagination, for here\nyou have life with all its changes and accidents, from the tender birth\nof the bud to the vigour of the mature plant, the loves of the flowers,\nand the happy ripening of the fruit, which is the mystery of maternity.\n\nNo two days are alike; as they follow one another, each brings with\nit something new, some fresh beauty, some intimate revelation of\nNature\u2019s secrets. And when the year has nearly run its course, when\nthe autumn leaves fall to the ground in a shower of gold such as that\nwhich broke through Dana\u00eb\u2019s prison, there is no death or decay of the\nplant, no carting off to the _fosse commune_, but just a long, happy\nwinter\u2019s sleep, enviable as that of a dormouse resting in the sure hope\nof a glorious new birth when the first kiss of spring shall awaken the\nsleeping beauty in the wood.\n\nColour, then, is of the East sensuous; form is of the West intellectual.\nIt is, of course, a mere coincidence, and not a rule capable of being\nlaid down; but as I was walking to-day in a garden of form with Mr.\nPhillips\u2019 theory seething in my brain, I could not but be struck by\nnoting that, besides our own native trees, by far the greater number of\nthose that have been naturalized here for the sake of their shape are of\nWestern origin; while, with the exception of the American oaks, those\nthat we value for their gorgeous colouring\u2014such, for instance, as the\nJapanese maples and vines\u2014come to us from the East.\n\nIt is hardly worth noticing, but it was certainly curious that, wherever\nI looked, there I saw form transported from the West. The caravans which\ncrossed the Rocky Mountains in search of gold, not without leaving\nmany skeletons by the way; the orchid hunters of the Amazon, braving\nsickness, fevers and poisoned arrows, have enriched our pleasaunces with\ntreasures, not to speak of the brilliantly-coloured gems of which they\nwere primarily in search, which, could our grandfathers, and even our\nfathers, come to life again, would make them open their eyes wide with\nastonishment, wondering whether some magician could have waved his wand\nover their cherished grounds, changing them into fairyland.\n\nThe diplomatists, who opened up Japan in 1858, the pioneers of trade,\nwho have penetrated into the secret places of Western China, carrying\ntheir lives in their hands, have all added to our wealth of plants, both\nin form and colour, but chiefly in colour. When we see the glorious\nvelvety shafts of Lawson\u2019s Cypress, or _Libocedrous decurrens_, shooting\nup heavenward like church spires, when we look upon the great American\nconifers, so rich and so various, or among the lowlier plants, are\nstartled by the huge leaves of the Chilian Gunneras, we cannot but admit\nthat for form we have to thank the West.\n\nIn a later chapter, in the course of a fascinating disquisition on\nByzantine architecture, Mr. Phillips goes on to say: \u201cWe must recognize\nthat between these ideas of colour and softness there is something more\nthan an accidental connection ... softness and colour go together as\nnaturally as hardness and form.\u201d\n\nThese are words which might be applied with special fitness to the\ngarden. But although form is of its very essence hard, so far as outlines\nare concerned, we are not without one corrective which softens and\nsubdues it. That corrective is atmosphere.\n\nI hold, and I think that most fellow-craftsmen, if I may dare to reckon\nmyself among gardeners, will agree with me, that background is absolutely\nessential to success; yet if you place a statue, or plant a specimen\ntree, immediately against the finest background that imagination could\ndesire, it will remain hard and shorn of much of its charm, because it\nwill lack the softening influence of atmosphere.\n\nI know no better illustration of this than the way in which the Venus\nof Milo is shown at the Louvre. It is so skilfully placed that the air\nplays all round it, and the outlines of the marble melt, as it were, into\nthe surrounding atmosphere. Were it pressed, as statues so often are,\nclose against a curtain or a dead wall, the supreme beauty of the goddess\nwould be cruelly sacrificed. The form, the inspiration of the sculptor,\nwould be there, but the hardness of the material would be unredeemed; it\nwould represent death instead of life. That is why so many photographic\nportraits fail to render beauty. The model is placed immediately in\nfront of a screen\u2014all sense of aerial perspective is lost\u2014and the\nresult is, from an artistic point of view, a deadly failure, even should\nthe photograph be technically perfect, so far as optics and chemistry\nare concerned. No composition is good, or even tolerable, where aerial\nperspective is neglected, and that is as true in gardening as it is in\nthe plastic arts.\n\nIt is the lack of aerial perspective\u2014in other words, of atmosphere\u2014which\nso fatally mars the very real beauty of Oriental art. In the paintings of\nthe Chinese artists, and the extravagantly-admired coloured prints of the\nfamous wood engravers of Japan, there is often a rare skill of colour and\na firmness of hand worthy of Giotto, especially in the matchless drawing\nof flowing lines such as drapery. The birds and trees and grasses of the\nKano school, the lovely outlines of the landscape painters, the monkeys\nand deer of Ch\u014dsen, are in many respects wonderful. But there is almost\nalways something wanting. For want of aerial perspective the lines remain\nrigid; there is no soft atmospheric roundness, and on that account the\npictures fail to satisfy. The result is like the fascinating work of very\nclever children.\n\nCompare with the vaunted eighteenth-century art of Japan the contemporary\nwork of the French painters, Watteau, Lancret, Fragonard, who, to my\nmind, have never been excelled in their rendering of the mystery of\natmosphere. See how their woodland scenes melt into unfathomable\ndistances like those of the great Dutchmen, such as Cuyp and others.\nThere you have the poetry of nature and of gardens, and when you are\nlaying out your domain and combining your succession of pictures and\nsurprises, ask yourself this question: Would Watteau have found here\nanything worthy of his brush? To be sure you cannot have his pretty\npowdered dames, and his musical courtiers, with their viols and tabors\nand flutes. But they were mere accessories. That which so obviously gave\nhim the greatest joy\u2014that upon which he bestowed his supreme skill\u2014was\nthe scenery in which he placed them to give it life, even though that\nlife should have something of a meretricious and theatrical character.\n\nIf it be true, according to Phillips, that softness and colour, hardness\nand form, go together, we can account for the prevalence of the garden of\nmere colour in the days when the lady of the house ruled the gardener.\nThe garden of colour is feminine and emotional; the garden of form\nmasculine and intellectual\u2014it is the garden of the master.\n\nAnd here we come to something akin to the Chinese doctrine of Yang and\nYin, the male and female principles ruling creation. The garden of form\nbelongs to Yang, the garden of colour to Yin. This is not intended in\nany way to undervalue the woman\u2019s influence. It is only natural that\na woman who is all softness and emotion should surround herself with\neffects which mirror her own sweet nature. The man, on the other hand,\nstrong and hard, will be inclined to try and imitate the sterner pictures\nof creation. He will work in what Addison called the Pindaric style,\n\u201cwithout affecting the nicer elegancies of Art.\u201d\n\nTake the books which have been written upon the subject; their name is\nlegion. The women\u2019s books, full of delicate charm, busy themselves for\nthe most part with the marriage of colours, the blending of hues, the\nreconciliation of hostile shades. They are very clever, very ingenious,\nvery attractive; but, setting on one side a few of the great lady\nwriters, among whom Miss Willmott and Miss Jekyll are queens, they\nrepresent no more than the millinery of plants\u2014the stockings to match the\nfrock.\n\nSet against these the rugged masculine vigour of a writer like William\nRobinson, the man to whom, above all others, is due the notable\nimprovement which has grown in horticultural taste during the last forty\nyears. From him you will learn much, for he knows much, and he can teach\nit. If you have his book, \u201cThe English Flower Garden,\u201d you will need no\nother, for it will give you all the knowledge which you require. Among\nthe women\u2019s books, as I have said, there are, of course, delightful\nexceptions; but of the bulk of them the best that can be said is that\nthey are gentle and morally innocuous. For all that is delicate and\ncharming and alluring, joined to many of the highest and robust qualities\nwhich adorn mankind, I have been all my life a worshipper of the Yin\nprinciple; but when it comes to gardening and the writing of books on\ngardening, give me the Yang, give me William Robinson.\n\nAll men love trees, and it is small wonder that the sight of objects so\nbeautiful should have led men to think of them with awe as under the\nspecial care, or even as the dwelling-places, of gods and goddesses;\nindeed, the connection of trees with religion is as old as the conception\nof the deity itself. North and south, east and west, we find the same\nidea.\n\nIn the Scandinavian Sagas the mystic Ash Ygdrasil is the tree of life,\nof time, and of space. Its branches spread over the whole world and its\ntop reaches above the heavens. Its roots strike in three directions: the\none down to Hvergelmer, the well of the dragon Nidhug; the second to the\nfountain of Mimer, the source of wisdom and wit, for a drink of which\nOdin pawned his eye with Mimer; the third is in Asgard, close to the\nfountain of Urd the Norn of the Past, where the gods, riding over the\nBifrodh Bridge\u2014the rainbow\u2014assemble to sit in judgment. Here dwell the\nthree Norns: Urd the Norn of the Past, Verdande the Norn of the Present,\nand Skuld the Norn of the Future; and here they weave the web of fate\nfor you and me and all mankind.\n\nIt is strange how men have been fascinated by the rough and rugged\nIcelandic mythology born of ice and snow and rocks lashed by glacial\nwinds; and nights that are light as day, days that are black as night;\nan existence which was one long fight against the elements, and struggle\nfor life with bears and wolves. The Roman poets, on the other hand, born\nin the soft, voluptuous creed of the Greeks, a religion in which the gods\nand goddesses, much too human, were worshipped in temples built amid the\nenchanting fragrance of roseleaf islands, shuddered at the very idea of\nthe North. For them there would have been nothing but terror in those\nstrong Sagas, which in other countries gave birth to noble poetry and\nstately music.\n\nAs told by Ovid, the story of the punishment of Erisichthon, who mocked\nthe gods and would not sacrifice at their altars, illustrates the worship\nof trees and also the dread of the inhospitable North, and yet a North\nthat was no Arctic region; nothing, indeed, more terrible than the\nCaucasus.\n\nIn ancient Thessaly, in the midst of a wood sacred to Ceres, there\nstood an oak, a sturdy veteran, a grove in itself, covered with votive\nofferings, the tokens of the honour which was paid to it. Round it\nthe Dryads, hand in hand, were wont to hold their choirs and dance in\nfestive revelry. It was a holy tree, but in spite of all its sanctity,\nagainst it Erisichthon raised his sacrilegious axe and bade his men\nstrike home, swearing, when they hesitated, that were the tree not merely\ndear to the goddess, but if it were the goddess herself, it should lie\nlow and kiss the earth with its topmost boughs. Under the stroke of the\naxe the sacred tree groaned; its leaves and acorns, and even the branches\nturned pale. But when the impious hand inflicted the first cruel wound,\nblood flowed as from a bull at a sacrifice before the altars. Horrified,\nthe men were stricken dumb, and one, bolder than the others, would fain\nhave put a stop to the crime and stayed the falling axe.\n\n\u201cBe this the guerdon of thy piety?\u201d cried the Thessalian, turning the\nweapon against the man; severed his head from his body, and repeated\nhis attack upon the tree. From the heart of the oak there came a voice,\nsaying, \u201cUnder this tree am I, a nymph beloved by Ceres, and my dying\nprophecy is that thy deeds shall be punished as the consolation for my\ndeath.\u201d Nothing stops him from his crime; at last, under the many blows,\nand dragged by ropes, the tree collapses, and with its weight breaks down\nmuch of the grove.\n\nThe mourning Dryads, stricken by their loss, don black robes and pray to\nCeres for the punishment of Erisichthon. The goddess nods assent; she\nshakes the fields heavy with crops, and contrives for him a punishment\nwhich would be pitiable had he not forfeited pity by his deeds, dooming\nhim to be destroyed by pestilential hunger. But since this may not be\nattempted by the goddess herself, for the fates will not that Ceres and\nfamine should co-exist, she charges one of the mountain nymphs to summon\nFamine from the cold and bleak shores of Scythia, that barren land where\nthere is neither corn nor tree\u2014the abode of dull frost, pallor, shivering\nand hunger. Thus does the goddess punish the impious sinner, and so she\ntortures him until he is driven to gnaw at his own limbs. (Ovid, Met.\n740.) Ovid\u2019s description of hunger as a distinct being called to wreak\nvengeance is as gruesome as anything that I know of in poetry.\n\nThe idea that trees are inhabited by supernatural beings, spirits or\nlesser gods, is common enough in the folk-lore of all countries, and\nthat is what has given rise to the fables of trees which bleed and utter\ncries if they are cruelly treated. In Japan there are endless pretty\nand fanciful stories, in which the spirits of beautiful trees\u2014often\ntheir matchless cherry trees\u2014fall in love with and bewitch the sons or\ndaughters of men. Nothing is prettier in that country, so rich in beauty,\nthan the Shinto shrines nestling in choice spots among the forest-clad\nmountains. Around each temple are planted trees which are sacred to,\nand under the special protection of, the tutelary deity of the place.\nAnd in connection with them there is a custom called \u201cUshi no Toki\nMairi\u201d (\u201cGoing to worship at the hour of the ox\u201d).[10] It is practised\nby jealous women who wish to be revenged on their faithless lovers or\nhusbands, and reminds us of those waxen dolls with which the witches\nand adepts in black magic of the Middle Ages, and in ancient Greece,\naccording to Theocritus, were wont to pretend that they could rid their\npatron of their enemies.\n\nWhen the world is at rest, at two in the morning, the hour of which\nthe ox is the symbol, the woman rises; she dons a white robe and high\nsandals or clogs; her coif is a metal tripod in which are thrust three\nlighted candles; round her neck she hangs a mirror, which falls upon her\nbosom; in her left hand she carries a small straw figure, the effigy of\nthe lover who has deserted her, and in her right she grasps a hammer\nand nails, with which she fastens the figure to one of the sacred trees\nwhich surround the shrine. There she prays for the death of the traitor,\nvowing that if her petition be heard she will herself pull out the nails\nwhich now offend the god by wounding the mystic tree. Night after night\nshe comes to the shrine, and each night she drives in two or more nails,\nbelieving that every nail will shorten her lover\u2019s life, for the god, to\nsave his beloved tree, will surely strike him dead.[11]\n\nWhether this custom still prevails, I know not. Fifty years ago I was\nassured that it was \u201cvery much alive.\u201d Habits have undergone a mighty\nchange since then, but superstition dies hard, and there are many\nout-of-the-way places even in Japan into which the newness of things has\nhardly penetrated. It must have been a ghostly sight to meet a maiden\nthus harnessed in the grove of the god on a dark night.\n\nLafcadio Hearn, that wayward child of the muses, a prose poet if ever\nthere was such an one, who, after wandering for many years through untold\nmisery and suffering, at last found rest and his soul in Japan, has left\nto us as precious legacies many a rare conceit which would fit in well\nhere. It would have been strange if he, a mystic himself, had not been\nwillingly haunted by the folk-lore of the country which he loved, a\ncountry \u201cfabulosa et externis miraculis adsimilata.\u201d Sometimes, indeed,\nhe was more Catholic than the Pope, living in a Japan that was almost a\ndreamland of his own wild fancy. And yet he was a creature of curious\ncontradictions, for he seems to be half in earnest, half mocking, when he\nholds us spellbound with weird tales of goblin trees, luring men to love\nor to death; of a camellia tree which listens to the prayers of lovers;\nof other camellias which, like spectres, walk about at night, the terror\nof mankind. \u201cThere was one in the garden of a Matsn\u00e9 Samurai which did\nthis so much that it had to be cut down. Then it writhed its arms and\ngroaned, and blood spurted at every stroke of the axe.\u201d\n\nLike every other writer, native and foreign, Lafcadio Hearn is entranced\nby the loveliness of the cherry blossom, the emblem of all that is bodily\ndelicate and spiritually beautiful. He quotes an old stanza, which says:\n\u201cIf one should ask you concerning the heart of a true Samurai, point to\nthe mountain cherry flower gleaming in the morning sun.\u201d Again: \u201cAs the\ncherry flower is first among flowers, so should the warrior be first\namong men.\u201d By this nature-loving people, the highest form of female\nbeauty and excellence is symbolized by the willow for grace, the cherry\nflower for youthful charm, the plum blossom for virtue and sweetness. I\nshould add that the oval outline of the melon seed represents in the\nshape of the face the type of high breeding and aristocratic distinction.\nThe poets are never weary of drawing upon the cherry flower for their\nmetaphors. A Japanese gentleman, looking out upon a snow-storm, will say:\n\u201cSee how the petals of the cherries are drifting before the wind.\u201d\n\nThe Yanagi\u2014the weeping willow\u2014is a much haunted tree. Here is a story\ntold by Lafcadio Hearn which is worth quoting:\n\n\u201cThere is a rather pretty legend\u2014recalling the old Greek dream of\nDryads\u2014about a willow tree which grew in the garden of a Samurai of\nKy\u014dto. Owing to its weird reputation, the tenant of the homestead desired\nto cut it down; but another Samurai dissuaded him, saying: \u2018Rather sell\nit to me, that I may plant it in my garden. That tree has a soul; it were\ncruel to destroy its life.\u2019 Thus purchased and transplanted, the Yanagi\nflourished well in its new home, and its spirit, out of gratitude, took\nthe form of a beautiful woman, and became the wife of the Samurai who\nhad befriended it. A charming boy was the result of this union. A few\nyears later the Daimio to whom the ground belonged gave orders that the\ntree should be cut down. Then the wife wept bitterly, and for the first\ntime revealed to her husband the whole story. \u2018And now,\u2019 she added, \u2018I\nknow that I must die, but our child will live and you will always love\nhim. This thought is my only solace.\u2019 Vainly the astonished husband\nsought to retain her. Bidding him farewell for ever, she vanished into\nthe tree. Needless to say, that the Samurai did everything in his power\nto persuade the Daimio to forgo his purpose. The prince wanted the tree\nfor the reparation of a great Buddhist temple, the Sanjiusangendo.\u201d (The\nTemple of the 33,333 images of Kwannon, the Goddess of Mercy.) \u201cThe tree\nwas felled, but, having fallen, it suddenly became so heavy that three\nhundred men could not move it. Then the child, taking a branch in his\nlittle hand, said \u2018Come,\u2019 and the tree followed him, gliding along the\nground to the court of the temple.\u201d\n\nYou may bless the Yanagi for offering you a sure cure for the toothache.\nHaunted it is bound to be, and if you suffer, drive nails into it until\nthe spirit of the tree, to save its home, relieves you of the pain. Are\nyou a dreamer of dreams? Then if your climate be mild, without fail, see\nthat you are not without a Nanten among your shrubs. Hide it away in some\nsheltered spot, both for its own sake and for yours, and let it be your\ntrusted confidant. If the gods should send you evil and racking dreams,\nrise early and whisper the terror to your Nanten, and it shall come to\nnaught. Science has corrupted the Japanese name Nanten into _Nandina_,\nand, for some reason best known to themselves, botanists have added the\naltogether ridiculous and senseless suffix _domestica_. Perhaps such an\noutrage may have robbed the plant of its virtues; we can but try it.\n\nTo go back to our cherries. In the grounds of an old Scottish castle,\nrich in ghostly stories and blood-curdling legends, there stands an old\ngean tree (wild cherry). It is the belief of the countryside that this\nold tree is haunted by the spirit of a former mistress of the castle,\na lady who, as tradition has it, suffered much in her life-time and\ncannot rest in death. One day, some forty years ago, I started off from\na neighbouring place to pay a visit at the castle with \u201cHang-theology\u201d\nRogers, the famous rector of St. Botolph\u2019s, Bishopsgate, than whom no\nbrighter companion ever cheered a long, cold drive in a rather rickety\ndog-cart. We arrived just as the large party in the house were gathering\ntogether in the drawing-room after luncheon. We were met by long and\nrather pale faces. Obviously something had happened\u2014nobody seemed at\nease. At last an old lady, who was among the guests, took me on one side\nand told me what all this meant.\n\nThat morning, a visitor who was driving up to the house, when he came to\nthe gean tree, saw the figure of a woman come out of it, glide for some\ndistance beside him, and then vanish. Many of the people in the castle,\nwho happened to be looking out of the drawing-room window at the time,\nsaw the wonder, and the old lady added that she herself, having gone up\nto her bedroom to put on her bonnet, distinctly saw the apparition from\nher window, which was immediately over the drawing-room. All these people\nwere absolutely convinced that, like the visitor in his dog-cart, they\nhad seen the ghost which haunted the gean tree. I have told the story\nwithout addition or ornament, exactly as I heard it an hour or two after\nits occurrence and while the witnesses were still under the spell. It\ncould not fail to remind me of the tales of Bak\u00e9mono-zakura, the haunted\ncherry trees of Japanese legend, and it seemed worthy to be set down\nbeside them.\n\nThe ancient Egyptians, though they worshipped onions and garlic, for\nwhich they were handsomely ridiculed by Juvenal, seem to have paid little\nrespect to trees, probably because, besides the palm, so few were known\nto them. There is, however, according to that wonderful book, Sir James\nFraser\u2019s \u201cGolden Bough,\u201d some evidence to show that they believed that\nspirits haunted trees; at any rate, the tamarisk was sacred to Osiris\u2014the\ngod and ruler who represented the principle of good, as his brother\nTypho did that of evil. The story of the death of Osiris is curious as\na contradiction of the idea of immortality with which deity is usually\nendowed. The god, having become King of Egypt, devoted himself to the\ncivilization of his people, and to further that end, set out to travel\nover the world, leaving his wife Isis to reign in his place. When he\ncame back, Typho, with other conspirators, among whom was an Ethiopian\nqueen, named Aso, plotted to kill his brother. So, having procured the\nexact measurement of Osiris, he caused a box to be made to fit him, and\nhaving invited Osiris to a feast, he caused the box, which was of rare\nworkmanship, to be brought in, saying he would give it to any one present\nwhom it would fit. All the guests tried it in vain; at last Osiris laid\nhimself down in it, and the conspirators, rushing forward, fastened down\nthe lid with nails and molten lead. Then the box was carried to the\nriverside. It floated down the stream and was carried by the waves of\nthe sea to the coast of Byblos, and lodged in the branches of a tamarisk\nbush. There is much more of this fable in Sir Gardner Wilkinson\u2019s great\nbook\u2014not all of it very edifying reading; but that is how the tamarisk\nbecame a sacred tree.\n\nWhile treating of the superstitions and legends belonging to trees, it\nhas been impossible to avoid touching upon the belief in ghosts. That\nfaith exists in every part of the world. The fetichists of the African\npriests, the totemists of North America, the wildest savages of the\nSouth Seas with their uncouth idols, the aborigines of Australia and\nNew Zealand\u2014all stand in terror of ghosts. I long years ago translated\na collection of Pekingese stories of haunted houses; but in many moves\nand journeys the manuscript has been lost\u2014no great matter of regret,\nfor these tales are always the same, the two leading causes for\napparitions being remorse or revenge. The story of the ghost of Sakura\nS\u014dgor\u014d, perhaps the most famous ghost story of the Far East, which I\nhave translated in my \u201cTales of Old Japan,\u201d has, apart from its local\ncolouring, no feature differing from many such traditions which have been\nhanded down in Europe. But the true interest of these superstitions, call\nthem fables, myths\u2014what you will\u2014lies in the proof that all over the\nworld there is implanted in man the instinctive conviction that death is\nnot the end of all things\u2014the mere return of dust to dust, of ashes to\nashes; if that were so, there could be no thought of ghosts. The belief\ndepends upon the existence of that mysterious intuitive feeling that when\nthe thread of fate has been severed, there still remains another life\nwhich death itself cannot kill, and that other life is the soul.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut the fairies\u2014where are they? Can it be that the Bak\u00e9mono-zakura\u2014the\nhaunted cherry trees of Japan\u2014when they were ruthlessly torn out of the\nsoil of the country of the gods ten years ago, indignantly burst their\nbarken bonds, and taking wing for refuge to the sacred groves of Mount\nFugi, from some wild bird\u2019s eyrie watched their beloved old homes being\nwafted away to new and uncertain climes across the terrors of the Pacific\nOcean? And yet often, even here, I see a merry band of flaxen-haired\ndwarfs playing about the enchanted trees. Fairy-land is rich in surprises\nand mystifications. Who knows? Perhaps these little sprites are\nthemselves fairies who have chosen for their abode the forsaken dwellings\nof the dark eastern Bak\u00e9mono\u2014\u201cgood folk\u201d sent by a kindly Providence to\nshed a fleeting ray of the sunshine of poetry over the wintry prose of an\noctogenarian\u2019s life.\n\n\n\n\nQUEEN VICTORIA AND MARIE THERESIA\n\n\nRarely, indeed, does the student in history come across two personalities\nso entirely in unison at almost all points as those of the Austrian\nEmpress Marie Theresia and our own Queen Victoria. Both were essentially\ngreat Sovereigns, both essentially good women. Our own Queen exercised\nan authority which was in one sense even more remarkable than that of\nthe Empress; for whereas the latter was a commanding figure in an age\nwhen the glamour of autocracy had not yet faded away, Queen Victoria,\nby sheer force of character, maintained the prestige of royalty against\nthe flowing tide of a democracy which was becoming daily more and more\nself-asserting. Indeed, she did more than maintain it\u2014she summoned it\nfrom the dead; for in the two reigns which preceded hers it had perished,\nas men then thought, without hope of resurrection.\n\nIn all save their outward appearance the likeness between the two august\nladies was such that it almost seemed as if the one was the reincarnation\nof the other; as if the soul of the mighty Austrian had passed into the\nQueen. An earnest and deep piety was the foundation of both characters,\nthough they would have been utterly opposed in the form of its exercise.\nMarie Theresia was the faithful daughter of the Church of Rome, Queen\nVictoria the no less faithful and loving child of the Reformation. In\nboth religion was a passion.\n\nThere has been a recent republication of the \u201cMemoirs of Frau Pichler,\u201d\nthe Viennese poetess and authoress, whose _salon_ at the end of the\neighteenth and during the early part of the nineteenth century was so\nfamous that people said that there were two things which no stranger\ncoming to Vienna could afford to miss seeing\u2014St. Stephen\u2019s Cathedral and\nFrau Pichler. Those memoirs, admirably edited and furnished with copious\nnotes by one Emil Bl\u00fcmml, throw an interesting light upon the private and\nintimate life of Marie Theresia, and as we follow these reminiscences,\nwe cannot but be struck by the many links in the chain of similarity of\nwhich I have spoken above.\n\nBoth Queen Victoria and the Empress were deeply penetrated with that\nsense of the Royal Caste which is too apt to raise an insurmountable\nboundary against social intercourse. But if Royalty itself stands apart,\nthere is also an instinctive aloofness from it in those who are of\nhigh position but yet subjects; so that the intimacies of Sovereigns\nand royal personages are found rather among their personal attendants\nthan among the nobles and powerful officials who form their courts.\nEspecially is this bound to be the case where princesses are concerned.\nTheir tirewomen and dressers are far more capable than chamberlains and\nsecretaries of state of judging their private idiosyncrasies; so, in\norder to know what manner of woman this or that queen may have been, we\nare fain to climb the backstairs\u2014where such a way is open to us, as it is\nin the case of Marie Theresia.\n\n[Illustration: THE EMPRESS MARIE THERESIA.\n\n_From an engraving after a painting by Mytens._\n\n[_To face p. 130._]\n\nThe adoption of Frau Pichler\u2019s mother by the great Empress is just such a\npathetic story, not without a pinch of the salt of romance, as would have\ntouched the kind heart of Queen Victoria, and, indeed, we can well fancy\nher in like circumstances behaving exactly as Marie Theresia did.\n\nIn the month of May, 1744, the Wolfenb\u00fcttel Regiment of Infantry was\nmoved from Hungary to Vienna. A poor old lieutenant, fifty years of age,\nnamed Friedrich Hieronymus, a widower, had contrived\u2014with what pains and\nanxiety who can tell?\u2014to take with him on the march his only child, a\nlittle daughter aged four. Hardly had he reached Vienna when he caught\na chill, inflammation of the lungs set in and he died, full of terror\nfor the future of his little Charlotte, whom he was to leave penniless\nand destitute in what was to him a foreign country, among strangers\nprofessing a religion which was abhorrent to him\u2014for he was a Protestant.\nHis last tender words were for her. \u201cPoor child! what will become of\nthee?\u201d Throughout her long life those painfully uttered words, torn from\nthe dying man\u2019s soul, remained graven in her heart, unforgettable. His\nbrother officers, good charitable souls, probably themselves none too\nwell furnished with this world\u2019s goods, took charge of the babe, who\nbecame from thenceforth the \u201cfille du R\u00e9giment.\u201d The pathetic story came\nto the ears of Marie Theresia, who had a soft place in her heart for the\nWolfenb\u00fcttel Regiment, which was named after the family of her mother,\nthe Empress Elizabeth. She sent for the child, but the officers of the\nregiment, deeply imbued with a sense of loyalty to their dead comrade,\ndid all that was in their power to hinder the babe from falling into the\nhands of an aggressively religious Catholic.\n\nThey hid her in a suburb of Vienna, but the Empress\u2019s agents were\ntoo clever for them, and the child was brought to Court, where, as\nthe Wolfenb\u00fcttlers had foreseen, she was brought up in the strictest\ndoctrines of the Roman Church, under the charge of a Spanish lady,\nIsabella Duplessis, and was specially educated with a view to entering\nthe Empress\u2019s service as tirewoman. Her life was now very different from\nwhat might have been expected for the baby that followed the drum. She\nbecame the playmate of the Imperial children, amongst them of the unhappy\nQueen Marie Antoinette, and so the years went by in all the luxury of a\nsumptuous court.\n\nLittle Charlotte proved herself worthy of her good fortune; indeed,\nso quick and nimble-witted was she, that when she had reached the age\nof thirteen she was already deemed fit to enter upon her duties about\nher great mistress, not only as tirewoman, but also as reader. To this\nend she had been early handed over to the care of Gr\u00e4fin Fuchs, the\ntenderly-loved nurse and governess of the Empress, who had such an\naffection for her that when she died she was buried in the vault of the\nCapucins, the last home of the Imperial Family.\n\nIn spite of the advice given by Hippolochus to Glaucus, it is not always\nan unmixed advantage so to excel as to make oneself indispensable. This\nlittle Charlotte soon found out, for her skill in hairdressing was such\nthat the Empress, who was so particular about her hair that she would\nsometimes have it done and undone four or five times before she was\nsatisfied, could not do without her. Marie Theresia, who was without a\nspark of coquetry and had neither eyes nor thought for any man but her\nhusband, had all a woman\u2019s instinctive love of display, and took a great\ndelight in her beauty for its own sake.\n\nNone of the other tirewomen had Charlotte\u2019s cunning fingers, and the\nsame thing applied to her reading. German, French, Italian and Latin\ncame to the child with equal facility, and all these were found in the\ndispatches which she had to read aloud to the Empress. French and Italian\nwere the languages of the Opera and of the elegances of the Court. On one\noccasion when the Empress was expecting a baby, she had a bet with Count\nDietrichstein as to the sex of the infant. She wagered for a girl, he for\na boy\u2014the Empress won. The Count sent her a piece of porcelain with a\nportrait of himself kneeling, and these words written by Metastasio, the\nPoet Laureate of the Court:\n\n    \u201cPerdo, \u00e8 ver, l\u2019 augusta figlia\n    A pagar m\u2019 ha condannato,\n    Ma s\u2019 \u00e8 ver che a te somiglia\n    Tutto il mondo ha guadagnato.\u201d\n\nA pretty compliment! The babe, Marie Antoinette, born to be Queen of\nBeauty and of Sorrow, was worthy of it.\n\nTalking of languages, it is strange to read of how small account German\nwas at the Court of Vienna. The Emperor Francis I., as a Lorrainer,\nhardly understood it and never spoke it, and the people of his service\nwere mostly Lorrainers or Netherlanders. The Empress herself did not\nspeak correct German; she used the vulgarest Viennese patois, and Frau\nPichler tells an amusing story of how a young Saxon lady, who had been\nappointed as one of her mother\u2019s colleagues, came to her in despair one\nmorning to beg her help. The Empress had ordered her to go and fetch \u201cdas\nblabe Buich.\u201d What could her Majesty mean? Charlotte laughed, and told\nher to go and get \u201cdas blaue Buch.\u201d The Saxon girl, Karoline Mercier,\nwould not believe her\u2014but the blue book it was. If she could not master\nGerman, the Empress, like Queen Victoria, was familiar with French and\nItalian. Our Queen was very fond of showing her fluency in German and\nFrench, and on her drives would often stop her carriage for the joy of a\nchat with some poor Italian organ-grinder in his own soft tongue. Latin,\nwhich the Empress knew intimately, was the means of communication with\nher Hungarian magnates. She loved the language and them, for so she was\nreminded of the day\u2014the 11th of September, 1741\u2014when she, threatened\nby half Europe with the loss of the states which the hostile Powers\nhad once guaranteed, went to Pressburg, met the nobles of Hungary in\ntheir parliament, and appealed to them for protection for herself and\nher child, the future Emperor Joseph. Her cry for help was not in vain.\nTouched to the quick by the sight of the lovely weeping Empress, the\nproud Magyars, old and young, the flower of a noble chivalry, drew their\nswords and swore to die for the beautiful woman, who was their _King_. A\nuniversal conscription was decreed. It was a triple triumph, upon which\nshe loved to look back\u2014the triumph of Virtue, of Right, and last, but not\nleast, of Beauty.\n\nThe service of Marie Theresia\u2019s handmaidens was no sinecure. In summer\nshe rose at five o\u2019clock\u2014in winter a little later\u2014and rang for her\ngirls, who had to appear fully dressed in hoop-petticoats, and with\nthe marvellous edifices of hair which the fashion of the day exacted.\nTo achieve this, the young ladies had to get up in the middle of the\nnight, and this was especially hard upon Charlotte, who had night after\nnight to read aloud for long hours after the Empress had gone to bed.\nBut Charlotte was so quick, and knew the Empress\u2019s taste so well that,\nwhatever happened, she must be present at the morning toilette, and ready\nto attend upon her mistress during and after supper\u2014a light meal, of\nwhich Her Majesty always partook in her private room. Busy worker as the\nEmpress was, she seems to have depended entirely upon having her State\npapers read aloud to her, and so Charlotte became acquainted very early\nin life with many important State secrets. But she was a discreet little\nsoul and knew how to hold her tongue, and so retained the confidence of\nher Imperial mistress so long as that wonderful woman lived.\n\nThe portrait which Frau Pichler has left behind her of the great lady,\npartly drawn from her mother\u2019s stories of her, partly from her own\nmemories of the days when as a little girl she used to be taken by\nspecial command to Sch\u00f6nbrunn or the Burg in Vienna, is fascinating.\nIn her youth the Empress had been extremely beautiful, and though in\nmiddle life she grew large and unwieldy, and had to be taken up to her\nrooms in a lift\u2014wafted through the air by fairies, as it seemed to the\nchild whom she took with her\u2014she retained to the end that wonderful\ngift of grace and of what is called \u201cpresence,\u201d which is so keenly felt\nand so impossible to describe. Kindly she was, too, and of a motherly\nsweetness with children. Frau Pichler tells us how on one occasion, when\nthe Empress had sent her to an adjoining room on some small errand,\nshe slipped and fell, breaking her fan, and burst into tears. The kind\nEmpress hurried after her, comforted her, and gave her a new fan\u2014a\nprecious relic, to be treasured as we may well believe for a lifetime.\n\nMarie Theresia was the daughter of the Emperor Charles the Sixth, who,\nbeing without a male heir, named her as his successor by \u201cpragmatic\nsanction\u201d\u2014a Byzantine term for an ordinance issued arbitrarily by the\nhead of an empire or kingdom. She succeeded to the various thrones of\nher father on his death in 1740, and associated with herself as Emperor\nher husband, Duke Francis of Lorraine, who had been her play-fellow and\nwhom she had married in 1736. In spite of his numerous infidelities, she\nadored him. Albeit, so far as politics were concerned, he was no great\nhelp to her; so though he bore the title of Emperor, she remained unaided\nat the helm. Hers was no easy task. In spite of scraps of paper and\nguarantees, a coalition between Prussia, France, Bavaria, the Palatinate,\nSaxony, Sardinia, Naples and Spain\u2014a pack of hungry war-dogs, all tearing\nat her on every side, each howling for his pound of flesh\u2014threatened to\ndevour her. She had only England and Hungary on her side; but, like Abdul\nHamid in our own times, she could count upon the quarrels between her\nfoes. Prussia was the arch-enemy. Prussia, which we are now told, was the\noriginal subject of the \u201cHymn of Hate,\u201d written, _teste_ the _Morning\nPost_, by the revolutionary Herweg in 1841, for which Herr Lissauer,\nwho substituted England for Prussia, has been decorated by a grateful\nKaiser.[12] Prussia, of which Heine wrote: \u201cI utterly loathe this\nPrussia, this stiff, hypocritical, sanctimonious Prussia, this Tartuffe\namong the nations.\u201d[13]\n\nLike our own Queen, Marie Theresia was essentially a woman of business.\nShe personally directed the affairs of her Empire, issuing her commands\nto her ministers, and the little orphan Charlotte, as we have seen,\nfor many years acted as her secretary and reader. The duties were no\nsinecure, and although no doubt the position of a young lady of the Court\nwas one of great luxury in some respects and greatly coveted, there were\nalso some hardships with which those chosen maids had to put up. The\nEmpress was large and corpulent; she could not bear warmth, and so her\nladies had to perform their duties in a thorough draught, even when snow\nwas being driven in at the windows, falling on to the State papers which\nCharlotte was reading aloud to her.\n\nIn spite of her dread of heat, so long as her limbs would carry her,\nthe Empress, devout and exact in all religious observances, would on\nCorpus Christi day, in the height of summer, piously accompany the\nsacred procession on foot. One broiling June day she came back from this\nceremony violently heated and tired, having walked half across the town\nunder the sun, had to be undressed, and have her hair taken down, and sat\nin a thorough draught, eating strawberries and drinking lemonade, while\nCharlotte brushed and combed out her hair, which was so wet that the poor\ngirl had to keep wiping her hands. How Marie Theresia would have enjoyed\none of Queen Victoria\u2019s picnics on Lochnagar in a November blizzard!\n\nOne of the difficulties with which those responsible for the management\nof the public ceremonials in which our Queen took part had to deal,\nwas the regulation of the temperature. The enduring of heat was to her\nas to Marie Theresia, a misery and an impossibility. She could put up\nwith any other discomfort and fatigue; but heat was unbearable. The\nEmperor Joseph, who did not inherit his mother\u2019s imperviousness to cold,\nhad to visit her in furs. Kaunitz, a privileged minister, was the only\nperson who dared to shut the window. \u201cHow do you manage when you go to\nBalmoral?\u201d I once asked Lord Beaconsfield, who was a chilly mortal. \u201cThe\nQueen is very gracious,\u201d was the answer, \u201cshe excuses me from going\nthere.\u201d\n\nIn dealing with the affairs of State both rulers showed themselves to\nbe women of strong character and indefatigable industry. Their methods,\nof necessity, differed widely. The one, as I have said above, was an\nautocrat; the other, a constitutional Sovereign, deeply imbued with the\nsense of her own limitations, and yet such a mistress of public business,\nof constitutional law and of precedent, that she often dominated the\ncouncils of her ministers, many of whom recognized in her their guide and\ninstructress in cases of difficulty. Nowhere was this more evident than\nin her treatment of foreign affairs. There she was no more a negligible\nquantity than Marie Theresia had been; no matter who might be Secretary\nof State, there was always a very real power in the background, and that\npower was the Queen. It would be easy to multiply instances, but we need\nonly point to two cases: the Danish Duchies\u2019 question in 1864, where, in\nobedience to what she believed to be the wishes of her dead husband, she\ntook what is now shown to have been an unfortunate line; and, secondly,\nthe dispute with the United States on the Trent question in 1861, where\nshe, with the assistance of the Prince Consort, used all her influence to\nhinder what would have been a disastrous war, an unthinkable calamity.\n\nThe mention of the Prince Consort brings into strong relief two pictures,\nin which it is difficult to say whether we are more startled by the\nlikeness or puzzled by the violence of the contrasts. In both cases\nwe see a marriage of true love, in each of which a prince of a small\nreigning family was raised, not for reasons of State, but by pure\naffection, to share the glories of a vast empire and a throne before\nwhich countless peoples bowed. There the likeness between the two\nhusbands comes to an end.\n\nIn Prince Albert Queen Victoria found not only a faithful and devoted\nlover, but a helpmate, who was ever at her side, and, young as he was,\nshared the heavy burthens which she had to bear, and brought to her\ncouncils all the store of wisdom and statesmanship with which he had\nbeen endowed by that astute mentor, Baron Stockmar. Not the least part\nof his merit was his self-effacement; yet in spite of it he aroused\nunreasoning jealousies, for which his intimacy and the Queen\u2019s with\nthe same old German physician was in no small measure accountable. The\nEmperor Francis, on the contrary, was of no assistance to Marie Theresia.\nStrikingly handsome, physically as grand a man perhaps as Prince Albert,\nhe had none of the Prince\u2019s serious qualities. He was essentially and\nfatally charming, but of politics and the affairs of State he took no\nheed; all that he cared for were his flirtations, his bric-\u00e0-brac, and\nhis collection of coins and medals.\n\nHe was what is called \u201ca dangerous man,\u201d and when \u201ca dangerous man\u201d\nis an Emperor to boot\u2014Well! But such as he was, his Empress loved him\nwith all her soul, content to take upon her own shoulders the drudgery\nof sovereignty, and leaving to him its gewgaws and the enjoyment of\na brilliant idleness. If she ever knew of them she forgave him his\ninfidelities, and, like our Queen, worshipping the ground upon which\nher husband trod, she never looked at another man, nor cared for any\nadmiration but his. As Frau Pichler rather quaintly observes, had she\ndone so her maidens must have known of it. We are told that no man is a\nhero to his valet. For a woman to be virtuous to her Abigail, she must\nbe as chaste as Diana before those compromising visits to Endymion, of\nwhich we may be sure that her nymphs were well aware.\n\nNo breath of scandal ever dimmed the mirror of the Empress\u2019s fair fame.\nQueen Victoria herself was not more stern in the repression of anything\napproaching loose or unseemly talk. She considered it to be the duty\nof persons in high places to repress any lack of decorum, and their\nprivilege to set an example to be followed by others. To her daughter,\nthe Queen of Naples, she wrote: \u201cIt is our duty to remember that a word\nin season or a grave look will silence those who indulge in unlicensed\nspeech, and have an excellent general effect.\u201d Nothing better nails\nto the counter the lies of Frederic the Great, so characteristically\nPrussian, than the fact that the capital, which up to her time had been\nnotorious for the laxity of its morals, was described by Sir John Moore\ntowards the end of her reign in very laudatory language. \u201cI can imagine,\u201d\nhe says, \u201cno city in Europe where a young gentleman would see fewer\nexamples, or have fewer opportunities of deep gaming, open profligacy, or\ngross debauchery than in Vienna.\u201d This, as her biographer, Mary Maxwell\nMoffat, says, is a great testimony to the uplifting influence of the\nEmpress-Queen. That the influence was personal is proved by the relapse\nof Vienna during the nineteenth century. By precept and example, she\ncast out the swine, but when she was gone they came back again.\n\nIt was the irony of fate that neither the Empress\u2019s virtues, her great\nbeauty, her sweet disposition, nor the prestige of her glorious position\nwere able to clip the wings of her flighty and too attractive husband.\nThat she had some inkling of her failure is clear from the advice that\nshe once gave to her favourite maiden Charlotte: \u201cBe warned and do not\nmarry a man who has nothing to do.\u201d Queen Victoria was more fortunate.\nHer marriage remained a union of hearts, of which time itself had no\npower to relax the bonds.\n\nIn all that concerns art Queen Victoria was essentially a woman of her\nown time, and it is in no sense derogatory to her to say that it was\ncertainly not a happy time. In the plastic arts she had not the talent of\nher two brilliant daughters, the Empress Frederic and Princess Louise.\nIt is true that her sketch-book was the constant companion of her\nholidays, and illustrated the diary of her travels; but her execution\ndid not go much beyond the boundaries of the school-girl\u2019s album. The\npainters whom she chose to employ as portraitists\u2014Winterhalter, Landseer,\nVon Angeli\u2014were unluckily chosen. She admired and patronized Leighton,\nbut she would not hear of being painted by Millais or Watts. Music was\nher delight, and so it was with Marie Theresia; both ladies loved the\nItalian school, both were themselves gifted with lovely voices and\nhad been well trained. Indeed, in the Hapsburg family the talent was\nhereditary; all the older members of it were capable musicians, and\nCharles the Sixth would himself accompany their chamber music on the\nharpsichord.\n\nMrs. Moffat quotes a letter of Marie Theresia, in which she writes: \u201cAs\nfor dramatic music, I confess that I would rather have the slightest\nItalian thing than all the works of our composers, Gaisman, Gluck and\nothers. For instrumental music we have a certain Haydn, who has good\nideas, but he is just beginning to be known.\u201d Strange words, coming from\nthe Sovereign of the capital which was to be the home, above all others,\nof the greatest composers of the world. Mozart she knew as a child of\nsix, when he sat upon her lap to play, and, tumbling down, was picked up\nby the little Archduchess Marie Antoinette, to whom in gratitude he at\nonce proposed marriage!\n\nThe tender care and loving kindness with which Queen Victoria treated all\nthose, from the highest to the humblest, who were in any sense dependent\nupon her, is a matter of common knowledge. She shared in their joys, she\nsympathized with their sorrows, interesting herself in all the everyday\nchanges and chances of their lives. The unclouded happiness of her own\nall too brief married life had penetrated her soul with the belief\nthat nothing could compare with the bliss of a loving union. This she\nshowed even in a case where a young man in whom she took a deep interest,\nand for whom she had destined what would have been a very advantageous\nmarriage, disappointed her by making an unsuitable match. Her answer to\none who spoke unkindly of this was characteristic and touching. \u201cAfter\nall,\u201d she said, sweetly excusing him, \u201cperhaps they loved one another.\u201d\nThat in her mind was obviously the essential.\n\nThe account of the marriage of the Austrian Empress\u2019s favourite tirewoman\nis worth recording, not only as showing a parallel to this sweetly\nindulgent nature of our Queen, but also as giving us a curious picture of\nthe formalities of the old Court of Vienna.\n\nUpon her maidens the Empress spent an almost motherly care. When not\non duty they might go out, but must tell Her Majesty whither they were\nbound, and then an Imperial carriage was placed at their disposal; when\nnot on duty, they were always allowed to receive visitors\u2014even men, but\ntheir names must be submitted to their mistress, and the privileged\nswains must be of unblemished repute. It was in that way, during the\nSeven Years\u2019 War, when the detested Prussian Drill-Sergeant Frederic was\npushing forward and yet further forward in Moravia and was besieging\nOlm\u00fctz, that Charlotte made the acquaintance of Herr von Greiner, at that\ntime a secretary in the Bohemian-Austrian Chancellerie. He was accepted\nas a suitor, but must wait till he could offer his wife a better position.\n\nIn spite of what her daughter says, Charlotte, unless her portraits\nwickedly malign her, was no beauty, and she was tocherless to boot; but\nshe was clever and the favourite prot\u00e9g\u00e9e of the Empress. What could\nnot a capable man of business in the public service hope from such an\nalliance? We are told that, doubtless in view of this advantage, there\nhad been many suitors for her hand, but the Empress had always stood\nin the way. Charlotte was in terror lest in this case also she should\ninterfere. She was too useful to her mistress to be lightly spared. There\nwas nothing for it but patience.\n\nMeanwhile, in the year 1765 the Court moved to Innsbruck for the marriage\nof the second prince, afterwards the Emperor Leopold II., and there\nsuddenly the Emperor Francis fell a victim to an apoplectic stroke. The\nEmpress was stricken dumb with grief. She could not weep, but passed the\nnight in spasmodic sobbing, till at last in the morning the doctors, who\nwere alarmed at her condition, bled her, and then the merciful tears came\nand brought relief. Charlotte was ordered to cut off all her mistress\u2019s\nhair, and in her dress, as well as in the furniture of her apartments,\nthe widow put on the trappings of woe. Of the beauty that largely\nremained to her, since her husband was no longer there to see, she took\nno account. On every 18th of August, the day of his death, she remained\nshut up in her room, confessed, fasted, and passed the day in sad\nremembrances, in prayer and in pious exercises. If the stones of Windsor\nCastle could prate, they might tell just such a story.\n\nNow that the lovely fair hair, that crown of glory, had been shorn off,\nand the Empress no longer cared for her old elaborate toilette, there was\nless for the favourite tirewoman to do, and the wedding with Herr von\nGreiner was allowed. The future bridegroom was presented to the great\nlady, who was surprised to find in him a rather commonplace man, and\nsaid afterwards to Charlotte: \u201cI thought that you would have chosen some\ngallant gentleman\u2014a Chevalier.\u201d However, the commonplace man was one in\nwhom she later recognized a thoroughly honest and capable official, whom\nshe respected and promoted for his worth.\n\nThe year of mourning for the dead Emperor was not yet at an end, and the\nCourt had laid aside none of the trappings and the suits of woe. But\nCharlotte, as bride that was to be, was allowed to dress in colours.\nThe wedding was celebrated with all the ceremonies which were at that\ntime prescribed by Court etiquette. It was still the fashion to make\na special function of the betrothal, which in Charlotte\u2019s case was\ncelebrated eight days before the marriage. On the wedding day she had\nto go and show herself in her bridal attire to the Empress, who added\nseveral presents of jewellery to what she was wearing, and lent her a\npriceless rope of pearls from the Imperial Treasury, to be returned after\nthe ceremony, an ornament which was commonly used on such occasions.\n\nThe service was held in the private chapel, and the Mistress of the Robes\nled the bride to the altar. When the priest came to the place where\nthe bride is told to answer \u201cYes,\u201d she was compelled by etiquette to\ncurtsey to the Mistress of the Robes and ask her permission to do so.\nThen the Mistress of the Robes stood up, turned herself round to face the\nchapel in which the Empress was, and in her turn curtsied, and in dumb\nshow asked Her Majesty\u2019s consent. This was also given by signs, and the\nMistress of the Robes, in the same silent way, transmitted the pleasure\nof the Empress, who had taken upon herself the duties of mother, upon\nwhich the bride gratefully curtsied, turned to the priest and uttered the\nfateful \u201cYes.\u201d\n\nThere is something touching in the way in which the Empress mothered the\norphan whom she had almost kidnapped from the Wolfenb\u00fcttel officers.\nShe surely did not perform her duty by halves! When I read the account\nof the wedding ceremony, my mind went back fifty-two years to another\nwedding, when in St. George\u2019s Chapel another Queen, recently widowed,\nsat in a little gallery and acknowledged the curtsey of her new\ndaughter-in-law, one of the loveliest brides that ever sun shone upon. At\nevery step in this sketch of the Austrian Empress we are met by something\nthat speaks of our own great Queen.\n\nIn this wise was the wedding of one of the Imperial handmaidens\ncelebrated in the days of Marie Theresia. Charlotte, now Frau von\nGreiner, entered happily upon her new life. The change from the\nexcitement and publicity of the brilliant Austrian Court, to the quiet\nand narrower society of the upper middle-class, for whom the Imperial\nsurroundings were a thing of awe and mystery, must have been very\nstriking. But the bride found her account in it, and, as we shall see,\nHerr von Greiner, being a man of quite exceptional talent and artistic\ngifts, was able to attract to his house all that was most brilliant among\nthe literary and musical celebrities of that time.\n\nIn the year 1769 Caroline\u2014afterwards Frau Pichler\u2014was born. In the\nmeantime the Empress had by no means relaxed her friendship for her\nmother. The von Greiners were not \u201choff\u00e4hig,\u201d they could not go to court\nofficially, but Frau von Greiner constantly visited her old mistress\nprivately, and Von Greiner himself had, as I have said, won the great\nlady\u2019s favour, and she not only kept him in her eye for advancement, but\nfrequently sent for him and sought his advice. With a salary of four\nthousand gulden\u2014two hundred pounds, I suppose\u2014and a spacious official\nresidence, the family was well able to maintain a good appearance,\nand Herr von Greiner\u2019s exceptional attainments and artistic gifts as\npastelist and poet made the house a trysting-place for all that was\nmost notable in literature and music\u2014especially music; for at Frau\nvon Greiner\u2019s weekly assemblies were frequently seen and heard Haydn,\nBeethoven, Mozart, Paesiello and Cimarosa. Painters and sculptors,\npoets and authors less known to fame than those great musicians, were\nwelcome visitors, and the _salon_ became so popular that even a sprig of\nnobility\u2014the condescension duly acknowledged\u2014might now and then be found\nthere. It is curious to see what a hard and fast line Vienna drew (and,\nto a certain extent, still draws) between the upper middle-class and the\naristocracy\u2014a line as deferentially recognized on the one side as it was\nhaughtily imposed on the other. We know how to this day, in an Austrian\nballroom, \u201cdie kleinen Komtessen\u201d look with supercilious eyes upon any\nwould-be partner who may be introduced to them unless his quarterings are\nfully satisfactory. The favour in which Frau von Greiner was held in high\nquarters had no doubt some effect in bridging over the gulf which was\nfixed between the noblesse and the bourgeoisie.\n\nBut I have been straying far away from the goal which I set before me.\nIt would be fascinating to follow Frau Pichler\u2019s story, for it is the\nstory of a woman who lived through stirring times, who was present during\nthe three attacks upon Vienna, who tells us the one story of courteous\nchivalry of the young Napoleon; who heard Haydn, Weber, Mozart, Beethoven\nplay their own compositions, and, living on till near the middle of\nthe last century, could compare their execution with that of Liszt and\nThalberg. She knew and rather disliked Madame de Sta\u00ebl, despising her\nfor tricking out the charms of a woman \u201cfair, fat and forty\u201d in a too\nyouthful attire; but was charmed by the music of a speaking voice, her\ndescription of which reminds us of Sarah Bernhardt. She corresponded at\nleast once with Goethe, and was snubbed by the Humboldts, which rankled\nnot a little. But all this is beside the mark. I am only concerned to\nshow how to the end the lives of the two great Queen-Empresses followed\nsimilar lines.\n\nLife is like a drawing in black and white, in which, of necessity,\nthe black predominates. The stronger the drawing, the darker are the\nshadows; as in an etching by Rembrandt\u2014the more powerful the life, the\nmore violent the contrasts. The high lights were high indeed in the\nearly days of the two august ladies; the deep gloom of the long night of\nwidowhood, which in each case followed some twenty years of ideal home\nsunshine, must have weighed all the more heavily for the glory of the\nmornings which had ushered in their young days; for true it is that \u201cthe\nsorrow\u2019s crown of sorrow is the remembering happier things!\u201d In facing\nthe inevitable, women sometimes show higher courage than men. Nothing\ncould be more brave than the way in which these two Queens bowed to the\ndecrees of fate. The world\u2019s work must be done, though hearts be broken\nand the joy of life extinguished. They felt that they had duties to their\npeople, and they braced themselves to harness. The death of the Prince\nConsort was really a far heavier blow to the Queen than that of the\nEmperor Francis was to Marie Theresia\u2014or, rather, perhaps I should say a\nmore searching blow, with much further-reaching consequences. The Queen\nlost not only a tenderly worshipped husband and lover, but a mainstay\nupon which she leant, an adviser in all matters of State, a guiding hand\nin trouble. Marie Theresia lost a husband whom, little as he deserved\nit, she loved with all her soul; a man who was all in all to her in her\nhome life, but who in her public life was a mere cypher, playing no part\nin her queendom. It was, therefore, a braver act of devotion for our\ngreat lady in that loneliest of all solitudes, the solitude of a widowed\nqueen, immediately to take up the threads of her complicated statecraft\nwithout the assistance of her loving helper, than it was for the Empress\nto remain as pilot, bereaved indeed, but no more unaided than she had\nalways been. Both laid aside their personal and poignant grief to devote\nthemselves to their work. What remained to them of life\u2014a cruel length\nof years: in the one case fifteen, in the other forty\u2014was given without\nreserve to the promotion of the welfare of the fatherland. Duty was to\nthem the supreme call, a voice that only became silent in death. Both are\nheld in grateful and undying memory, for surely no women ever went to\ntheir rest with cleaner consciences or with better claim to be hailed as\ngood and faithful servants.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WALLACE COLLECTION\n\n\nOne day, as I was talking to a friend in my garden of memory, he, looking\nround at the fine bronzes by which we were surrounded, remarked what a\npity it was that Oriental art should be so poorly represented in the\nWallace Collection; and how much it was to be regretted that no specimens\nof the work of the great Eastern metal-workers and famous potters were\nto be found at Hertford House. As a matter of fact, cheek by jowl with\nthe glories of the English, French, Spanish and Dutch art, there are\nonly some half-dozen very poor specimens of Chinese cloisonn\u00e9 enamel,\npractically no pottery, none of the grand old Chinese bronzes, and not\na single example of the work of such masters as the Japanese Miyochin,\nSeimin, To-un, and others, men as famous in their way as Benvenuto\nCellini. It is curious that three men so catholic in their tastes as the\ntwo Lords Hertford and Sir Richard Wallace should have paid no attention\nto the art of the Far East.\n\nFrom the collections we naturally passed to discussing the men, and\nmy friend began asking me many questions about the great legacy, of\nwhich I am a trustee, eager to gather something of the truth out of the\nnetwork of fable and falsehood by which it is surrounded. Here is what\nI told him. There is, of necessity, some guesswork, but guesswork not\nunsupported by a reasonable foundation of fact and probability. The\nstrange jumble of truth and lies is but one more proof of the danger of\nthrowing over all those conventionalities which are but so much ballast\nto keep straight the family ship. There are plenty of wreckers in the\nworld, and they are never slack in their dirty work; but, above all, they\nlove breaking up the big ships.\n\nWhen the \u2019seventies were still young, I, being at the time still in\nthe Diplomatic Service, but \u201cEn disponibilit\u00e9,\u201d became a director of a\nforeign railway company, the business of which often took me to Paris,\nwhere our head offices were. One day, on the return journey to London\u2014in\n1872\u2014I first met Sir Richard Wallace on board the steamer from Calais.\nThe Duke of Sutherland, with whom I was travelling, knew him, and so we\nbecame acquainted\u2014I little thinking that one day I should be brought into\nvery intimate connection with the art treasures which he had inherited\neighteen months earlier. Mr. Scott\u2014afterwards Sir John\u2014then a tall, slim,\nvery pleasing youth, was with him as his secretary and confidential\nfriend. Sir Richard was at that time a strikingly handsome man, about\nfifty-four years of age, with a very attractive expression, greyish hair,\nshaved, like his patron, Lord Hertford, more or less in the fashion set\nby the Emperor of the French. We had a good deal of talk, and, later,\nI got to know him pretty well. When he was Member for Lisburn, he was\nappointed to the Committee of the House of Commons which sat under Mr.\nBaillie Cochrane, afterwards Lord Lamington, to consider the question\nof new buildings to be erected for the accommodation of the various\nGovernment departments. He used often to come and see me at the Office of\nWorks, in order to study the different plans, and very warmly took up a\nscheme which I put forward, and which, if it had been adopted, would have\nsaved the country a huge sum of money.\n\nUnfortunately, Sir Stafford Northcote, who was Chancellor of the\nExchequer, was afraid of submitting the first expense to the House\nof Commons. He never realized how complete was the trust which the\nHouse placed in him, and so my proposals fell through, to the great\ndisappointment of Sir Richard Wallace, and to the vastly increased cost\nwhich the country has ultimately had to pay. There has seldom been a more\nflagrant case of penny wisdom and pound folly. The value of the land went\nup by leaps and bounds, and the patient tax-payer has suffered, as usual,\nwithout a murmur.\n\nMy proposal, briefly stated, was to build a chain of Public Offices\nbetween Trafalgar Square and Parliament Square, purchasing such land as\ndid not already belong to the State. Drummond\u2019s Bank was then pulled\ndown, and Messrs. George and Edgar Drummond, as a favour to myself, very\npatriotically delayed rebuilding for six months, in order to give the\nGovernment time to consider the question. The Public Offices were at that\ntime housed in a very haphazard manner, and it was evident that some\ncomprehensive scheme must be initiated. My plan was generally approved,\nbut it was not adopted owing to the costly timidity of Ministers.\n\nWho and what was Sir Richard Wallace? That is a question which excited\ngreat interest forty-five years ago, an interest which has not altogether\ndied out even now. That he was the private secretary and _\u00e2me damn\u00e9e_ of\nLord Hertford everybody knew.\n\nHow he came to occupy that position, and what led his patron to alienate\nfrom his family in Sir Richard\u2019s favour so much of his great fortune as\nwas in his power, together with the whole of the art treasures which he\nand his father and grandfather had collected during three-quarters of a\ncentury, at a time when beautiful things were to be had for what would\nnow be considered an old song\u2014that was a mystery to which no one had a\nclue, and which only now can be solved with absolute accuracy. Much that\nhas been suggested is undoubtedly false, based upon conjecture without\nany knowledge of such facts as have been brought to light.\n\n[Illustration: RICHARD, MARQUIS OF HERTFORD, K.G.\n\n_From a bust in the Wallace Collection._\n\n[_To face p. 158._]\n\nHaving been a trustee of the so-called Wallace Collections since the\ndeath of Lady Wallace in 1897, and having lived in great intimacy with\nSir John Scott, who was her heir and had been so long the fidus Achates\nof Sir Richard, I have come to the conclusion that such evidence as\nexists and was known to Sir John, to Lord Esher and others, entirely\ndisposes of the scandalous story that he was the illegitimate son of Lady\nHertford, and therefore half-brother to Lord Hertford.\n\nThe true story, vouched for by people who were intimately acquainted\nwith the scandals of the first half of the last century, is that Richard\nLord Hertford, when a mere boy, had an intrigue with a Scotch girl of\nlow birth\u2014Agnes Wallace, afterwards Jackson. The result was Sir Richard\nWallace. As the girl was older than himself, Lord Yarmouth, as he then\nwas, had been rather the seduced than the seducer, and soon tired of the\nwhole connection. He was quite willing to pay, but he had no mind to\nstart in life saddled with the dead weight of an uneducated mistress and\na natural son. Lady Hertford, however, got wind of the affair through\nColonel Gurwood, a brother officer and intimate friend of Lord Yarmouth.\nShe took a fancy to the child, who responded with an affection that was\nalmost filial. Lord Hertford, to whom his mother\u2019s slightest wish was\nlaw, took up the boy at her bidding, and educated him until he grew up\nand became entirely indispensable. The lad was well known in Paris as\n\u201cMonsieur Richard,\u201d Lord Hertford\u2019s shadow and agent, his representative\nat auctions and sales of works of art.\n\nThe name Richard seems to me to have some significance in confirmation of\nthe above story. Is it likely that if the child had been Lady Hertford\u2019s,\nshe should have chosen the name of her eldest legitimate and deeply-loved\nson, to bestow it upon an inconvenient accident? To me it seems utterly\nincredible. Moreover, would it not have been far more likely that she\nshould have tried to smuggle away an unnecessary infant of her own than\nthat she should have dragged the child into all the publicity of the home\nabout which there had already been too much slanderous gossip? Again,\nLady Hertford was a woman possessed of great wealth in her own right.\nWhy, if Sir Richard was her son, did she leave the whole of her fortune\nto her second son, Lord Henry Seymour, and a mere trifle to the favourite\nto whom she was so kind a patroness? Obviously she relied upon Lord\nHertford, as his father, to do everything for him. Not only the facts,\nbut even the whole probabilities, are against the preposterous and\nmalicious story that he was her son.\n\nThat the old lady was devotedly attached to Sir Richard and made a great\npet of him, and that he returned her affection with interest, was a\nmatter of common knowledge. I have seen many letters of hers which attest\nthe fact. When she travelled, he made all the arrangements for her, and\ntook entire charge of her comfort, his bed being made outside her door\nwhen they slept at inns in the old posting days. He was her devoted\nslave, her most faithful watch-dog.\n\nUpon his services as secretary, Lord Hertford, as I have said, placed\nentire reliance, but his office was not altogether a bed of roses. The\ngreat man, as a patron, was strict and sometimes severe. Sir Richard,\nwith a taste for speculation on the Bourse, was sometimes in rather\nstrait circumstances, out of which his patron helped him, not without\nreproof, to the tune of a good many thousand pounds. I have seen a\ndocument showing that Lord Hertford in 1854 paid twenty thousand pounds\non this account through Messrs. Rothschild. There is in the Wallace\nCollection a certain engraved crystal tazza of Italian workmanship, a\nvery lovely little gem. Sir Richard, in his poor days, picked it up for\na few francs in an old sort of rag-and-bone shop in a street in the\nneighbourhood of the Temple. Some time afterwards, being rather hard\nup, he took it to Lord Hertford and asked him to buy it. \u201cNo,\u201d was the\nanswer, \u201cI won\u2019t have it. I will not encourage your extravagance; you\nmust learn to be more economical.\u201d\n\nSir Richard sold the tazza to a dealer for two hundred and fifty francs,\nand a year or two later had the luck to buy it back, but he had to pay\nten times the price and more. Often he had hard times enough, as he\nhimself said when he told the story, but when Lord Hertford died in\n1870 his day had come. The fortune which he inherited was in those days\nconsidered colossal. It would look less now compared with the huge riches\nof American plutocrats, but in 1870 these were yet in the making. Two\nvery rich marriages, the second and third marquesses having both married\nheiresses, had, in addition to great landed estates, placed the Hertfords\nin an altogether exceptional position.\n\nThe way in which the third and fourth lords elected to spend their wealth\nhad woven round them a whole tissue of legends, chiefly founded upon\nmere vulgar gossip. Virtuous and highly-respectable London delighted\nin crowning them with a halo of ill-fame, and when Lord Yarmouth,\nafterwards fourth Marquess, bought Bagatelle, it was declared to be the\nscene of orgies compared with which the mysteries of the Bona Dea were\nas innocent as nursery teas. Many of the stories were started by the\nrather second-class, or even demirep, English Society which was gathered\ntogether at Paris, jealous at being kept out from the intimacy of a very\nexclusive man.\n\nThese stories when repeated, we may be sure, lost nothing in the telling,\nand so Bagatelle came to be looked upon as a sort of Parc aux Cerfs,\nwhile Bishop Luscombe\u2019s congregation stalked with virtuously uplifted\nnoses along the Rue d\u2019Aguesseau, thanking Heaven that they were not as\nLord Hertford. Such a reputation, even if it were a mere scandalous\nlibel, was hardly such as would commend itself to General Sir Francis\nSeymour, the proud patrician who was to succeed to the title as fifth\nMarquess. Indeed, it must have been gall and wormwood to a man trained as\nhe had been for many years in the solemn dignity of the staid Victorian\nCourt. There could be no sympathy, still less affection, between the\ncousins. But there was more than all this to influence Lord Hertford when\nhe made his will, which left his successor practically nothing but the\nbroad acres of Warwickshire, with a great costly palace to keep up, at\na moment when land was falling in value every day and agriculture was\ndrifting no man could tell whither.\n\nWhatever shape Richard Lord Hertford\u2019s eccentricities may have taken,\nhe had one redeeming virtue. He was a model son, and his love for his\nmother was the great passion of his life. To attack her, to be in any\nway wanting in respect for her, was in his eyes the one crime for which\nthere was no forgiveness, and that was precisely the crime of which Sir\nFrancis Seymour was guilty. It was a pity, to say the least of it, that\nthe unkind things, sure to be repeated, of which he was so prodigal in\nspeaking of Lady Hertford, should ever have been uttered. However much\nhe might disapprove of Lord Hertford\u2019s way of life, it would have been\nwise to remember that a man is not responsible for his grandmother\u2019s\nindiscretions, and the shady parentage of Maria Fagnani might well have\nbeen allowed the benefit of silence. At any rate, it was not the business\nof Sir Francis to trumpet that or any other scandal about her.\n\nHer story was curious. All the actors in the play have long been dead,\nbut it is so intimately connected with the history of the Wallace\nCollection that, while there is no one left to whom its relation could\ngive pain, it still retains a special interest. Anything that can throw\nlight upon the passing of all those treasures into the possession of\nthe nation is worth recording; and it is, moreover, an act of justice\nto clear the memory of a lady who has been somewhat roughly\u2014and, as\nI believe, without foundation\u2014handled in the \u201cDictionary of National\nBiography.\u201d\n\nUnder the blessing of the law, Maria was the daughter of the Marchese\nand Marchesa Fagnani, and the adopted child of George Selwyn. But the\nMarchesa, who was said to have been a ballet-dancer, must have been\nnone too faithful to her husband; for, as a matter of fact, George\nSelwyn was said to dispute with the Duke of Queensberry, the wicked\n\u201cOld Q,\u201d the honour of being her father. As to that there seems to be\nno certain evidence, but one would have thought that such a rivalry, or\npartnership\u2014whichever it might be\u2014would have bred a jealousy between the\ntwo men. Not a bit of it! They remained fast friends, were constantly\ntogether, and, when apart, wrote to one another in the most affectionate\nterms.\n\nAt George Selwyn\u2019s death in 1791 he left thirty-three thousand pounds\nto Maria and the rest of his fortune to \u201cOld Q.\u201d When the Duke, in his\nturn, came to an end of his stormy life, dying in the odour of iniquity\nin 1810, he bequeathed to Maria, who had married Lord Yarmouth in 1798, a\nfortune of between three and four hundred thousand pounds, together with\nthe famous house opposite the Green Park in Piccadilly, in the window\nof which, when he was too old to walk, he used to sit ogling the pretty\nwomen as they passed below him. That window, with its leering old tenant,\nwas one of the sights of London.\n\nThe Marchese Fagnani (Fagniani is a misspelling in all the English books)\nbelonged to an old Milanese family. In the sixteenth century there was a\npoet of the name who gained some literary fame; others of the family were\nwell-known lawyers, arch\u00e6ologists, mathematicians and churchmen in the\nseventeenth century\u2014all men of good repute; and as Maria was undoubtedly\nborn in holy wedlock, the _m\u00e9salliance_ was not so very great.\n\nIn spite of this there must have been some doubt as to the desirability\nof alliance with the Fagnanis, for the marriage with Lord Yarmouth was\na hole-and-corner affair, hustled through at Southampton on the 18th\nof May, 1798. Southampton was then quite a small country town, very\ndifferent from what it is now, just the sort of place where a marriage\ncould be celebrated without fuss and in some secrecy. Indeed, when I\nremember it fifty years later it was still in its infancy and very\nprimitive, with at least one delightful old house standing in its own\ngrounds in the High Street above Bar. Altogether it was not the sort of\nwedding that certainly would have been arranged for the heir of the proud\nand royal Seymours had the magnates of the family not disapproved of the\nmatch. The French writers in newspapers, who made great capital out of\nthe whole romance at the time of Lord Hertford\u2019s death in 1870, went out\nof their way to associate the Prince Regent with the Fagnani mystery.\nThey hinted that the prince also claimed the paternity of Maria, and that\nhe even attended the marriage. But that is an utter absurdity, for which\nthere was no foundation. Immediately after the marriage Lord and Lady\nYarmouth made their home in Piccadilly, next door to \u201cOld Q,\u201d who did not\ndie till twelve years later.\n\nIt is pretty clear that the marriage with Maria did not lower Lord\nYarmouth\u2019s social position, otherwise Lord Castlereagh would hardly\nhave chosen him as his second in his famous duel with Mr. Canning, for\nwhom Mr. Charles Ellis, afterwards Lord Seaford, acted. Both men missed\ntheir first shots; in the second shot Mr. Canning was grazed in the\nleg. A duel between the Minister of War and the Secretary of State for\nForeign Affairs was a matter of too great importance to be entrusted\nto a gentleman who was under a cloud. After Lord Yarmouth succeeded to\nthe Marquisate in 1822, he received the Garter himself, and was sent by\nGeorge the Fourth as special ambassador to carry the same order to the\nEmperor Nicholas in 1827.\n\nAt the time of her marriage the bride was no longer in her first youth;\nshe was at least twenty-seven years old. For the correspondence between\nGeorge Selwyn and the Duke of Queensberry shows that in 1772 she was\nalready teething, and under the care of the former at Paris as his\nadopted child; and he was fretting himself into bad health lest the\nmother should take the little creature\u2014Mie Mie, as she was called\u2014away\nfrom him. The Duke, then Lord March, while abounding in good advice\nto his friend, promised his good offices, saying at the time that the\nMarchesa was sure to act in opposition to his (the Duke\u2019s) wishes and\nadvice. The child was taken away by her mother for a time, but ultimately\nand permanently given back to her adoring guardian or father. From that\ntime forth the noble Italian lady seems to have troubled herself about\nher baby no more.\n\nAs I have already said, there is no certainty as to Maria\u2019s parentage;\nindeed, the published letters leave the whole story in a state of\nconfusion which is perfect. Robinson, in his Life of \u201cOld Q\u201d (page 143),\nsays:\n\n\u201cJesse, who was privileged to go over Selwyn\u2019s correspondence, though\nrefusing as a false affectation of delicacy to pass over in complete\nsilence the mysterious reports respecting the true parentage of Selwyn\u2019s\ninfantine charge, asserts that although references occur in the most\nprivate papers of Selwyn which unquestionably lead to the supposition\nthat either Lord March (Old Q) or Selwyn was, or, rather, that each\nseverally believed himself to be, the father of the child, yet no certain\nproofs exist. Further, a letter addressed by Madame Fagnani to Selwyn,\nJuly 31st, 1772 (of which Jesse gives a translation), does not express\nany but the most polite feelings of friendship for the guardian of\nher child. Lest I may be misrepresented in alluding to a matter that a\nfaithful record of established facts incident to my subject warrants,\nMadame Fagnani\u2019s letter is inserted in justice to all concerned:\n\n    \u201c\u2018MY VERY DEAR AND RESPECTABLE FRIEND,\n\n    \u201c\u2018I cannot find terms sufficiently expressive to thank you for\n    all your kindness, and more particularly for the pains you\n    take in regard to my daughter. I can assure you that nothing\n    is more sensibly felt by me than the proofs of friendship\n    which I have received from you on this occasion. The more I\n    know the world, the more I perceive the difficulty of finding\n    a person who resembles you, and I consider myself the happiest\n    of mortals solely from the happiness I have had in forming your\n    acquaintance and obtaining your friendship.\n\n    \u201c\u2018I am enchanted in learning that my daughter is in good\n    health, though I fear she will suffer much in cutting her\n    teeth. I venture to beg of you to continue to give me tidings\n    of her, as without your kindness in writing to me from time to\n    time, I should have been ignorant for the last three months\n    of the fate of _ma petite_. My lord,[14] on his part, is a\n    little indolent, but I forgive him this little fault on account\n    of the many good qualities of his heart which he has to\n    counterbalance it.\n\n    \u201c\u2018I hope that your health is good. Pray present my compliments\n    to Lord March, and tell him that I expect to hear from him.\n    Preserve your friendship for me, and do not forget the most\n    grateful and affectionate of all your friends, who makes it her\n    duty and pleasure to be,\n\n               \u201c\u2018Your very sincere servant and friend,\n\n                                               \u201c\u2018COSTANZA FAGNANI.\u2019\u201d\n\nSurely that is a letter which must have been written without any idea\nthat it would ever be published, and it certainly gives no sunlight to\nclear away the clouds of the story. To add to the mystery of Maria\u2019s\nparentage, Roscoe, in his book on Selwyn, publishes two letters, one from\nDr. Warner, the witty Chaplain to the British Embassy in Paris in 1780,\nwhen she was nine years old, in which, writing to Selwyn, he makes no\ndisguise of his belief in the paternity of the Duke. The letter is also\ninteresting as giving some slight idea of the impression which the child\ncreated:\n\n    \u201cThat freshness of complexion I should have great pleasure\n    in beholding. It must add to her charms, and cannot diminish\n    the character, sense and shrewdness which distinguish her\n    physiognomy, and which she possesses in a great degree, with a\n    happy engrafting of a high-bred foreign air upon an English\n    stock. But how very pleasant to me was your honest and na\u00efve\n    confession of the joy your heart felt at hearing her admired.\n    It is, indeed, most extraordinary that a certain person who has\n    great taste (would he had as much nature)[15] should not see\n    her with very different eyes from what he does. I can never\n    forget that na\u00efve expression of Madame de S\u00e9vign\u00e9: \u2018Je ne sais\n    comment l\u2019on fait de ne pas aimer sa fille.\u2019\u201d\n\nThe other letter to which I allude is one from George Selwyn to Lord\nCarlisle, written at a time when complaining that he was \u201cle jouet des\nautres,\u201d and was being annoyed beyond all bearing by the way in which\nMadame Fagnani behaved to him about Maria, threatening to take her away\nfrom him altogether. In that letter he writes: \u201cH\u00e9las! rende mi figlia\nmis!\u201d That may have meant no more than that the child was very dear to\nhim, and need not necessarily imply that he believed himself to be her\nfather. That he did so believe, however, is pretty certain. He educated\nher, placed her at school with Mrs. Terry at Campden House in Kensington,\nthen a beautiful old house almost in the country, and having finally\nsucceeded in getting rid of the mother\u2019s importunities, kept her with\nhim until his death in 1791, introducing her into the best society.\nGainsborough painted her portrait, as did Sir Joshua Reynolds, but the\npictures no longer exist, or, at any rate, are lost.\n\nOf the legal father, the Marquis Fagnani, we hear very little. The only\nnotice I have found of him is in a letter from Selwyn to Lord Carlisle\ndated June 19th, 1781:\n\n    \u201cBelgiojoso told me last night that he had had letters from\n    Milan, by which he was informed that the M. [Marquis] Fagnani\n    was gone quite mad. He has been stone blind for a considerable\n    time, and I take it for granted that both these misfortunes are\n    come from the same cause\u2014that is, mercury. His experiments to\n    ease the one probably occasioned the other. I never hear one\n    syllable from any of the family. I hope in God that I never\n    shall, nor poor Mie Mie either. It grows every day less likely,\n    and yet when I am out of spirits, that dragon, among others,\n    comes across me and distresses me, and the thought of what must\n    happen to that child if I am not alive to protect her.\u201d\n\nGeorge Selwyn was no further molested in the possession of the child.\nHe lived for ten years after that letter was written, and by that time\nMaria had grown to woman\u2019s estate. She was twenty years of age, and had,\nunder George Selwyn\u2019s will, a snug little fortune of her own, besides\nexpectations, amply to be realized, of further benefits from the Duke of\nQueensberry. He doubtless took paternal care of the young lady who was to\ninherit all that he could alienate from the Douglas family. She became\none of the greatest heiresses, if not the greatest, of her day.\n\nIn her youth Maria Fagnani must have been a very fascinating girl.\nTo George Selwyn, as we have seen, she was as the apple of his eye.\nHe simply adored her. If she had a cold in the head, or an infantile\nailment, however trivial, it was torture to him, provoking sympathy from\nhis correspondents, who themselves seemed to be quite under the spell of\nthe delightful child; and as he apparently never destroyed a note, there\nare plenty of these condolences in the budget of letters published by\nJesse. To have won the heart of Thackeray\u2019s Marquess of Steyne, if that\nfastidious personage ever possessed such an organ, was another feather\nin her cap, and in her old age we know how tenderly her son and Richard\nWallace both loved her.\n\nIn 1803 Lord and Lady Yarmouth were detained in France\u2014he interned at\nVerdun\u2014when war was again declared after the rupture of the Peace of\nAmiens, and their second son, Lord Henry Seymour, was born in Paris in\n1805. Scandal declared that he was the son of Junot, Duc d\u2019Abrant\u00e8s, with\nwhom Lady Yarmouth was very intimate. There is a note in Roscoe, page 8,\nwhich says: \u201cShe led a life of pleasure (1802-1807), travelling on the\nContinent with the Marshal Andoche.\u201d That was Junot\u2019s Christian name\u2014but\nthat he never was a marshal was his great grievance against Napoleon.\n\nThis Lord Henry is not to be confounded, as is commonly done, with the\nLord Henry Seymour, son of the first Marquess, who lived at Norris\nCastle, near Cowes, and spent a fortune in building the famous sea-wall.\nThe Lord Henry with whom we have to deal was a very eccentric personage.\nUnlike his brother, Richard Lord Hertford, who was a handsome man, and in\nhis youth a dandy of the 10th Hussars, Lord Henry was singularly ugly,\neven grotesque. There was in the Rue Lafitte a sketch or caricature of\nhim, which I have seen, in which he was represented as a sort of Quilp,\nstunted, misshapen, and of prodigious strength. He was a hero of the\nvarious Salles d\u2019Armes, a famous fencer and athlete, and the founder, or,\nat any rate, one of the founders, of the French Jockey Club. A kindly man\nwithal, for by his will, in which his horses appeared as legatees\u2014never\nto be crossed again\u2014he left the bulk of his fortune to the hospitals of\nParis. He died in 1859, three years after the loss of his mother. It\nused to be said that he never even set foot in England, but that was\nprobably only one of the many fables set afloat about the two brothers.\nSo curious a quartet as the mother, the two sons, and the enigma that\nwas M. Richard, afterwards Sir Richard Wallace, furnished fine food for\neavesdroppers and gossip-mongers.\n\nFor twenty-eight years after the death of his father in 1842, Richard\nLord Hertford lived practically altogether in Paris, passing his time\nbetween the Rue Lafitte and Bagatelle, the little toy house on the\noutskirts of the Bois de Boulogne, which in 1780 was built by Bellanger\nin a few weeks at the order of the Comte d\u2019Artois (Charles the Tenth),\nfor a bet, in order to entertain Queen Marie Antoinette on a fixed day.\nThe repetition in one of the rooms of the decoration of peacocks with\nspread tails in the boudoir of the Queen at Versailles was probably a\ndelicate compliment\u2014a little surprise\u2014addressed to her on her visit. When\nI first saw it some fifteen years ago, although the house was empty and\nthe famous statues had been removed and sold, it was still instinct with\na certain eighteenth-century charm. The daintily laid-out grounds were\nstill beautifully kept, and I should hardly have been surprised had I\nsuddenly come upon one of Fragonard\u2019s idylls, with shepherdesses powdered\nand hooped, and gentle shepherds to match, appropriately dressed in\nspotless pink and blue silk.\n\nIn that house, as in those idylls, there are tears when we remember how\nsoon so many of those pretty, frivolous, powdered heads were to fall\ninto the basket of Monsieur de Paris. Although the famous \u201cNelly O\u2019Brien\u201d\nof Sir Joshua, and perhaps Romney\u2019s \u201cPerdita,\u201d were bought by the second\nMarquess, the foundation of the collection of art treasures which, since\nthe militant ladies three or four years ago took to fighting pictures in\nthe National Gallery, have been stored away in the cellars of Hertford\nHouse, was laid by Francis, third Lord Hertford, who bought the glorious\n\u201cPerseus and Andromeda\u201d by Titian, which the keen eyes of Sir Claude\nPhillips rescued from a bath-room, where it had been stored away and\nforgotten, a number of the Dutch pictures and two of the Vandycks. But by\nfar the greater part of it was acquired by his son Richard, the fourth\nMarquess.\n\nVery important additions, especially in the armoury, were made by Sir\nRichard Wallace, who was himself a born collector, and had acquired\nno little experience, both on his own account, and as Lord Hertford\u2019s\nrepresentative at the great auction sales of Paris. His taste in Oriental\nart was distinctly bad. He bought a few very inferior specimens of\nChinese cloisonn\u00e9 enamel, and two porcelain bowls of the Chia Ching\nreign, 1796-1821, a period when the art of China reached almost its\nlowest level, with very inferior mounts by some English bungler. Of these\nhe was inordinately proud. There are two or three very fine c\u00e9ladon\nvases, with exquisitely chiselled French mounts, in one of the glass\ncases, but there is no evidence as to who bought them.\n\nThe reason of the fourth Lord Hertford\u2019s self-condemned exile in Paris,\nwhen he owned five palatial houses in London, besides Ragley, Sudbourne\nand other places, is not easy to ascertain. There was a story, firmly\nbelieved in my youth, and confirmed by Sir Richard Wallace to Sir John\nScott, that his father tried to force him into a cruel marriage with\nthe daughter of one of his mistresses, with whom he conspired to make\nit appear that Lord Yarmouth, as he then was, had compromised the girl.\nThe young man deeply resented this outrage, and took refuge in Paris,\nwhere his mother was living. Certainly he had established himself there\nduring his father\u2019s lifetime, for it was as Lord Yarmouth that he bought\nBagatelle in 1830, and he did not succeed to the marquisate until twelve\nyears later.\n\nYriarte\u2019s story that he left London on account of a quarrel with the\nparish over the rates of his house in Piccadilly, is hardly to be\naccepted. It is far more likely that he left England in order to free\nhimself from his father, for whom he had no love or respect, and made\nParis his home that he might be with his mother, whom he adored. She,\nwith Lord Henry Seymour and Monsieur Richard, lived at No. 1, Rue\nTaitbout, Lord Hertford\u2019s head-quarters being hard by at No. 2, Rue\nLafitte. There he lived the life of an invalid and sybarite, hardly to be\ncalled happy in spite of his great possessions\u2014a recluse, the darkness\nof whose hypochondria was only cheered by his correspondence with Mr. S.\nMawson, who was his agent in London for the purchase, restoration and\ncare of pictures, or by some brilliant triumph at Christie\u2019s or in the\nParis auction-rooms.\n\nFew people saw him, and still fewer knew him. And yet he had all the\nqualifications which would have enabled him to shine among his fellows.\nYriarte said of him: \u201cCauseur c\u00e9l\u00e8bre, tr\u00e8s spirituel, tr\u00e8s lettr\u00e9,\nd\u2019une politesse accomplie, d\u2019un raffinement rare, ses go\u00fbts personnels\nl\u2019\u00e9loignaient cependant de la soci\u00e9t\u00e9, et il a v\u00e9cu toute sa vie dans un\nmilieu inf\u00e9rieur. Il y apportait m\u00eame avec ses intimes une mani\u00e8re d\u2019\u00eatre\ndissimul\u00e9e, peu conforme avec le cant anglais, et il affichait une sorte\nde cynisme que les deux ou trois amis intimes qu\u2019il a conserv\u00e9s jusqu\u2019\u00e0\nsa mort regardaient comme son masque d\u2019emprunt.\u201d His wit, if sometimes\na little cynical, or even a little risky, was undeniable, and what are\ncalled \u201cgood stories\u201d of him were the joy of clubs.\n\nThat he suffered acutely there can be no doubt, for Sir Richard Wallace\nonce told me that he went with him to Contrex\u00e9ville\u2014we know what that\nmeans\u2014which fifty years ago was a very different place from what it is\nnow, and where all the sordid details of life at that time must have been\ntorture to a man of his exquisite refinement. With public life he had no\nconcern. As a young man he was for a few years in the House of Commons,\nand on succeeding to the title, he delivered a maiden speech in the House\nof Lords, and that was all. His one and only participation in affairs was\nin 1855, when he consented to act as one of the jury at the Exhibition of\nParis.\n\nUpon this subject he wrote a characteristic letter to Mawson:\n\n    \u201cOnly think of my being at the Champs-Elys\u00e9es every morning\n    at nine o\u2019clock. Hard work for an old fellow who has very\n    different habits. I am obliged to get up every morning between\n    six and seven o\u2019clock to be at the exhibition in proper time to\n    preside over a group composed of four classes. I remain there\n    almost all day doing my work, and as I am not accustomed to\n    this sudden activity, I am very tired, and, in consequence,\n    neglect my own affairs.\u201d\n\nIt was, of course, his intimacy with Louis Napol\u00e9on which caused him\nto accept such a violent break in his habits, but he owed the Emperor\nsome gratitude, for it was by his friendly help that he was enabled to\nadd to the grounds of Bagatelle, and again to employ Dasson to copy\nthe famous bureau in the Louvre. Apropos to Bagatelle, Mr. MacColl, in\nhis introduction to the catalogue of pictures at Hertford House, to\nwhich I owe great obligation, has a good story. It is said \u201cthat two\nacquaintances asked leave to fight a duel in the grounds. The Marquess\npolitely replied that he had not the slightest objection to their\nshooting one another, but could not trust their skill so far as to risk\nhis statues.\u201d Perhaps most people would have endorsed his view of the\ncomparative value of masterpieces by Pigalle, Lemoyne and Houdon, and\nthe lives or limbs of the would-be Bobadils. Hardly could they be worth\nHoudon\u2019s famous \u201cBaigneuse.\u201d\n\nLord Hertford\u2019s letters to Mawson, which were sold to the trustees by Mr.\nMawson\u2019s daughter, show how keenly he watched the great sales both in\nLondon and Paris. The English sales he, of course, very rarely attended,\nand when he did so, it was Mawson who did the bidding, guided by a code\nof signals given by motions of Lord Hertford\u2019s hat. Nor was he personally\nmore active if he was present at a French sale; he seems to have carried\nhis dislike of all publicity into every phase of life, and to have\nconducted all his business by agents.\n\nThe correspondence with Mawson, of which many extracts are given by Mr.\nMacColl in his catalogue of the pictures, is interesting, not only\nas showing Lord Hertford\u2019s great personal interest in art and the\nextraordinary difference in prices between now and then, but also as\nrevealing at least one charming side in a character which, owing to its\neccentricity, was, I honestly believe, cruelly maligned. No mere selfish\nvoluptuary, such as Lord Hertford was described by the evil tongues of\nthose who did not know him, could have inspired the affection which was\nfelt for him by those who did. Sir Richard Wallace more than once spoke\nto me of him in terms of the strongest respect and affection, and, on\nthe other hand, his gratitude to Sir Richard is expressed with pathetic\nfeeling in the codicil to his will of June 7th, 1850: \u201cTo reward as\nmuch as I can Richard Wallace for all his care and attention to my dear\nmother, and likewise for his devotedness to me during a long and painful\nillness I had in Paris in 1840, and on all other occasions, I give\nsuch residue to the said Richard Wallace now living at the H\u00f4tel des\nBains, Boulogne-sur-Mer, in France, and whose domicile previous to the\nRevolution of 1848 was in my mother\u2019s house, Rue Taitbout No. 3, formerly\nNo. 1, absolutely.\u201d\n\nThe man who wrote those words had a heart. The letters to Mawson are\noften worded as if he\u2014Mawson\u2014were conferring the most signal favours upon\nhis employer. The most formal commissions of the earlier days of their\nconnection soon grew to be letters of absolute affectionate gratitude.\nLord Hertford had the most complete confidence in the judgment, taste\nand good faith of his agent. Well might he trust him, for Aladdin was\nnot more faithfully served by the slaves of the ring and the lamp. But\nit is only a kindly nature and sweet disposition which is capable of\ndealing with a subordinate without the slightest tinge of patronizing\ncondescension. Two or three examples will suffice to show the nature of\nthe intimacy between the employer and the employed.\n\nThe Duke of Buckingham\u2019s sale at Stowe, in 1848, created an immense\nsensation. I remember it well, for although I was only eleven years old,\nI used to hear much art talk even in those days between my father and his\nfriends. It is the subject of a characteristic letter from Lord Hertford\nto Mawson, quoted by Mr. MacColl, dated September 10th, 1848; it was\nwritten from Boulogne:\n\n    \u201cI intended being at Stowe on the fifteenth, but I find that\n    it is not certain whether I shall be able to attend the sale\n    on that day. I think we must have the \u2018Unmerciful Servant,\u2019 by\n    Rembrandt, and hope the price will not be as unmerciful as the\n    subject; but you know that I place all confidence in you, and\n    depend upon your kindness on this occasion.\n\n    \u201cThe Rembrandt and the Domenichino are my favourites, and I\n    depend upon you for doing the best. Pray have the kindness\n    not to mention to anybody that you buy on my account. I am\n    very anxious my name should not appear. In the event of my\n    being in time for the sale, you would see me there, and my\n    hat would play the same part it has already acted in similar\n    circumstances.\u201d\n\nOn September 24th, Lord Hertford wrote to thank Mr. Mawson for the\ntransaction, adding: \u201cI hope and trust we have not paid our pictures much\ntoo dear. I am very glad you like them, as I have a very high opinion of\nyour judgment.\u201d\n\nThe great Rembrandt was bought for two thousand three hundred pounds.\nWhat would it fetch to-day?\n\nIn July, 1855, the contents of St. Dunstan\u2019s, in the Regent\u2019s Park, were\nsold, and were the subject of the enclosed letters:\n\n                                                \u201cRue Lafitte, Paris.\n                                                \u201cJuly 5th, 1855.\n\n    \u201cThere are a few things I should like to have at the sale of my\n    father\u2019s villa in the Regent\u2019s Park on the 9th inst.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n                                             \u201cParis, July 6th, 1855.\n\n    \u201cIn anticipation that you will have the kindness to attend the\n    sale at the Regent\u2019s Park for me, and having no time to spare,\n    I send you the list of things I wish to have, and that I hope\n    you will have the kindness to buy for me:\n\n                             \u201cPICTURES.\n\n    \u201c118. P. Veronese\u2014Not more than \u00a340 or \u00a350.\n\n    \u201c120. Ruysdael\u2014What you think it is worth and a little more.\n\n    \u201c122. Northcote\u2014\u2018Portrait of George IV. when Prince of Wales.\u2019\n\n    I am anxious to have it.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n                                            \u201cParis, July 20th, 1855.\n\n    \u201cI am extremely obliged to you for having had the kindness to\n    buy my \u2018caprices\u2019 at the Regent\u2019s Park sale. You did it all\n    beautifully and just what I wished. I depend on your usual\n    kindness for having the \u2018Prince of Wales\u2019\u2019 portrait repaired\n    for me. I rather regret the landscape (_i.e._, the Ruysdael),\n    though an indifferent picture, because it was in my room when I\n    was a boy a few years ago. What prices people give now for all\n    these old affairs! It is ridiculous!\u201d\n\nOnly once does Lord Hertford sound a note of disquiet at the price paid\nby his commissioner, and that was for the famous portrait by Velasquez\nof \u201cDon Baltasar Carlos in Infancy,\u201d which fetched \u00a31,680 at the Louis\nPhilippe sale at Christie\u2019s in May, 1853. He writes:\n\n    \u201cAs for the Velasquez, I do not remember it at all, _ainsi je\n    ne puis rien dire_. What frightens me is that it appears never\n    to have struck me at the Louvre, as I do not remember it at\n    all. You gave a _prodigious_ price for it, but as I have great\n    confidence in your taste and judgment, as well as in everything\n    else, I dare say I shall like it, and I long to have a look at\n    it, which I hope soon to be able to do.\u201d\n\nIt was certainly not a bad investment at the _prodigious_ price.\n\nOther letters are full of the most flattering expressions:\n\n                                                  \u201cApril 11th, 1856.\n\n    \u201cI have only a moment to thank you a thousand times for your\n    great kindness in giving me some details of the Sibthorpe sale.\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n                                                  \u201cApril 23rd, 1856.\n\n    \u201cA thousand thanks for your kindness.\u201d\n\nBut these expressions are too numerous to quote; still, I will give one\nmore because it really testifies to something like friendship.\n\nWriting from Paris, December 11th, 1863, Lord Hertford says:\n\n    \u201cI was in hopes that I should have had the pleasure of seeing\n    you in Brussels something like a couple of months ago. There\n    was a goodish portrait by Rubens that I bought. I shall be\n    delighted to show it you some day, and I hope you will like it.\u201d\n\nCertainly Lord Hertford was a great gentleman, one whom it must have been\na pleasure to serve.\n\nIt is easy to imagine the _sava indignatio_ of Lord Hertford if he could\ncome to life again and see \u201cthe prices which people give now for these\nold affairs.\u201d Money could hardly have been better invested than it was\nby himself, his father and his grandfather, when they paid what were\ndeemed wild sums for their works of art. Fancy Sir Joshua\u2019s \u201cNellie\nO\u2019Brien\u201d being bought by the second Marquess for \u00a364 1s. at the Caleb\nWhitefoord sale. Think of the third Marquess buying Vandyck\u2019s \u201cYoung\nItalian Nobleman,\u201d a glorious portrait of the Genoese period, for \u00a3409\n10s. In the second half of the nineteenth century prices went up madly,\nbut, even so, Lord Hertford, when he gave \u00a31,795 10s. for \u201cMrs. Carnac,\u201d\nwas purchasing gold for silver. Why, the first state of the mezzotint\nengraving of that picture by J. R. Smith was sold a few years ago, if I\nremember aright, for eleven hundred guineas. For the \u201cStrawberry Girl\u201d\nthe price paid at the Rogers sale was \u00a32,205. \u201cNo man,\u201d said Sir Joshua,\n\u201ccould ever produce more than half a dozen original works, and that is\none of mine.\u201d\n\nLord Hertford was delighted with the acquisition. He wrote to Mawson:\n\n    \u201cYou have done admirably, and I return you most sincere thanks\n    for your kindness. The \u2018Strawberry,\u2019 is dear. I should be sorry\n    to have a large basket at _that_ price; but it seems it is\n    beautiful, and in this affair, as in others, I have completely\n    followed your good advice, and you have added to my collection\n    pictures I have never seen, which shows, more than words can\n    express, the great and friendly confidence I have in you. I am\n    sure I shall be delighted with what you have acquired. I am\n    very sorry your honourable name was not coupled with our \u2018Girl\u2019\n    when she was knocked down. It is not fair that you should not\n    enjoy the little glory of having secured in a gallant manner\n    the gem of this interesting sale, so you are at full liberty to\n    use my name with yours respecting this painting. Was it not an\n    immense price? I don\u2019t regret it at all; on the contrary, I am\n    delighted to have so fine a Sir Joshua, as I am extremely fond\n    of them, and they cannot always be had when wanted.\u201d\n\nAnother notable picture bought at the Rogers sale was the \u201cDon Baltasar\nCarlos in the Riding School,\u201d by Velasquez, for which Mawson paid \u00a31,210\n1s. A wonderful bargain at the Stowe sale was Murillo\u2019s \u201cAssumption of\nthe Virgin,\u201d knocked down for \u00a358 16s.\n\nI have no space to go into details, but we can form some idea of the\nvalue of these purchases when we see that Lord Hertford bought five of\nthe very finest Sir Joshuas for \u00a37,974 5s. The six finest Rembrandts\ncost him \u00a35,453 15s.; five of the best Watteaus, \u00a32,037. What superb\ninvestments\u2014to speak of no others!\n\nIt is something of an anti-climax to find Lord Hertford giving \u00a34,000,\nand Sir Richard Wallace \u00a32,400, for works by Ary Scheffer. Well might\nLord Hertford write to Mawson in 1853: \u201cYou know, fancy has a great deal\nto do with pictures as with anything else.\u201d \u00a31,680\u2014a \u201c_prodigious_ price\u201d\nfor a Velasquez! \u00a34,000\u2014given without hesitation for a picture by that\nmost namby-pamby of artists, Ary Scheffer!\n\nThe desire to surround himself with beautiful works of art was one of\nthe crimes laid to the charge of Lord Hertford. He was extravagant, he\nwas selfish. As to the first of these accusations, the prices which he\npaid were surely no more than what was permissible to a man with an\nincome of nearly a quarter of a million sterling; and, as I have shown,\nfrom the mere investor\u2019s point of view the money was well laid out. As\nfor the cry of selfishness, what could be more natural than that a man\nendowed with the most refined taste and judgment, debarred by health no\nless than by inclination, from the more active relaxations in which rich\nmen find pleasure\u2014the turf, sport of all kinds, hunting, and, of late\nyears certainly, shooting, should be captivated by the excitement of the\nauction-rooms. It was in them that he found the pleasures of the chase.\nHe was deprived of much, and it were scurvy treatment to reproach him for\nwhat harmed no living being at the time, but has ended by giving joy to\nmillions of his countrymen. The amusement with which he solaced long days\nand years of physical pain, aching under a complaint which notoriously\naffects the spirits perhaps more than any other, has borne fruit for\nwhich we should be grateful, even though it be only indirectly that we\nowe it to him. He might fairly have written in his will like Bacon:\n\u201cFor my name and memory, I leave it to men\u2019s charitable speeches and to\nforeign nations, and to the next age.\u201d We are \u201cthe next age\u201d; it behoves\nus to be not only just but generous. To our shame we have been neither.\n\nThere can be very few men now alive who knew Richard Lord Hertford\npersonally. From Lord Esher, who as a youth did know him, I have a\nletter, which he very kindly allows me to quote, giving more than one of\nthose little intimate touches which lend a spice to narration. But it\ndoes more than that. It furnishes direct evidence of the truth of what I\nhave written about the calumnies by which Lord Hertford\u2019s character was\npoisoned by people for whom his chief crime was that he did not choose to\nknow them. Is it likely, is it even possible, that two ladies in a high\nposition like Lord Esher\u2019s grandmother and mother should have visited\nhim in the Rue Lafitte and in the much-talked-of Bagatelle had those\nvile slanders been true? The story of Sir Richard Wallace\u2019s birth and\nupbringing is conclusive.\n\nLet the letter speak for itself.\n\n                                             \u201cRoman Camp, Callander.\n                                             \u201cMarch 17th, 1916.\n\n    \u201cMY DEAR REDESDALE,\n\n    \u201cI remember being taken, by my grandmother, to tea with Richard\n    Marquis of Hertford. He lived at the corner of the Rue Lafitte,\n    and his fine rooms were crowded with objets d\u2019art\u2014although not\n    smothered in _clocks_, as they afterwards became when Wallace\n    and Scott occupied them. Everything was most sumptuous, but I\n    recollect perfectly that when the tea was brought in by a very\n    solemn major-domo, whose long grey whiskers I can see to this\n    day, Lord Hertford went to a beautiful Louis XVI. secr\u00e9taire,\n    which he unlocked, and brought out the sugar-basin, which he\n    carefully put away again after tea. (Lord Hertford was a very\n    handsome man, but frail and delicate.) Not long afterwards my\n    mother and I were invited to spend an afternoon at Bagatelle,\n    where Richard Wallace entertained us, as Lord Hertford was\n    engaged\u2014so he sent word\u2014in Paris. The gardens were beautiful\u2014as\n    they still are\u2014but the house was not so full as the Rue Lafitte.\n\n    \u201cMy grandfather, Colonel Gurwood, who had served through the\n    Peninsular War in the Light Division, was given a captaincy\n    in the 10th Hussars in 1814, and Richard Seymour joined the\n    regiment when he was seventeen years old and ten years\u2019 junior\n    to my grandfather, who became much attached to him. This\n    friendship lasted through life.\n\n    \u201cI possess three volumes of bound letters to Colonel Gurwood\n    from Lord Yarmouth, by which name Lord Hertford was know from\n    1822 to 1842, when he succeeded his father, Francis, the third\n    Marquess of Steyne of \u2018Vanity Fair.\u2019\n\n    \u201cThese letters are interesting, as they contain many references\n    to the collection of bric-\u00e0-brac which Lord Yarmouth and\n    Wallace, his secretary, had already commenced to form. Many\n    fine things which belonged to my grandfather, and are now the\n    property of my sister, were purchased by Lord Yarmouth and\n    Wallace or by their advice. In return, my grandfather always\n    bought for Lord Yarmouth his riding and driving horses. He used\n    to send them to Paris, where Lord Yarmouth lived with his\n    mother, Lady Hertford, Maria Fagnani.\n\n    \u201cMany times have I heard my grandmother and my mother tell\n    the story of Sir Richard Wallace\u2019s adoption by Lord Hertford.\n    Wallace was the son of Lord Yarmouth by a girl, Agnes Jackson\n    by name, who was a kind of _fille du r\u00e9giment_ of the 10th\n    Hussars, and young Seymour made a home for her in Paris while\n    the liaison lasted. There Wallace was born, and when Seymour\n    parted from his mistress, the child was placed with a concierge\n    in the Rue de Clichy, where he ran wild under a _porte coch\u00e8re_\n    until he was about six years old.\n\n    \u201cMy grandfather, who had known Agnes Jackson and all about her\n    short-lived liaison with Lord Yarmouth, hunted up the boy, and\n    finding he was a smart child, showed him to Lady Hertford,\n    Maria Fagnani, and induced her to bring him up, much against\n    the inclination of her son.\n\n    \u201cThere is, and never was, the slightest foundation for the\n    absurd legend that Maria Fagnani was Sir Richard Wallace\u2019s\n    mother, although the writer in the \u2018Dictionary of National\n    Biography,\u2019 who cannot possibly know anything of the facts,\n    adopts it.\n\n    \u201cOne of the reasons sometimes given for assuming that Lord\n    Hertford could not be Wallace\u2019s father was that there was not\n    more than eighteen or nineteen years between their ages. On\n    the other hand, it was overlooked that Maria Fagnani was very\n    nearly, if not quite, fifty years of age when Wallace was born.\n    Anyway, I have no doubt whatever that the facts are as I have\n    stated them.\n\n    \u201cThey were corroborated, as far as I am concerned, by the\n    evidence of Madame O\u2014\u2014 de B\u2014\u2014, a lady who for forty years lived\n    on the _deuxi\u00e8me \u00e9tage_ of the Rue Lafitte and in a beautiful\n    villa, called St. James, close to Bagatelle.\n\n    \u201cShe was a lady of irreproachable life, and virtue as stern as\n    that of Madame de Maintenon, whom she resembled in many ways.\n    I inherited some of the gifts which she had received from Lord\n    Hertford; among them a fine \u2018Garter George,\u2019 which belonged\n    to Prince Charles Edward, and was acquired by Francis, third\n    Marquis, from the collection of Cardinal York.\n\n    \u201cIt was destined for my grandfather and his children, and\n    Madame O\u2014\u2014 fulfilled her obligation.\n\n    \u201cI perfectly remember Sir Richard Wallace\u2019s son, whose liaison\n    with a French girl bitterly offended Sir Richard, although, as\n    he was told by the young man when the quarrel was irremediable,\n    he had only followed his father\u2019s example.\n\n    \u201cYoung Wallace came once or twice to London after 1870. He died\n    of typhoid fever when still a young man. But Wallace would\n    never recognize his son\u2019s children or their mother; the former\n    were amply provided for by Lady Wallace. Madame O\u2014\u2014 de B\u2014\u2014\n    had no children of her own, but she showed great kindness to\n    her connections _de la main gauche_. I perfectly remember the\n    advent of Sir John Scott into the Wallace household, and the\n    subsequent course of a lifelong devotion to the interests of\n    his employers that deserved and obtained its reward.\n\n    \u201cThere is no need to enter into the story of Lady Wallace, a\n    very refined, shy and excellent lady, although the facts were\n    well known to my family.\u201d\n\n    \u201cMy French relations were intimate with Lord Hertford, Sir\n    Richard Wallace and Sir John Scott, over a period extending\n    from 1817 to Scott\u2019s death.\u201d\n\n                              \u201cYours ever,\n\n                                                            \u201cESHER.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: SIR RICHARD WALLACE, BART., K.C.B.\n\n_From a bust in the Wallace Collection._\n\n[_To face p. 192._]\n\nIn a further letter to me Lord Esher very justly calls attention to the\nremarkable likeness between Lord Hertford and Sir Richard Wallace. The\nbusts at Hertford House demonstrate this.\n\nRichard, fourth Marquess of Hertford, who never married, died at Paris on\nthe 25th of August, 1870. His successor in the title, Sir Francis (or,\nas his familiars called him, \u201cFranco\u201d) Seymour, as was natural, hurried\nover to Paris, not yet beleaguered by the Prussians, to look after his\ninterests. He was accompanied by his eldest son and his solicitor. The\nfortune at stake in lands and money was great, but, if the value of\nthe works of art be taken into account, enormous even in these days of\nplutocratic dominion. The real estate and the personalty, taken together,\nwould have reached a sum \u201cbeyond the dreams of avarice;\u201d indeed, by\ncomparison, the boilers and vats of Mr. Thrale would have represented no\nmore than a modest competence.[16]\n\nIt must have been a rude shock for the new Lord Hertford when the will\nwas read at Bagatelle after the funeral, and he found that, barring\nthe settled estates, which without the money were almost a white\nelephant, there was nothing for him. The wealth which had given his two\npredecessors such power that, in spite of manifest drawbacks, they were\npropitiated with the Garter, had vanished like Alnaschar\u2019s dream, and he\nwas left with the unredeemed anxieties and responsibilities of a country\nsquire. Equally, it must have been a startling shock for Sir Richard to\nfind that he was the heir to all that wealth.\n\nWith the exception of a handsome property which Lord Hertford bequeathed\nto his cousin, Sir Hamilton Seymour, the famous ex-Ambassador, or rather\nMinister, to Russia, practically everything was left to the future Sir\nRichard Wallace.\n\nSir Richard (I call him \u201cSir\u201d for convenience\u2019 sake, though he was not\ncreated a baronet until the following year) lost no time in turning\nhis newly-acquired wealth to good account. He was one of the most\ngenerous men that ever lived. Bravely he stood by Paris and the French\nin their troubles, started ambulances, founded the Hertford Hospital\nfor poor Englishmen, and set money flowing like water in aid of all\nsufferers by the war. His charities in France were boundless, and\ncontinued throughout his life, and indeed beyond it. But he felt it his\nduty to come to England, and for thirteen years represented Lisburn in\nParliament\u2014Lisburn, which he made the headquarters of his vast Irish\ndomain.\n\nIn recognition of the great services which he had rendered to the English\nin Paris during the siege he was created a baronet in 1871, when he\nmarried a French lady, Mademoiselle Castelnau, with whom he had lived\nfor many years, and by whom he had one son who was an officer in the\nFrench Army. That son, now long since dead, was the great sorrow of Sir\nRichard\u2019s life. The breach between them was irreparable, and it made\nthe father miserable. He told a friend of mine, an Italian gentleman,\nwho was breakfasting with him one day and found him in a state of utter\ndejection, how it irked him that people should look upon him as one\nof the happiest of men, when in truth he was the most wretched. The\nsympathy of a good son was the solitary thing wanting, and that he never\nhad.\n\nOne friend he had in Mr. Scott, afterwards Sir John, who became his\nprivate secretary, and whose affection stood to him almost in lieu of\nthat of a son. Sir John\u2019s father was a distinguished physician, a great\npersonal friend of Sir Richard\u2019s. One day this gentleman\u2019s father-in-law,\nMr. Murray, was calling upon him, shortly after his inheritance of Lord\nHertford\u2019s possessions, and he happened to say that he was badly in need\nof a private secretary, and did not know whom to choose. The post would\nrequire some unusual qualifications\u2014amongst others, a perfect knowledge\nof French. Mr. Murray said that perhaps his grandson, a very young\nbarrister just called, might fulfil the conditions. Sir Richard jumped\nat the offer, and the young man was sent to be looked at. The result was\nthat he found favour in Sir Richard\u2019s eyes, and, after probation, was\nappointed. No happier choice could have been made, no more devoted and\nfaithful friend could have been found; he remained with Sir Richard until\nhis death at Paris in 1890, and continued to keep watch over Lady Wallace\nuntil her end came seven years later.\n\nThe nation hardly knows how much it owes to the chivalrous\nself-effacement of Sir John Scott. When Lady Wallace, to whom Sir Richard\nhad left everything, was about to make her will, she was anxious to\nbequeath her whole property to Sir John in gratitude for the devotion\nwith which he had managed her affairs and cared for her interests.\nSir John persuaded her that it would be a good thing if she were, at\nany rate, to leave the contents of Hertford House to the nation, and,\nmoreover, that if he were to inherit the entire fortune, there might be\nsome suspicion of undue influence. If, on the other hand, she gave her\nchief art treasures to England, her memory would be venerated as perhaps\nthe country\u2019s greatest benefactress, while he could gratefully and\nhonourably accept whatever else she might be pleased to bequeath to him.\nThe lady followed his advice. He was a large-minded and generous man, and\nthough, as it turned out, he became the heir to a great fortune, it must\nnever be forgotten that he might have inherited property worth at that\ntime, according to the late Mr. Charles Davis\u2019s computation, at least\nseven millions sterling, and now, in view of the amazing rise in the\nvalue of all works of art, perhaps as much more. It was a most courageous\nand loyal piece of self-sacrifice. One day, when I said this to a man\nwho was inclined to scoff, his answer was: \u201cYes, but look at the Death\nDuties that he would have had to pay.\u201d He could have met those by the\nsale of half a dozen pictures. Nothing, to my mind, can detract from the\npatriotic wisdom and generosity of Sir John\u2019s conduct.\n\nWhen the greatest collection of art treasures that ever was in any\nprivate hands became the property of the nation, the next question was\nhow and where to house it. Sir Michael Hicks-Beach was Chancellor of the\nExchequer at the time, and he appointed a Committee, of which he asked me\nto be a member, to consider the matter. Lord Lansdowne was our chairman,\nand, after careful discussion, we came to the conclusion that the best\nplan to adopt would be, if possible, to purchase the freehold of Hertford\nHouse from the Portman Estate, and house the collection in its old home,\nturning the bedrooms on the first floor and the stables into galleries.\n\nThere was an idea favoured by Sir Edward Poynter that it would be wise\nto separate some of the pictures\u2014the Spanish paintings, for example\u2014and\nplace them in the National Gallery; but that scheme would have been\nagainst the provisions of the will, which insisted upon nothing being\ntaken from, and nothing added to, the collection as it stood, so the\nproposal could not be entertained. Sir Edward would have wished the whole\ncollection placed in a building to be erected adjoining the National\nGallery; this was also overruled.\n\nUpon this subject Lord Esher writes:\n\n    \u201cThe Committee to which you allude was appointed under a\n    Treasury Minute of the 3rd of May, 1897.\n\n    \u201cThe opponents of the Hertford House scheme, headed by Sir\n    Edward Poynter, made a very determined resistance. Lord\n    Chilston was First Commissioner of Works, and I, as you know,\n    occupied the post which you had filled with so much distinction\n    and permanent advantage to the nation.\n\n    \u201cWe, who were fighting for the retention of Hertford House,\n    owe a heavy debt of gratitude to King Edward, then Prince of\n    Wales, who, with unerring instinct in such matters, grasped\n    at once the historical and \u00e6sthetic advantages of keeping the\n    collections intact and _in situ_.\n\n    \u201cWe were also largely indebted to Sir Francis Mowatt, then\n    Secretary to the Treasury, who afforded us unfailing and\n    generous support.\n\n    \u201cThe purchase of the leasehold and freehold interest in the\n    house cost \u00a374,620.\n\n    \u201cThe structural alterations about \u00a328,000, and electric light,\n    heating and painting, \u00a3259 16s.\n\n    \u201cIn August, 1898, at your instance, I took the decorative\n    work, to a very great extent, out of the hands of the Office\n    of Works\u2019 contractor. I remember that the paper used in the\n    large picture gallery, the selection of which had given us a\n    great deal of trouble, was copied from a piece of Italian silk\n    which we borrowed from Bertram, who lived in Dean Street, Soho.\n    Alfred Rothschild then, as always, took a deep interest in\n    Hertford House, and his advice was invaluable to us all.\u201d\n\nA Board of Trustees was then appointed, consisting of Lord Rosebery, as\nchairman, who gave way to Sir John Scott, Sir Edward Malet, Sir John\nStirling Maxwell, Sir Arthur Ellis, Mr. Alfred de Rothschild and myself.\nMr.\u2014now Sir\u2014Claude Phillips, that distinguished connoisseur and critic,\nwas appointed keeper. The Office of Works constructed the new Galleries\naccording to our plan, and a Committee of the Trustees undertook the\narrangement of the collection. Sir John Scott, Mr. Alfred de Rothschild\nand myself, with Sir Claude Phillips, worked day after day for many\nmonths, evolving kosmos out of a chaos of packing-cases. It was a huge\ntask, but when the Galleries were finally thrown open, we were rewarded\nby a chorus of approbation, and the praise of foreign critics was no\nless loud than that of our own friends. Our leading idea was, as far as\npossible, to avoid the museum aspect, and to show the pictures, clocks,\nfurniture, porcelain, etc., as the collection of a great connoisseur\nset out as if he were still living in the house. The trustees were\nfortunate in securing the generous co-operation of Sir Guy Laking in the\narrangement and cataloguing of the armour. It may readily be believed\nthat it was no small sorrow to us when, owing to the war, all our work\nhad to be undone in order to stow away our treasures in safety. I, for\none, can hardly expect to live to see the reawakening of the old glory. I\ncan only hope that when that time comes something of the former order may\nbe restored.\n\nOne morning\u2014it was the 17th of January, 1912\u2014I received an urgent message\nby telephone, begging me to go to Hertford House at once. Sir John Scott\nhad died there suddenly. When I reached Manchester Square, I found him\nlying in the Trustees\u2019 room. He had been discussing business with Mr.\nMacColl, who had succeeded Sir Claude Phillips as keeper, when all of\na sudden he began to have a difficulty in breathing. He said it was\nnothing, but he grew worse. Doctors were sent for, but there was nothing\nto be done. That large-hearted man died in the house where he had lived\nso long, and surrounded by all the beautiful things which he loved and\nwhich he had been the means of securing for the nation when he might\nhave had them for himself. The Government had made him a baronet. Lord\nRosebery, with a keen appreciation of what he had done, said to me in\nrighteous jest: \u201cThey have made him a baronet when they ought to have\nmade him a duke.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nA NOTE ON RUSSIAN STUDIES\n\n\nA few days ago\u2014I am writing on the 7th of August, 1916\u2014I read in the\n_Times_ a long speech by one of our preter-pluperfect rulers, announcing\nthe determination of the Government to encourage the study of Russian, on\naccount of its glorious literature. I think the adjective was \u201cglorious,\u201d\nbut, at any rate, it was some such word. Was there ever a better example\nof the danger of giving reasons? Had this illustrious gentleman deigned\nto glance at some such easily accessible book as Mr. Maurice Baring\u2019s\ndelightful little \u201cOutline of Russian Literature,\u201d he would have been\nsaved from talking such nonsense.\n\nWe are told that upon one occasion Dr. Johnson declared that he could\nquote by heart a whole chapter of the Natural History of Iceland from the\nDanish of Horreboro, and immediately proceeded to show that it was no\nvain boast.\n\nChapter LXXII, Concerning Snakes.\n\nThere are no snakes to be met with throughout the whole island.\n\nAt the beginning of the nineteenth century literature in Russia was like\nthe snakes in Iceland. Nor can it be said that the new development which\ntook place early in that century was a _rinascimento_ such as sprang into\nbeing in Italy, in France and in England. A new birth implies a previous\nstate of existence, and it cannot be said that the old chronicles which\nthe dryasdusts of Kiev\u2014the old head-quarters of such monkish learning as\nexisted\u2014still less a few embryonic attempts at versification and dramatic\nwriting, could be dignified by the inspiring title of literature. \u201cThe\nRussian language\u201d\u2014to quote Mr. Baring\u2014\u201cwas, as has been said, like an\ninstrument waiting for a great player to play on it, and to make use of\nall its possibilities.\u201d The fables of Kryloff\u2014a playwright whose dramas\nhave long since been forgotten\u2014were published in 1806, and these remain\na classic. Out of the two hundred fables which he left at his death in\n1844, forty were translations, or, rather, \u201crecreations,\u201d as Mr. Baring\nputs it, of La Fontaine; seven were suggested by Aesop; the remainder\nwere original. As in all fables, these contain an element of satire;\nthat here and there the satire should be tinged with even a spice of\npolitical acidity did not hinder their popularity. I should like to say,\nin passing, that the few pages which Mr. Baring devotes to his account of\nKrylov contain passages of great beauty\u2014passages which could only have\nbeen written by a man gifted with the keenest appreciation of the poetry\nwhich is part of himself.\n\n[Illustration: IVAN TURGENIEV.\n\n_From an etching by E. Hedouin._\n\n[_To face p. 204._]\n\nIt was in 1816, that with Karamzin\u2019s monumental work, \u201cThe Chronicles of\nRussia,\u201d the literature of that country burst into existence, like Pallas\nAthene fully armed from the head of Zeus. \u201cNot only were the undreamed-of\nriches of the Russian language revealed to the Russians in the style, but\nthe subject matter came as a surprise.\u201d Pushkin, the greatest Russian\npoet that ever lived, or probably ever will live, was the next great\nstar that appeared upon the firmament, and he declared that Karamzin had\nrevealed Russia to the Russians, just as Columbus discovered America.\nTo Karamzin\u2019s glorious prose and to Pushkin\u2019s immortal verse belong the\nfirst honours in the _belles-lettres_ of Russia.\n\nFifty years and more have passed since I read Gogol\u2019s \u201cDead Souls\u201d in the\noriginal. The strivings and hard work of a somewhat strenuous life have\nswept away the little that I knew of Russian authors and literature. I\nam now obliged to walk upon the crutches of translations, though now and\nthen a faint memory is in some mysterious way awakened, and the interest,\nat any rate, has not faded.\n\nSuch names as Turgeniev, whom I once met, Dostoieffski, and the two\nTolstoys, have still a magic charm for me. Besides, all the world can\nprate of them. Of the host of lesser novelists, mostly translated by\nladies, in my judgment the less said the better. The work of obviously\ncoarse, uninstructed men, they often, both in their narration and in\ntheir imagery, deal with subjects which are unwholesome and which common\nconsent rejects as unsuitable. Literature does not scramble about in\nmidden heaps.\n\nAnd the great ones\u2014what is their place in the history of the world\u2019s\nachievements? I very much doubt whether there be any among the most\npatriotic enthusiasts who would claim even for his beloved Pushkin a seat\non Parnassus beside Homer, Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton, Goethe,\nVoltaire. That Karamzin\u2019s prose was of the very first order is proved\nby Pushkin\u2019s appreciation of him. Unfortunately it can only appeal to a\nvery small public. Twelve volumes of chronicles, essential to the Russian\nstudent of his own country\u2019s story, will hardly be faced by the average\nforeigner.\n\nPushkin\u2019s activities were phenomenal. That in the thirty-seven years of\nhis tragically short life he should have wrought what he did, and that\nhe should have been so uniformly good, invests him with a glamour which\nis all his own. He was a meteor, and, like a meteor, he appeared as it\nwere for a moment in the sky, and then vanished into space. And yet\nhalf a century ago, among the men who were the leaders of thought in\nPetersburg, there was far less talk of Pushkin than there was of Dante,\nShakespeare, or Voltaire\u2014not to speak of many other foreign authors.\n\nIt has taken many years to create the revival of the interest of Russians\nin Russian work. It has come at last, and now the only danger is lest,\nunder much flattery and patting on the back from abroad, the true advance\nof public taste should not be rather hindered than furthered. Pushkin,\nbe it remembered, was highly cultivated, a man of wide reading. He\nrecognized the fact that in order to write well a man must read well,\nand study the best models. Some of his criticisms of Shakespeare and of\nByron, under whose influence he was until Shakespeare dethroned his idol,\nare masterpieces.\n\nIt seems to me that the State encouragement of Russian studies will be of\nhigh value as promoting facility of intercourse\u2014especially in the case of\nthe Services, naval, military and civil. A far higher, even world-wide\nimportance attaches to the establishment of schools of modern languages\nall over Russia. It is of less moment that the literature of Russia, in\nits present condition, should travel westward than that the literature\nof the West should gradually influence the mind of the Slav. Just as\nin music the wild barbaric outbursts of his gayer moods, the tender\nsadness of his dirges, have been enshrined in the harmonies of his own\nclassic masters without losing one spark of their fire, one sob of their\npathos, so the untutored writer of to-day, chastened by study, will be\nable to give us the freshness and zest of a life which is not ours,\nshorn of all its crudities, not to give them a worse name. Let me not\nbe misunderstood. What I think is of consequence is that the startling\naudacity, the rough ore of the Slav mind, should be passed through the\npurifying furnace of the higher education it was in Pushkin\u2019s case\u2014all\nhonour to him\u2014and then you will have something worthy of the praise which\nis being rained upon the shameless translations by ladies, themselves\nill-equipped by classic culture, of the cubism of literary art.\n\n\n\n\nVERBA COMPOSITA\n\n\nIn the first volume of my \u201cMemories\u201d there is a print of a drawing\nby William Evans, of the inglenook in the picturesque dining-hall of\nhis house at Eton. Above the stone screen in which it was held was a\nlegend in Gothic letters: \u201cFavus mellis verba composita.\u201d The words\nhad disappeared for many years when I went to place my son with Miss\nEvans\u2014so long that she had even forgotten their existence when I asked\nthe reason why. To us old boys it seemed a pity, for the inscription\nhad derived a certain sanctity from the scholastic storm which raged\nround it. The learned would not accept the legend. No one could say\nwhence the quotation or proverb came. Dr. Hawtrey, to whom the pure\nwell of Latin undefiled was almost a religion with which to tamper was\nlittle short of sacrilege, declared that it was a barbarism, a piece of\ndog, or, what was perhaps to him as bad, monkish Latin. He maintained\nthat it was untranslatable; but we, audacious monkeys, rushing in where\nscholars feared to tread, declared that if the words were obscure, the\nmeaning was clear as crystal: \u201cSweet as the honeycomb is the talk of\nfriends in council.\u201d Here I would fain break off for a moment to pay\na slight tribute to the memory of that most generous of men, William\nEvans, drawing-master and, though one of the most masculine of mortals,\ntechnically a \u201cdame.\u201d He was a big, burly man, of a jovial and rubicund\naspect, a combination which earned for him the nickname of Beeves. He was\na vigorous painter in water-colours, a member of the old water-colour\nsociety, and one of the best of good fellows.\n\nA sportsman, too, for he was the friend of the late Duke of Atholl,\nspending most of his summer holiday at Blair, where he was always welcome\nas an enthusiastic stalker. Indeed, \u201cScrope\u2019s Deerstalking\u201d was the only\nbook that I remember ever to have seen him read. I went to see him once\nas he lay in bed, very feeble, at the beginning of his last long illness.\nOn the wall, at his right hand, was hanging his dearly-loved rifle, his\npowder-flask, and the other paraphernalia of those pre-breechloader days.\nIn his youth he had been a great oarsman, and, indeed, the river was his\njoy till quite late in life.\n\nHe took the greatest interest in all that concerned boating and swimming,\nand it was owing to his influence, in conjunction with that of the noble\nBishop Selwyn, of whom Eton is still so proud, that the law was passed by\nthe authorities forbidding boys to enter a boat until they should have\n\u201cpassed\u201d in swimming. Of the good bishop a story is told of the time when\nhe was a private tutor at Eton which is worth preserving. He was sculling\nin a wherry amid a crowd of boats, when he was run into by some unskilled\noarsman. Seeing that shipwreck was inevitable, he stood up, and, quoting\nOvid\u2019s description of the discreet death of Lucretia, exclaimed:\n\n    \u201cTunc quoque, jam moriens, ne non procumbat honeste\n    Respicit, hoc etiam cura cadenti erat.\u201d\n\n                                         Fasti II., 831.\n\nAnd so, with a header as graceful as the quotation was apt, the\namphibious bishop that was to be, dived into the Thames amid the plaudits\nof the multitude, who already recognized in him the heroism of which he\nwas to give proof in New Zealand and elsewhere.\n\nEvans\u2019 was a very happy house, and the good old man spared nothing for\nthe comfort of his boys. The table which he kept was excellent, the\nSunday dinner quite a little feast, with a glass of sherry for each\nboy at plum-pudding time\u2014not altogether wise we should perhaps think\nnowadays, but so kind and so hospitable. Rarely, too, would be fail to\ninvite one or two boys to stay for dessert. The traditions of the house\nwere nobly carried on by Miss Jennie Evans after her father\u2019s death in\n1877. And now she, too, has disappeared, the last of the dames, the last\nof one of those dear old institutions which were part of the mystery of\nEton.\n\nTo remember is to wander, and when I begin to think of Eton\u2014the Eton of\nseventy years ago\u2014it is easier to ramble on than prudently to stop. But\nto-day I have only to deal with \u201cVerba Composita.\u201d It is of them that I\nwas thinking this morning as I sat in my Veluvana, and, indeed, there\ncould hardly be a more pregnant thought than that of the talk of friends\nin council.\n\nHow perfect is the feeling with which, in the company of a familiar\nfriend of our own choice\u2014we wander through the shaded paths and sweet\ngroves of our sanctuary. Nor is it necessary that the chosen comrade\nshould be himself a botanist or a gardener. Sympathy is all that is\nasked of him, and that he will not deny. Indeed, there is something in\nthe worship of the great god Pan, and in the living, growing temples\nwhich are raised in his honour, which makes for all that is best in the\nintercourse between man and man.\n\nA beautiful view, a discreet arrangement of flowers and graceful foliage,\nwill rouse congenial memories of books, of poetry, of pictures, and\nsometimes even of melody. The sight of a plant recognized even by the\nunskilled as an old friend of some distant clime, seen again after many\nyears, will excite a whole train of recollections fragrant with the\nperfume of half-forgotten travels and adventures. So may two greybeards\nsit happily in some remote nook, the home of fairies and dryads, where\nthe trees whisper old thoughts and call up sympathetic talk, broken and\nyet stimulated afresh by \u201cbrilliant flashes of silence.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE.\n\n_From a photograph._\n\n[_To face p. 212._]\n\nAll the better is this _solitude \u00e0 deux_ if there should be the tinkling\nmusic of a tiny stream, with the electric gleam of a kingfisher darting\nacross some idle sunlit pool. All these wield that magic power which,\nfor the nonce charming away the wrinkles of time, transports us across\nthe long years back to the days when the world and we were young and\nlife meant hope. Rare, indeed, and very precious are such dreamy talks\nand silences. We can hardly rate their value too highly. The crazy\npoet-philosopher Nietzsche was not far wrong when, in a letter to Erwin\nRohde, he wrote: \u201cEternally we need midwives in order to be delivered of\nour thoughts. Most people go to a public-house, or to a colleague whose\nmind is solely occupied with the interests of their calling, and there,\nlike so many small cats, they tumble about all their thoughts and tiny\nschemes. But woe to us who lack the sunlight of a friend\u2019s presence!\u201d\n\nIt was a fine thought of his to elevate friendship to the rank of\na goddess. But, alas for the inconsistencies of genius! Few of\nNietzsche\u2019s hot friendships had any lasting power. Rohde himself, R\u00e9e\nand others faded out of his life. But no change was so violent as\nthat which occurred in the relations between the philosopher and the\ntone-poet Wagner. The historic friendship\u2014born of an admiration for\nSchopenhauer shared by both, and of an adoration by Nietzsche of Wagner\u2019s\nmusic\u2014ripened so quickly and was so beautiful, that it ought to have\nlived with their lives; but this alliance between a budding youth and an\nolder, already famous man came to the saddest end.\n\nSuddenly the fruit grew mouldy and fell from the tree, and the love,\nwhich had seemed to be built upon a rock, the worship which was so\nfull of pious conviction, were changed into a hatred which was nothing\nshort of venomous, and which not even the death of Wagner could compel\nto silence. They had first met at Leipsic, at the house of Professor\nBrockhaus, and Wagner, touched by the boy\u2019s enthusiasm, took to him at\nonce, petted him, and encouraged him to go and visit him, which he did a\nfew years later at Triebschen, Wagner\u2019s retreat under the shadow of Mount\nPilatus.\n\nWonderful gatherings, indeed, have been held throughout the ages in\ngroves and gardens. Imagine the Baghavat, the Blessed One, surrounded by\nhis Bikshus, as poor as the first followers of St. Francis, preaching\nthe doctrines of truth and humility in those parables that are dear to\nthe Eastern, seated in one or other of his beloved gardens. Think of the\nsages of ancient Athens gathered together in the groves of the Akademia\ndiscussing the deep problems of existence. How much more instinct with\nthe poetry of life must such grave and reverend companies have been than\nthe boisterous though delightful tavern symposia in which Christopher\nNorth, Tickler, the Ettrick Shepherd and their friends slung Doric\nwit and wisdom over the toddy glasses! We can easily conceive how the\ninterchange of thought between the great trio, Wagner, Frau Cosima and\nNietzsche, in a lovely Swiss garden, surrounded by the majesty of the\nAlps, must have been enshrined in such memories as those over which the\nphilosopher mourned so long as the lamp of life burned in him.\n\nWhen the other day I was reading Dr. M\u00fcgge\u2019s account of the trio at\nTriebschen, Wagner, Frau Cosima and Nietzsche, and of their deep interest\nin one another\u2019s ideals, the old motto, \u201cSweet as the honeycomb is the\ntalk of friends in council,\u201d of which I had not thought for many a\ndecade, came back to me, and I understood how Nietzsche, long years after\nhe had quarrelled with Wagner\u2014indeed, shortly before his death\u2014declared\nthat \u201che would resign all human intercourse, but at no price would he\ngive up the pleasant memories of those days spent in Triebschen.\u201d The\nhoney of those Verba Composita was still sweet in the comb.\n\nFor the quarrel between the two men there may be explanations and\nexcuses; such changes are not without precedent. The first link between\nthem was, as I have said, devotion to Schopenhauer. \u201cNietzsche called\nhis connection with Wagner his practical course in Schopenhauer\u2019s\nphilosophy.\u201d When Nietzsche began to dream of a philosophy of his own,\nthe tie between him and the poet-composer was weakened; there was also\nperhaps some feeling that he was being made use of, that he was being\npatronized and made to play second fiddle to a man whom he was beginning\nto look down upon as a mere play-actor\u2014a mummer\u2014a child of the theatre.\n\nM\u00fcgge throws out a hint that in breaking with Wagner, Nietzsche was\npossibly fleeing from himself, and he quotes a note from him to Frau\nCosima: \u201cAriadne, I love you! Dionysus.\u201d Whatever may have been the\ncause, or the many causes, of the rupture, its violence was, at any\nrate on Nietzsche\u2019s side, maniacal. His venom was not less poisonous\nthan that which Devadatta poured out upon the Buddha. Not content with\nhaving hurled his Jupiter, as he called him, from his throne on high\nOlympus, he must needs pursue him into the depths, trampling on him,\nand covering with mud the man whom he had once beslavered with the most\nfulsome adulation. Strange litanies for the high priest of the goddess of\nFriendship to intone!\n\nFar less intelligible is the change of front in regard to Wagner\u2019s\nmusic. That the man who, for the apotheosis of Wagner\u2019s art, wrote \u201cThe\nBirth of Tragedy in Music,\u201d should so completely eat his words as to the\nworth of the music because he had ceased to love the musician is almost\nunthinkable.\n\nIn the first period he tells us that: \u201cFrom a novice trying his strength,\nWagner became a thorough master of music and of the theatre.... No\none will any longer deny him the glory of having given us the supreme\nmodel for lofty artistic execution. The renewer of the simple drama,\nthe discoverer of the position due to art in true German society, the\npoetic interpreter of old views of life, the philosopher, the historian,\nthe \u00e6sthete and critic, the master of languages, the mythologist and\nthe myth poet, who for the first time included all these wonderful and\nbeautiful products of a primitive imagination in a single Ring, upon\nwhich he engraved the runic characters of his thoughts\u2014what an abundance\nof knowledge Wagner must have had in order to have become all that!\u201d\n\nAgain: \u201cOver the coming of Wagner there hovers a necessity which both\njustifies it and makes it glorious.\u201d \u201cWagner, in his capacity as supreme\nmaster of form, points out the way, like Aeschylus, to a future art.\u201d\n\u201cIn the life of this great man, the period over which as a golden\nreflection there is stretched the splendour of a supreme perfection....\nHe produces _Tristan and Isolde_, this _opus metaphysicum_ of all art;\nthe _Meistersinger of N\u00fcrnberg_; the _Ring of the Nibelungs_; his work of\nBayreuth.\u201d[17]\n\nThere is much more in the same strain, but when we come to the second\nperiod it is another Nietzsche who speaks. He now attacks his former idol\nwith the most ferocious rancour, for which only insanity could account;\nand yet that he was not then mad is proved by other utterances of his\nin regard to that same art of music. For instance: \u201cMendelssohn was the\nbeautiful interlude of German music, quickly admired and then quickly\nforgotten. Schumann was the last who founded a school. Though incessantly\nglowing with happiness or throbbing with impersonal suffering, he was\na purely German event, and not, as Beethoven and Mozart had been, a\nEuropean phenomenon.\u201d\n\nThat\u2014although I should not agree as to Mendelssohn being\nforgotten\u2014appears to me to be, as regards Schumann, a fine piece of\ncriticism. Apparently it was only when thinking of Wagner that he was up\nto that time insane. Then he could lash himself into a fury! Witness:\n\u201cI call the Wagnerian orchestration the Sirocco; Bizet\u2019s\u201d (of whose\nsuccess Wagner was supremely jealous) \u201corchestral music is almost the\nsole orchestration that I can still endure.... Schopenhauer was the\nphilosopher of decadence. His art is morbid.... Wagner has been ruinous\nto music. Was Wagner a musician at all? He was at least something else\nin a higher degree\u2014that is to say, an unsurpassable _actor_. Wagner was,\nabove all, a stage-player, and he excels in ubiquity and nullibiety....\nParsifal is a candidate for divinity with a public-school education.\nWe are so far pure fools already ... a typical telegram from Bayreuth:\n_Bereits bereut_ (rued already)! Ah! this old _thief_! This old\n_magician_! This _Cagliostro_ of modernity!... Wagner is a Romanist, and\nhe made the poor devil, the country lad Parsifal, a Roman Catholic. I\ndespise every one who does not regard Parsifal as an outrage on morals.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: RICHARD WAGNER.\n\n_From a photograph._\n\n[_To face p. 218._]\n\nPerhaps Wagner\u2019s faithful disciples were right when they ascribed all\noutpouring of the vials of wrath to _jalousie de m\u00e9tier_; for Nietzsche,\ntoo, was not only poet and philosopher, but composer, and when he\nsubmitted an opera of his own to Wagner, the great man, as the Eastern\nsaying is, made sour noses at it.\n\nIt is dangerous to carry a book with you into a garden; it will make\nyour mind wander much further than your feet. Here have I been rambling\non, carried away not so much by any feeling for Nietzsche, who is, after\nall, not much more than a name to me, as by the interest which attaches\nto all that concerns Wagner. For, let his enemies say what they will, he\nwas a man of genius, of most compelling genius, and who that ever had\nspeech of Frau Cosima could avoid being bewitched. To me it has only been\ngiven to know her in her old age, but I fell at once under the spell of\nthat most sweet and dainty personality. Very feeble in health, and unable\nto speak for long, she had retained all the serene charm which, in the\nheyday of her youth and beauty, earned for her the name of \u201cthe unique\nwoman.\u201d I felt how bright a part she must have played in the brilliant\ntrio at Triebschen, and how sad it is that there should be no record of\nthe symposia of the sunny days of that happy friendship before it was\ndisturbed by mad envy and malice.\n\nOf Nietzsche and his tragic end, of the influence which his restless\nbrain exercised upon men and upon letters, this is not the place to\nspeak. Is it he, as his disciples maintain, who has taught Germany\nand, through Germany, the world to think? The great anti-moralist, as\nhe has been called, is dead. Let him rest in peace. We can leave this\nBatrachomyomachia, this battle of the frogs and mice, the squabbles of\nGerman professors and philosophers, coming back with some relief to the\nsweeter fragrance of our flowers. It was the thought of Triebschen and\nits Verba Composita which led us to Nietzsche, and his clever saying that\nseemed to give value to the thought of friendship in a garden.\n\nDays of happy talk are delightful\u2014never more so than in a garden; and\nyet it is when we are alone, when our plants are the companions of\nour solitude, that we really enter into sympathy with them. Then it\nis that we hold true communion with them, and, giving the reins to\nour imagination, try to read the hidden secrets of their being\u2014hidden\nsecrets, not those scientific arcana which your professor loves to clothe\nin slipshod Latin and shabby Greek, but those inmost idiosyncrasies in\nwhich our fancy, wildly playful, seems to detect vestiges of the same\ncharacteristics and emotions which rule as tyrants in our own nature. Nor\nwhen we note the movements of plants, so strangely purposeful, does it\ninvolve any inordinate strain upon our conceptive power to see in them\nsomething more than chance, something which resembles the exercise of a\ndominant will. These may be thoughts at which science laughs, and which\nthe inexorable demon Commonsense hounds out of court\u2014thoughts that are no\nmore than poor little waifs and strays, coming to us from Fancyland, and\nyet not without their humble value if they do but make us watch and seek\nfor things undreamt of in our philosophy.\n\nThat certain flowers and plants are, as it were, types of various\nqualities is an idea as old as the hills upon which they grow. The\nstrength of the oak, the grace of the willow, the flaunting pride of\npoppies, the virginal purity of lilies, the stateliness of hollyhocks\nlike courtiers drawn up in a row at the lev\u00e9e of a mighty king, the\nmodesty of the violet\u2014all these and a hundred others are images from the\nwallets of poets of all lands and of all time. It is not of these that\nI speak, but rather of the behaviour of plants, often very various and\ncapricious, according to circumstances, yet in which we seem to see a\nkinship with reasonable motive, a suggestion that in similar conditions\nwe might have done the same.\n\nSee yonder crimson water-lily queening it in all the majesty of her\namazing beauty among the humbler reeds and rushes and sedges and the\nrest of her water-loving subjects. To-day she is in the zenith of her\nstate, like the king\u2019s daughter all glorious within. Does she rejoice in\nthe stateliness of her queenship? It would almost seem so, for to-morrow\nshe will feel that her reign is over. She will bow her lovely neck,\nand, coyly folding her petals together round the golden aureole of her\nstamens, will disappear under the flood, too proud to let herself be seen\nwhen her regal beauty is on the wane. Is not that something like the\npride of which we read in the life of the peerless Countess Castiglione,\nwho hid herself from the gaze of men before her charms had faded, as she\nknew they soon must? Having reigned supreme among the fair women of the\nworld, she would not consent to be degraded into a has-been\u2014a thing of\nthe past. I have told in my \u201cMemories\u201d of the first time that I saw her\non the terrace at Holland House, a miracle of loveliness, when all London\nwas crowding on tiptoe to catch a sight of the haughty queen of beauty\nand do homage to her majesty. My nymph\u00e6a tempts me to repeat myself.\nThe last time was a few years later. I was sitting with Mario and Grisi\nin their garden at Fulham when she was announced. She came in robed\nin deepest black, her face hidden by a thick veil of sable cr\u00eape. She\nremained a little while and talked gaily enough, but her face remained\nhidden all the time; not for one moment did she lift that funereal veil.\nShe had forsaken the world\u2014abdicated\u2014like my coy crimson water-lily, and\nin the waters of Lethe she hid her beauteous head.\n\nHave plants their friendships, their affinities? Certain it is that there\nare some plants which seem to thrive best when familiarly associated\nwith certain others. I have heard some gardeners say, for instance, that\nlilies of the valley and Solomon\u2019s seal are never so happy as when they\nare planted together. That may be true, but it probably means no more\nthan that both need the same soil and surroundings, and so make the\nbravest show when they are side by side. I much doubt whether a weak\nclump of lilies of the valley would be strengthened by adding to it a\ncluster of plants of its friend, or vice versa.\n\nOn the other hand, it is a scientific fact capable of demonstration,\nthat there are trees which press into their service certain humbler\nnon-flowering plants, compelling them to furnish their roots with water\nand such mineral salts and foods as are needful for their well-being.\nThese become slaves, like the hewers of wood and drawers of water working\nfor the lords of creation.\n\nMany years ago I received a consignment of _Pinus cembra_, the Arolla\npine, which is the common growth of the Alps. The trees arrived late in\nthe afternoon, and we unpacked them at once, for the days were at their\nshortest, and I was eager to get them all planted\u2014there were a dozen\nor more\u2014before nightfall. To my dismay I found that the roots were all\ncovered with a network of grey film, the mycelium, as the learned would\ncall it, of some fungus. My gardener and I were not a little indignant\nwith the nurseryman who sent out the plants in so filthy a condition. We\nsent for a bucket of water and washed clean as many of the trees as we\ncould; mercifully there was not daylight enough left to purge them all\nof their dirt. To our amazement, the trees which we washed soon began\nto show signs of sickness; they dwindled for three or four years and\nlooked as if they must die; slowly, very slowly, the invalids recovered.\nTheir unwashed mates never flinched for a moment, made roots gaily, and\ntook quite rapidly to their new home. The puzzle was great, until a\nfew years later I received Kerner\u2019s great book, \u201cThe Natural History of\nPlants,\u201d and then the mystery was cleared up. The sorrows of the washed\ntrees were those of the planters of the West Indian Islands. Like Mr.\nWilberforce, we had deprived them of their slaves. Luckily, the humus of\nthe plantation in which they were placed must have contained the spores\nnecessary to the formation of the fungoid growth, otherwise they would\ndoubtless have died.\n\nKerner\u2019s chapter on the _Symbiosis_, or social union of plants, is\ncuriously interesting. He gives a list of flowering trees and plants\nwhich are absolutely dependent upon what he called the mycelial mantle\nwith which fungi cover their roots for the absorption of their daily\nfood. Limes, roses, ivy, pinks may be propagated by cuttings which will\nroot in pure sand. No such method is possible in the case of the oak, the\nbeech, firs, broom, rhododendron, and a host of others, which demand an\nadmixture of soil containing a proportion of mycelia, without which they\nare unable to feed themselves; and so, like babies, with neither breast\nnor bottle they perish.\n\nKerner\u2019s opening words on this _symbiosis_ are worth quoting: \u201cIn\ndescribing the vegetation of a limited area, botanical writers are apt\nto designate the various species of plants as \u2018denizens\u2019 of the country\nin question. The conditions under which the plants live are likened to\npolitical institutions, and the relations existing amongst the plants\nthemselves are compared to the life and strife of human society.\u201d He\ngoes on to speak of the interdependence upon one another of these\nplants living in the same community; he shows how necessary they are\nto one another; how they sometimes fight for food, light and air; how\nsome are preyed upon and oppressed by others, \u201cand how not infrequently\nquite different species join together in order to attain some mutual\nadvantage.\u201d And so he comes to the curious history of the lichens.\n\nSome forty or fifty years ago there arose a furious battle around the\nlichens, humble little creatures enough, plastered on almost every rock\nand stone and tree in creation. During the \u2019sixties of the last century\nSchwendener, a Swiss botanist\u2014professor successively at Basle, T\u00fcbingen\nand Berlin\u2014wrote a number of papers in scientific publications, in\nwhich he proved to his own satisfaction that lichens are not individual\nplants, but compound existences consisting of an alga and a fungus. His\ninvestigations were followed up by one Bornet, and he had a numerous\nfollowing largely attracted by the charm of novelty and the ingenuity\nof invention. Kerner went so far as to say that \u201cthe continued study of\nlichens has tended only to secure for the Schwendenerian theory a more\nwide and universal recognition.\u201d Dr. Cook, however, the great authority\non cryptogamic botany, laughs at this mystic union as a \u201cfairy tale.\u201d He\ntreats it with the same contempt that St. Paul, in his letter to Titus,\nexpressed for \u201cJewish fables.\u201d He says: \u201cThe high priest Schwendener\nthus expressed his dream: \u2018As the result of my researches, all these\ngrowths (lichens) are not simple plants, not individuals in the ordinary\nsense of the word; they are rather colonies, which consist of hundreds\nand thousands of individuals, of which, however, one alone plays the\nmaster, whilst the rest, in perpetual captivity, prepare the nutriment\nfor themselves and their master. This master is a fungus of the class\nascomyceter, a parasite which is accustomed to live upon others\u2019 work;\nits slaves are green alg\u00e6, which it has sought out, or, indeed, caught\nhold of, and compelled into its service. It surrounds them, as a spider\nits prey, with a fibrous net of narrow meshes, which is gradually\nconverted into an impenetrable covering; but whilst the spider sucks its\nprey and leaves it dead, the fungus incites the alg\u00e6 found in its net to\nmore rapid activity\u2014nay, to more vigorous increase.\u2019\u201d\n\nDr. Cook goes on to say: \u201cThis may be all very poetical, but it is not\nvery explicit, and needs a commentary;\u201d and then he proceeds to demolish\nthe whole theory based upon the supposition that the gonidia, green\nspherical cells, which are found in the thallus of lichens are alg\u00e6.\nLichens, Dr. Cook tells us, consist normally of a thallus, or vegetative\nsystem, which is in many species a tough, bark-like expansion, horizontal\nor vertical, attached to rocks, stones, wood and other substances,\nbut not deriving nourishment from the object to which it is attached.\nInside this thallus are the minute green gonidia, and, in addition,\nthere is the reproductive system, consisting of discs borne upon the\nthallus, containing the reproductive organs (asci and sporidia). The\nSchwendenerians contend that the thallus and reproductive system are not\nonly fungoid, but actual fungi, while the green gonidia are alg\u00e6 upon\nwhich those fungi are parasitic.\n\nOne of the proofs which Dr. Cook brings forward in support of his\ncontradiction of the theorists is the permanence of lichens, whereas the\nfungi are, as we all know, very short-lived, many of them little more\nthan ephemeral\u2014here to-day and gone to-morrow. To the lichens we must pay\nthe respect due to the most venerable antiquity. Dr. Cook, speaking with\nall the authority with which he is endowed, tells us that \u201csome species,\ngrowing on primitive rocks of the highest mountains of the world, are\nestimated to have attained an age of at least a thousand years. Is it not\nmarvellous to think of these mean little vegetable scabs feeding upon\nair, outliving the monarch oaks and almost all the trees of Creation?\u201d\n\nBut I am in danger of rushing in where the angels of science hardly dare\ntread. Let me go back to my beloved nonsense. Beloved? Yes, for, after\nall, what is more lovable than nonsense? What a joy their nonsense must\nhave been to Dean Swift, to Lear, or to the little dry chip of a man\nwho was our Cocker, our mathematical tutor, at Christ Church. I wonder\nwhether, when Dodgson, that double personality, always associated in my\nmemory with a blackboard, a piece of chalk and _x y z_, was writing up\nhis mystic algebraical puzzles, his mind did not sometimes wander, and he\nhimself become transformed for a minute into Lewis Carroll seeing visions\nof Alice, the Carpenter, the Mad Hatter, the Walrus, and all the crazy\n_dramatis person\u00e6_ of his delicious phantasy. He is dead now, and many\nyears ago the lovely child, for whose delectation the wonder book was\ninvented, was laid in an early grave in the Christ Church cloisters. Only\nAlice lives, and will live as long as the English language remains.\n\nIf your garden be upon the slope of a hill, there is one human instinct\nwhich you will surely, if you watch them carefully, recognize in your\nplants. They are so ambitious. Those among them which have creeping roots\nor rhizomes will almost invariably travel uphill. They are as fain to\nclimb as Sir Walter Raleigh himself. Take the rhizomatous bamboos, such\nspecies among the arundonarias as Somoni, Japonica Lay\u0153kerd, Spathiflora\nand others, Phyllostachys fastuosa, Bambusa Palmata. Rarely, indeed,\nwill you find a new culm below the parent plant; all the growth is\nupwards. And so it is with many other genera. I think the reason of it\nis pretty plain. You need but to mark the trees above a railway cutting\nor on the high banks of a deep lane, to see how shallow in proportion\nto their height are the roots even of the greatest of them. There are\nexceptions\u2014the vine and the laburnum, to wit\u2014but the oak itself loses\nits so-called tap-root, which withers and rots away as soon as it has\nfulfilled its duty of tying the tree in its place. The roots seem to\nremain as near as possible to the plane of the bottom of the main stem.\nThe same rule applies to plants of lesser stature. Now if the roots of a\nhillside plant were to move down-hill in the same plane as the axis of\nthe stem, it is manifest that they must very soon peer out into the open\nand be deprived of all those foods which are necessary to plant life. So\nthey choose the wise course of journeying upwards, where they are sure,\non the contrary, of an increasingly richer diet. If on its travels the\ngrowing point of a bamboo rhizome encounters a stone or other obstacle,\nit will not dive down to avoid it, but will take a direction upwards\nand then down again into the earth, forming one of those hoops, like\ncroquet hoops, which are such a snare to trip up wayfarers in bamboo\nforests. Sometimes the ambitions of plants, like those of men, are fatal.\nThe root-stock, originally set in the best conditions, must needs climb\nhigher and higher, until it may perhaps reach some uncongenial place in\nwhich it is starved or choked. Then farewell, a long farewell, to all its\ngreatness! By degrees the parent plant becomes exhausted and dwindles\naway, while the scions which should have carried on the dynasty are hoped\nfor in vain, and so some precious treasure is lost for ever.\n\nIf plants have ambition, there is one vice closely allied to it which\nthey do not possess. Jealousy is confined to animals. Men, dogs, cats\nand horses are jealous. There is no evidence to lead us to suppose that\nplants are afflicted with that horror of horrors. They may have their\nloves and their hatreds; they will, as we have seen, help one another,\nand they will strangle and murder one another. They will even rob one\nanother; but the torture of jealousy seems to be unknown to them. They\nwill attack their neighbours with the pitiless savagery of the old\nRhineland robber knights. No vampire could with more ruthless cruelty\nsuck the blood of a fair maiden than certain malignant fungi, which\nfasten upon great trees and shrubs, and draw out the sap of their noble\nlives in order to nourish their own ignominious bodies. Then there are\nthe saprophytes, plants as unlovely as their name, vegetable horrors,\nwhich, like the ghouls of the \u201cArabian Nights,\u201d are found feasting upon\ndeath and decay. _Non ragionam di lor! Ma guarda e passa._\n\nIn the part of the world where I live the old thorn trees are, with the\noaks, the glory of the countryside. One year, to my dismay, I saw that\nall my thorns in which I took so much pride were apparently dying. In the\nmiddle of summer their leaves withered and wilted, and they presented a\npiteous sight. I wrote to Kew for advice. Kew is a never-failing help in\ntrouble. The answer came back: Have you any savin juniper bushes? If so,\nexamine them. You will probably find them covered with a yellow slimy\nsort of jelly, which is the first stage of a fungus which, in its second\nstage, fastens upon the thorn. The letter went on to advise a merciless\ndestruction and holocaust of the savin bushes, and prophesied that the\nfungus on the thorns would die and not renew itself, so that no permanent\nharm would ensue. Sure enough, in my ignorance, I had planted a number\nof bushes of savin, which I found, as Kew prophesied, to be covered with\nan ugly yellow mucilaginous substance. My inquisition was followed by an\n_auto da f\u00e9_ of the junipers; when their enemies were burnt, the thorns\nrecovered and I had no more trouble.\n\nHow most other plants hate the beech and the ash! How resolutely they\nrefuse to grow under their shade! And yet even the best hated men have\ntheir friends, who will smile to them and seek their company. Lords of\nbeech woods wanting covert for their game should try planting Laurus\nColchica and Laurus rotundifolia. The pheasants love their shelter, and\nthey are quite happy even under old-established beeches.\n\nThere are plants of prey just as there are beasts of prey and birds of\nprey. These are plants which live upon animal food just as we do, setting\ntraps and snares for them with all the cunning shown by one of Richard\nJefferies\u2019 phenomenal gamekeepers or poachers. What, by the by, is the\nexact dividing line which separates the poacher from the keeper? Does\nthe one develop into the other as does the chrysalis into the butterfly?\nI remember a little old Highland stalker, a veteran of the \u201chull,\u201d as\nbrown and rugged as a russet apple; we had been watching deer a long way\noff all the morning\u2014the wind wrong for a stalk\u2014and he confided to me\nall those secrets of deer life which seemed as familiar to him as if,\nlike the Buddha, he had been himself a stag in some previous stage of\nexistence. \u201cHow long have you been a stalker, Hughie?\u201d I asked. \u201cMaybe\ntwenty years,\u201d he answered; but then, looking up, his eyes twinkling with\na craft worthy of Autolycus, he added, \u201cbut I was a shepherd for many\nyears before that.\u201d\n\nThere was a whole folio volume of predatory but illicit sport in the\nwords. Some plants, like the various pitchers of Nepenthe and others,\nremain still and are content to rely upon the beauty of their colours\nto tempt the game to its doom. Caught in the trap, the victims are held\ntight by some glue like birdlime, or kept from finding their way out by\nfingers of sharp teeth like the knives of the Iron Virgin of N\u00fcrnberg.\nOthers, innocent, humble little creatures, look \u201cas if they would not\nhurt a fly.\u201d But let the fly beware, and keep out of their grip\u2014\u201cfoxes\nin stealth, wolves in greediness,\u201d they are armed like the butterwort\n(_pinguicula_) with glands which become active at the touch, and secure\nthe prisoner, or as the sundew (_drosera_), equipped with tentacles which\nclose in upon him like a horror in one of Edgar Allan Poe\u2019s stories. How\nthese creatures feed and how they digest their meat is told in Darwin\u2019s\n\u201cInsectivorous Plants\u201d and elsewhere. These are facts, not fancies. But\nwhat gastronome could take offence if he were accused of being as greedy\nas sundew!\n\nThere is one human quality, the power of enjoyment, which, above all\nothers, we seem to recognize in our plants. It is impossible to look\nupon the daffodils in a field dancing in the sunlight of an early April\nday, without feeling that here is the very embodiment of gladness\u2014of\nthe _joie de vivre_; and as the months speed on and flower after flower\nbursts into life, meeting the renewed glories of the sun, we have\nbefore us a roundelay of gaiety and happiness which only quite ceases\nwhen the first grip of winter comes to choke and kill the melancholy\nglory of autumn. Then, when the dahlias hang their stricken heads, and\nthe blue clouds of the Michaelmas daisies fade and shed their seed, we\nare conscious of the fact that they, too, have their sorrows, though\nthe tragedy of so many has passed unnoticed when rivals, each one more\nbeautiful than the last, have been springing up to take their place. A\ngreater than I am has noticed the pleasure that plants take in the act of\nliving. A friend sends me these lines of Wordsworth\u2019s:\n\n    \u201cThe budding twigs spread out their fan\n      To catch the breezy air;\n    And I must think, do all I can,\n      That there was pleasure there.\u201d\n\nAnd so we linger on in our Veluvana until the sun is setting in the west.\nThere is an end of light and heat for this day, and the plants, like\nthe birds, must sleep and even dream, if Keats be right.[18] Theirs is\nperhaps not the sleep which we know, but nothing is more certain than\nthe change which they undergo in darkness. In some plants the leaflets\ncurl downwards, in others upwards; in many the flowers close altogether,\nand are folded almost as they were when buds. But all green plants show\none phenomenon. Whereas under light the leaves take up the air in the\nlittle mouths on the underside of their leaves, and after working up\nthe carbonic-acid gas into carbon for the building of their stems and\nbranches, return the rest in the shape of pure oxygen, purifying and\nsweetening the air; when night comes the process is reversed. Then they\nretain the oxygen and exhale carbonic-acid gas only, and that is why\ncareful nurses, though they may not know the reason, turn plants out\nof a sick-room when the night comes on. It has been calculated that of\nthose little stomates on the underside of a beech leaf, little kitchens\nor laboratories in which the tree prepares its food, there are no fewer\nthan a million. Yes, the plants must sleep\u2014all save certain disreputable\nnight-blooms, which, like owls and bats and witches, hate the light and\nhaunt the darkness. In a few hours the first glimmer of dawn will break;\nthe rosy-fingered goddess will rouse her choir of birds, and they, with\ntheir morning hymn, will awaken the trees and the flowers; the blessed\ndew will fall, distilling the sweet scents of woodland and gardenland,\nand the joy of the world and of the plants will spring into the birth of\na day.\n\nIf I were able to accept, as do the pious Buddhists, the doctrine of\nrebirth and the transmigration of souls, I, noting what I have called\nthe purposeful movements of plant-life, should be inclined to go a step\nfurther than they do. If a man may have been in a previous state of\nexistence a stag, a monkey, or a snake, why should he not equally have\nbeen a tree, a shrub, or a poisonous creeper? The stately dignity of the\noak, the sweet virtues of the rose, the venomous juice of the deadly\nnightshade, are qualities which might be traced in many a reincarnation.\nThe image, at any rate, is found in Ezekiel: \u201cBehold, the Assyrian was a\ncedar in Lebanon with fair branches and with a shadowing shroud and of an\nhigh stature, and his top was among the thick boughs\u201d (Ezekiel xxxi. 3).\n\nWhen all is said and done, is it so very foolish, as we sit\nwool-gathering and drinking in the sweetness of a summer\u2019s evening\namid the fragrance of our Veluvana, to let our thoughts run riot among\nthe many-coloured clouds of fancy, tracing some faint signs of kinship\nbetween the moods of men and the moods of plants? And if, in the\nindulgence of these whimsies, treating the search for knowledge, not\nas we English are supposed to take our pleasures\u2014_moult tristement_\u2014we\nshould chance to strike some tiny spark of truth hitherto hidden from us,\nmay we not call in Horace as counsel for the defence and ask:\n\n    \u201c\u2014\u2014ridentem dicere verum\n    Quid vetat?\u201d\n\nEnshrined, as it were, in a temple of secular oaks, and other grave and\nreverend trees, there stands a small mulberry tree, very humble and\ninconspicuous, having hardly as yet reached the dignity of a shrub. In\nthe late spring and early summer it is surrounded by flaming azaleas,\nwhite and deep purple lilacs, and other flowering Japanese maples, with\ntheir coral buds bursting into crimson leaves\u2014all the \u201cembroidery\u201d of\nthe Japanese forests, which look as if they had been planted to do\nhonour to the little waif, the radiance of whose pedigree, indeed,\noutshines all their glory. It is like the beggar-maid at the African King\nCophetua\u2019s court, but, like that humble maiden, worthy of royal favour\nabove all the flaunting beauties who surrounded that \u201cmagnanimous and\nillustrate\u201d monarch\u2019s throne; for that little tree, or tree that, by the\ngrace of Pomona, shall yet be, is an undoubted scion of the tree which\nShakespeare planted in the garden of the new home which he built for his\nprosperous retirement at Stratford-on-Avon. The story is complete in\nall its details. It has been told by Malone in his life, and recently\nby Sir Sidney Lee in the admirable new edition of his life of the poet,\nand is confirmed by what Dr. Johnson told Boswell when they visited Mrs.\nGastrell.\n\nIn the year 1597 Shakespeare, minded to end his days in his native town,\nas should become an Armiger of good means, bought New Place, which had\nbeen the most considerable house in Stratford; but the buildings were\nin ruins, and the poet built himself a new house with three gables, the\ncentre of which carried a shield with the spear, which he adopted as his\ncoat-of-arms. \u201cShakespeare paid for it,\u201d writes Sir Sidney Lee, \u201cwith two\ngardens, the then substantial sum of sixty pounds. A curious incident\npostponed legal possession. The vendor of the Stratford Manor House,\nWilliam Underhill, died suddenly of poison at another residence in the\ncounty\u2014Fillongley, near Coventry\u2014and the legal transfer to the dramatist\nwas left at the time incomplete. Underhill\u2019s eldest son Fulk died a minor\nat Warwick next year, and after his death he was proved to have murdered\nhis father. The family estates were thus in danger of forfeiture, but\nthey were suffered to pass to the felon\u2019s next brother Hercules, who, on\ncoming of age in 1602, completed in a new deed the transfer of New Place\nto Shakespeare.\u201d Sir Sidney goes on to say that the poet does not appear\nto have permanently settled at New Place until 1611. In the meantime, he\nhad been busy rebuilding the house and planning his garden. And now for\nthe history of the famous mulberry tree.\n\nSoon after his accession to the throne King James the First appears to\nhave been fascinated by the idea of establishing the cultivation of\nsilk in this country. There was a Frenchman, a native of Picardy, of\nthe name of Forest, who, in the year 1608, \u201ckept greate store of English\nsilk-worms at Greenwich, the which the King, with great pleasure, came\noften to see them worke; and of their silke he caused a piece of taffeta\nto be made\u201d (Malone\u2019s \u201cLife of Shakespeare\u201d). This led to the King\u2019s\nplanting many hundred thousand mulberry trees in this country, those\ndestined for the Midland Counties being distributed by a Frenchman named\nV\u00e9ron. But the King also planted a number of trees south of Hyde Park, at\nthe western end of what now are Buckingham Palace Gardens. These trees\ngave the name to the famous \u201cMulberry Gardens,\u201d of which I shall say a\nword later.\n\nIt seems that on his return from one of his annual excursions to London,\nShakespeare brought back with him a young mulberry tree, and with his own\nhands planted it in his garden, in which tradition says that he loved\nto work. What more natural than that the courtier-actor, who was as\nmuch petted by King James as he had been in the previous reign, should\nwish to enrich his Eden with a specimen of the latest botanical craze?\nAfter passing through various hands, the house passed back to Sir Hugh\nClopton, whose family had formerly possessed it. Sir Hugh pulled down\nShakespeare\u2019s three-gabled and ugly house, and built one more suitable\nto his position, where, in May, 1742, Malone tells us that he hospitably\nentertained Garrick, Macklin and Delane under the poet\u2019s own mulberry\ntree. In 1790 the father of Mr. Davenport\u2019s clerk, then ninety-five years\nold, told Malone that as a boy he lived in the next house to New Place,\nand that he had often eaten of the fruit of the tree, some branches of\nwhich overhung his father\u2019s garden; that it was planted by the poet, and\nthe first mulberry tree to be seen in the neighbourhood.\n\nIn 1752 Henry Talbot, son-in-law and executor of Sir Hugh Clopton, sold\nNew Place to a clergyman of the name of Gastrell, a man of fortune and\nVicar of Frodsham in Cheshire, apparently an ill-conditioned, quarrelsome\nman, who was soon in hot water with his neighbours. He had a dispute\nwith the town over assessments, in which, by the by, he was utterly in\nthe wrong, and he so resented the desire of sightseers to be admitted\nto view the famous mulberry tree, that to spite them and the townsfolk\nhe, in 1758, cut down the tree, his wife urging him to the impious act,\nas Dr. Johnson told Boswell. She, the Lady Macbeth of this \u201cwithered\nmurder,\u201d was a daughter of Sir Thomas Aston and sister to Mrs. Walmesley,\nthe wife of Johnson\u2019s first patron, and to the lovely Molly Aston, whose\nbeauty so stirred the inflammable Dr. Johnson that the groves and woods\nof Staffordshire and Derbyshire rang with its praises sung by an elderly\nTityrus in a bush-wig. The grand old amorist never wearied of celebrating\nthe charms of his lovely ladies. Even the Island of Skye was forced to\nresound with the perfections of his Thralia Dulcis in one of the worst\nSapphic odes that ever brought wrath upon a fifth-form boy.\n\nAt last the vandal parson, irritated beyond measure by his own bilious\nspite, declared that the house should pay no more assessments, so he\npulled it down and broke it up for sale of the building materials.\nAs Shakespeare\u2019s own house had been long since destroyed by Sir Hugh\nClopton, that did not signify so much, but the murder of the sacred tree\nwas another matter. We may be sure that when Macbeth and Lady Macbeth\nfinally turned their backs upon Stratford, their departure was not\nbemoaned by their neighbours.\n\nBlessed are the enthusiasts. It is true that they are sometimes egregious\nbores, but they are never so bad as the iconoclasts, and they do much\ngood in the world. Before the murder of the famous mulberry tree Edward\nCapell, the Shakespearian commentator, whose work rather fell under the\ncruel lash of Dr. Johnson, had managed to secure a cutting of it, which\nhe carried to Troston Hall, his place in Suffolk, and planted in his\ngarden. There is no easier tree to propagate than the mulberry; in that\nrespect, it is like the willow. Cut a branch of it and stick it in the\nground, and when the spring comes it will begin to show signs of life.\nLurking in mysterious hiding-places in the bark are myriads of tiny\nunsuspected buds, full of life and vigour, which in due season will send\ndown little slender fibres till they reach the soil, whence they derive\nnourishment; in time the buds will burst their prison of bark, and before\nmany years are past a new tree will bear fruit. So Mr. Capell\u2019s cutting\nthrove amazingly and gave birth to a little colony of offshoots. How or\nwhen I know not, Troston passed into the possession of Mr. Lofft, and\nhe, when about to let the place and disperse his collection of plants,\nwrote to Sir William Thiselton Dyer, October 6th, 1896, offering \u201csome\nscions of Shakespeare\u2019s tree\u201d to Kew. I at once wrote, begging for one of\nthese scions, that it might be planted in Buckingham Palace Gardens\u2014the\nsite of the old mulberry plantation of King James. What more appropriate\nhome could be found for it? There still stands, by the by, in the Palace\ngrounds a venerable mulberry tree which must be the one last relic of\nKing James\u2019s attempt at silk-worm cultivation.\n\nThe mulberry gardens were soon converted into a pleasure resort after\nthe manner of the Vauxhall and Cremorne of my youth. Both Evelyn and\nPepys mention them and give them the worst of characters. Evelyn calls\nthem (May 10th, 1654) \u201cthe only place of refreshment about the town\nfor persons of the best quality to be exceedingly cheated at, Cromwell\nand his partisans having shut up and seized on Spring Gardens, which\ntill now had been the usual rendezvous for ladies and gallants at this\nseason.\u201d Pepys, in his outspoken way, went further in his condemnation\nsome years later. His spades were always spades\u2014yet the sly old dog\nconfessed to having amused himself greatly there. There is in especial a\nvery characteristic account of a dinner there, given by Mr. Sheres, at\nwhich Pepys was introduced to a Spanish Olio, \u201ca very noble dish, such\nas I never saw better or any more of. This and the discourse he did give\nus of Spain, and description of the Escuriall, was a fine treat.\u201d The\nentertainment seems to have been managed with an eye to economy, for\nafter dinner they all went off to Brentford, ordering the waiter to set\non one side what had not been eaten, and they would come back and have\nit for supper. What would the head waiter at the \u201cRitz\u201d or the \u201cCarlton\u201d\nsay to such an order as that? But the evening was spoilt by the sudden\nindisposition of poor Mr. Sheres, the amphitryon of the Olio, probably\nthe cause of the trouble\u2014to which Pepys appears to have returned to the\n\u201cnoble dish\u201d with appetite, issuing unscathed from the temptation.\n\nSir Charles Sedley, the profligate wit and brilliant writer, of whom\nCharles the Second said that \u201cNature had given him a patent as Apollo\u2019s\nviceroy,\u201d and that \u201chis style, whether in writing or discourse, would be\nthe standard of the English tongue,\u201d wrote a play called the _Mulberry\nGarden_, which Pepys, a great playgoer and probably a good judge, damned\nwith faint praise. The \u201cTribullus of his age,\u201d as Dryden dubbed him in\nhis dedication to \u201cThe Assignation,\u201d for once had failed to score.\n\nThe story of Shakespeare\u2019s mulberry has led me far astray, and when we\nget to Evelyn and Pepys it is difficult not to wander on. But I must curb\nmy prolixity. I think I have said enough to show that the Troston plants\nhave a pedigree which it would defy all the sagacity and learning of\nthe College of Heralds to demolish. Kew, always generous, has continued\nto propagate from them, and as Sir David Prain, the present director,\nwrites to Sir Sidney Lee: \u201cWe have sent plants to places where there are\nmemorials of Shakespeare, and to people interested in matters relating to\nhim.\u201d It is to the kindness of Sir William Thiselton Dyer that I owe my\nspecial treasure.\n\nI do not know upon what authority is based the statement that the tree\nnow growing in New Place is a scion of the old tree\u2014probably it is. But,\nin any case, there are offshoots enough propagated by the pious care of\nKew from the Troston stock to do away with any fear lest the dynasty\nshould die out.\n\n\n\n\nRUSSIA\n\n\nThe time which I spent in Russia in 1863-64 was a transition period.\nTransition periods in history are always difficult to describe, and still\nmore difficult to explain. It is comparatively easy to tell the story of\nsome great concrete fact, a world-encompassing war, a revolution, the\nupheaval of a dynasty; but to set out the causes which, working during a\nperiod of externally unruffled calm, are brewing the hell-broth; to show\nthe hidden powers which are silently operating under the surface to bring\nabout a mighty change\u2014that is a task before which even those who have the\nbest information may well hesitate.\n\nEvery skilled newspaper correspondent will, without much difficulty,\nwrite a brilliant description of an earthquake with all the harrowing\nand soul-stirring horrors of the upheaval; but even the most experienced\nseismologist hardly dares to set on paper his estimate of the mysterious\nhidden forces, which, battling in the bowels of the earth, unseen and\nunsuspected, burst out in their wrath to wreak the tragedies of Lisbon\nor of Catania. So it is with transition periods in history. They are\ngenerally marked by peace and prosperity. There are often no outward\nsigns to sound the alarm that there is trouble ahead.\n\nThe political catastrophe, like the earthquake, comes without warning;\nlike the wrecking typhoon, it may be preceded by a dead calm. It will\nbe said with justice that these violent similes do not fit the case\nof Russia. There has been no great epidemic of violence, no fierce\nupheaval like that of the French Revolution. Individual murders there\nhave been. The pages of Russian history are stained by cruelty and\nmurder, culminating in the barbarous tragedy of the death of the Emperor\nAlexander the Second; but the changes which have taken place have been\nwrought without disturbing the atmosphere of the world at large. None the\nless, the revolution here has been far-reaching.\n\nThe Russia of to-day differs _toto coelo_ from the Russia of a hundred\nyears ago. Absolutism died with the Emperor Nicholas, and no Russian Tsar\nwill ever again be able to rule, or even try to rule, without taking\ninto account the will of his people. The relations between the sovereign\nand his subjects are for that very reason happier than they ever were,\nand the events of the last two years have shown that loyalty has not\nperished because autocracy has given up the ghost. The strength of Holy\nRussia to-day, in the face of the German war of aggression, lies in the\ndetermined attitude of the people\u2014in their pious love for their country,\nin their almost fanatical belief in their Church, and in their veneration\nfor the great White Tsar who is the head of that Church.\n\nThe nineteenth century opened darkly enough for Russia. The Emperor\nPaul had been on the throne for four years\u2014a gloomy, unhappy man, not\nwithout ability, not without the wish to do what was right, until his\nmind was unhinged by madness. The first acts of his reign were worthy\nof all praise. He showed kindly feeling, clemency, and even generosity\nto the Poles, setting free those that had been imprisoned, and making\nample provision for their heroic leader, Kosciusko. His edict enacting\nthat the succession to the throne should be determined, not by the will\nor caprice of the reigning sovereign, but by a fixed and certain law of\nprimogeniture, was a wise measure, calculated to save his country from\nthe intrigues and bloodshed under which she had suffered so long.\n\nBut the early days of his reign were embittered by the knowledge conveyed\nto him by his Vice-Chancellor, Count Bezbarooks, that it had been the\nintention of his mother, Catherine the Great, to exclude him from the\nsuccession in favour of his own son, Alexander. Apart from that, he was\na haunted man. Haunted by the murder of his father, Peter the Third,\nknowing full well that if the hand was the hand of Orloff, the dictating\nvoice was the voice of his mother, Catherine.\n\n[Illustration: THE EMPEROR PAUL I.\n\n_From a contemporary Print._\n\n[_To face p. 248._]\n\nHaunted by suspicion, unable to trust any living soul\u2014if a curtain\nrustled, stirred by the wind, a murderer stood hidden behind it; if two\ncourtiers spoke in a whisper, it was a conspiracy; a cough was the signal\nto a confederate; once when the Empress was talking in a low voice to a\nforeign ambassador, he bade her speak up, saying: \u201cYou may be prepared to\nplay the part of Catherine, but I would have you remember that in me you\nwill not find a Peter the Third.\u201d A terrible speech, showing what he knew\nof the past, what he dreaded in the future!\n\nHis wife, his ministers, his officers, were all under suspicion. He\nlooked upon his Court as a hotbed of treason, conspiracy and murder.\nIt was not to be wondered at that in a brain so tortured, the seeds of\nhereditary madness should have been swift to germinate. Then came all\nthose grotesquely savage edicts which could only be accounted for by\ninsanity. The wearing of trousers, or of a round hat, were crimes to be\npunished by the knut; short hair without pigtails constituted a criminal\noffence; ladies must stop their carriages and step out into the snow\nand mud to salute him when his sleigh or carriage came in sight. Three\nladies who disobeyed the order\u2014one of whom was hurrying to fetch a\ndoctor to her dying husband\u2014were seized by the police, carried off to the\nguard-house, stripped, shaved and whipped. It was clear that the man was\nas mad as Bedlam, but there were no Anticyr\u00e6 for Tsars.\n\nRussia took the law into her own hands. A conspiracy was formed,\nwith Count Peter Pahlen, Minister President and Military Governor of\nPetersburg, at its head, to put an end to despotism\u2014a cruel weapon in\nthe hands of a lunatic. The conspirators were men of the highest rank\nby birth and by virtue of office\u2014Pahlen himself, prime minister and\nthe trusted friend of his Sovereign, who delighted in loading him with\nhonours. In the night of the 24th of March they forced their way into\nthe Michailow Palace, surprised the unhappy Emperor in his bedroom and\nstrangled him with his own military sash. He fought with the demoniac\nfury of a madman, for he was of strong and muscular build, and it was\nno easy matter to overpower him. He tried to burst into the Empress\u2019s\napartments, which adjoined his, but here his distrust of her proved his\nundoing\u2014he had caused the door which led to her rooms to be hermetically\nfastened. His suspicions closed to him the one possibility of escape, the\none refuge with the wife who would not have failed him in his sore need.\n\nPaul\u2019s foreign policy was feeble. He detested the French Revolution,\nand yet threw himself into the arms of Napoleon; at other times he was\nprepared to flirt with England. The most noteworthy of his acts was the\nedict in regard to the succession to which I have alluded above. Its\nimportance lay especially in the fact that it drove the first nail into\nthe coffin of absolutism. It is evident that an \u201cabsolute\u201d monarch, who\nhas been deprived of his omnipotence in any one particular, ceases _ipso\nfacto_ to be flawlessly absolute. Certainly, absolutism did not finally\ndie till fifty-five years later. But a rift in the panoply of the Tsars\nhad been made by the Emperor Paul.\n\nI heard much about the reign of the mad Tsar when I was at St. Petersburg\nin 1863. There were still some old people who could talk about those\ndays. Count Peter Pahlen had been long dead; after the murder he betook\nhimself to his country place and disappeared from public life. But I had\nto represent my chief at the funeral of his brother, who commanded the\ncavalry against Napoleon in 1812, and with a still younger brother, Count\nNicholas Pahlen, I was intimate in London for several years. Another\nlink with that time was old Countess Rasumowski, who had been divorced\nand banished from the Court, but forgiven and taken into favour again\nby Paul. It was one of his acts of clemency. She was sister-in-law of\nBeethoven\u2019s friend to whom he dedicated the famous quartets. How old she\nwas I know not, but she was a great figurehead in Russian society, and on\nher name-day all St. Petersburg, from the Emperor downwards, flocked to\nher house. I had to go, as my chief had a cold, and I represented him.\nThe dear naughty old lady was sitting in state, dressed all in white like\na bride, with a wreath of pink roses round her head. That and the rouge\nwith which she had plastered her poor withered cheeks made her look quite\nantediluvian. She must certainly have been near a hundred. The memory\nof Count Ribeaupierre, who was Grand Maitre de la Cour, and with whom I\nwas also acquainted, went even further back. He had been page of honour\nto the Empress Catherine, who died in 1796. These are names only worth\nmentioning, in order to show that some of my impressions of the unhappy\nTsar\u2019s reign were drawn at first-hand.\n\nJudging from the accounts given by the few old people who themselves\nremembered those times, and from the talk of younger men who had heard\nfrom their own fathers\u2014perhaps actors in the crime\u2014the whole history\nof that midnight murder, the outrage did not arouse any excitement\ncommensurate with the horror of the deed. Men had become callous; they\nhad grown used to seeing the rulers of the reigning dynasty disappear\nby violent or mysterious deaths. What really would have startled them\nwould have been to hear that a Tsar had died a peaceful death in his bed,\nfor murder had come to be looked upon as the natural end of a Romanoff.\nOn the morning of the 24th of March St. Petersburg, awakening to the\ngruesome news of the night, heaved a sigh of relief, and went about its\nbusiness. That business was the accession of a new Tsar.\n\nAlexander has been accused of being privy to his father\u2019s murder, but\nfrom all the evidence which I was able to gather, this was a calumny.\nThere is no doubt that he was in touch with the conspirators, and that he\nwas a consenting party to his father\u2019s removal from the throne. Paul\u2019s\nstate was such that not even a son could wish to see his father remain\nvested with the terrible power of the autocrat of all the Russias. But\nmurder, let alone parricide, was not in his nature. All the acts of his\nreign gave the lie to so hideous a charge. The man who set free the\npolitical exiles in Siberia, who abolished torture from the criminal code\nof his country, who made it illegal to hold sales of serfs, who helped\nto extend the blessings of education by founding universities, was a\nwise and humane ruler. Even the policy which made him countenance the\nconspiracy against his father was in the interests of humanity. Had he\nknown the extremity to which that plot was to be pushed, we may be sure\nthat he would have fought rather than not interpose his authority.\n\nAt the outset of his reign the young Emperor was hypnotized by the\nglamour of the fame of Napoleon, who was then First Consul and seemed to\nbe destined for the dictatorship of the world. But that crime, and worse\nthan crime, that mistake, as Talleyrand put it\u2014the murder of the Duc\nd\u2019Enghien at Vincennes in March, 1804\u2014aroused the greatest indignation\nin the mind of Alexander, and the Russian charg\u00e9 d\u2019affaires at Paris\nwas instructed to express that feeling in no measured terms. The First\nConsul\u2019s reply was, in effect, a request that the Emperor would mind his\nown business. A further note was sent, recapitulating the claims and\nremonstrances of Russia, and M. d\u2019Oubril asked for his passports.\n\nThe tragedy of Vincennes had provoked the anger of Alexander; the\ncoronation of Napoleon as Emperor by the Pope summoned from Rome to\ndo his bidding, on the 19th of November in the same year, called up a\ntotally different but no less hostile feeling. That a Corsican adventurer\nshould robe himself in the Imperial purple and pretend to equal rank with\nhimself, was something which the proud Romanoff could not brook. The\ndisgust and indignation engendered by Napoleon\u2019s cruelty and pretensions\nwere enhanced by his territorial encroachments. Alexander threw himself\nheart and soul into the combination against the French, and Europe was\nonce more ablaze with war until the Peace of Tilsit in 1807, when on\nboard a raft anchored in the river Niemen, the two Emperors fell into one\nanother\u2019s arms, kissed, and swore eternal friendship.\n\nIt would be outside of the purview of my task to dwell upon this event\nwere it not for the interest attaching to the secret treaty entered\ninto upon that occasion, an instrument the conditions of which were not\nmade public until the year 1834, but which so clearly illustrated the\nambitions of both nations. Napoleon undertook that Russia should become\npossessed of European Turkey, with Constantinople and the outlet into\nthe Mediterranean, and pursue her conquests in Asia as far as she chose,\nIndia being, of course, understood as the objective. France was to have\nEgypt, Malta, the assistance of the Russian fleet in the capture of\nGibraltar\u2014the navigation of the Mediterranean being confined to French,\nRussian, Spanish and Italian ships. There were other provisions and much\ndetail, but the above were the chief points. The amusing feature of this\nstill-born treaty was that neither party honestly meant business. Each\nthought that he was jockeying the other, with the firm intention of\ncarrying out no more of it than was for his own advantage. Tomini, who\nwas aide-de-camp to Napoleon,[19] wrote and told Paris that Alexander\nhad been made to swallow a strong dose of opium, which would keep him\nquiet for some time, while Boutourlin told St. Petersburg that the terms\nof the treaty imposed such liabilities upon Russia that it must only be\nlooked upon as a means of gaining time.\n\nAlexander was present at the meeting of the German princes called\ntogether by Napoleon at Erfurt in the following year. Napoleon had\nprovided for the entertainment of what it would be irony to call his\nguests, by summoning from Paris the famous Talma with his troupe of\nactors. One of the plays chosen was Voltaire\u2019s _\u0152dipe_, and when the\nplayer came to the line:\u2014\n\n    \u201cL\u2019amiti\u00e9 d\u2019un grand homme est un bienfait des Dieux,\u201d\n\nthe gigantic Russian Emperor leant over and theatrically seizing\nNapoleon\u2019s hand, said \u201cJe n\u2019ai jamais mieux senti!\u201d The stage effect\nmissed fire, for the great little friend was quietly dozing, and had\nto be aroused to consciousness of what was happening. The \u201cparterre de\nRois,\u201d the \u201cpit of Kings,\u201d smiled and applauded, but the demonstration\nwas a fiasco.\n\nThe \u201cbienfait des Dieux\u201d was not long lived. In four short years after\nthe meeting at Erfurt Napoleon made the greatest mistake of his life. He\nwas at Moscow, and there we may leave him, standing on the Sparrow Hill\nin his favourite attitude, his arms folded, his brows bent, looking upon\nthe barbaric splendour of the fantastic pink towers and battlements of\nthe Kremlin, waiting for the delivery of the keys of the citadel\u2014the keys\nwhich never came.\n\nThe mystery of the burning of Moscow will never be cleared up. Was the\ncity fired by Rostopchin? Did he even connive at the deed? He himself\ndenied it in a pamphlet published at Paris in 1823, but in my day nobody\nwith whom I spoke on the subject believed him. The general opinion was\nthat this great act of patriotism, which was the beginning of Napoleon\u2019s\ndownfall, was indeed his work. He burnt his own country house and\ndestroyed his property, so that nothing should fall into the hands of\nthe enemy\u2014what more consistent than that he should deprive them of all\nsupplies and all communication by burning the sacred capital after\nremoving as many of its inhabitants as was possible. I have called the\nfire an act of patriotism. I ought to have said Russian patriotism. The\nattachment of the Russian to the soil is something sacred. The Mujik\nhas two religions\u2014the religion of God and the religion of the soil.\nHoly Russia is to him not a mere jingle of words, and Rostopchin, when\nhe punished the sacrilege of the invader, knew that he could count upon\nhaving with him the most sacred feelings of his fellow-countrymen. He\nwas, indeed, the typical Russian of his time. The placard which he put\non the village church, the only building on the property which he left\nstanding, is characteristic:\n\n    \u201cFor eight years I have been embellishing this place, and I\n    have lived here happily in the bosom of my family. At your\n    approach the seventeen hundred and twenty inhabitants of this\n    property are leaving it, and I set fire to my house that it may\n    not be polluted by your presence. Frenchmen! I have left you my\n    two houses in Moscow, with their contents worth half a million\n    roubles; here you will find nothing but ashes.\u201d\n\nThis, of a surety, was a brave, a determined and patriotic man\u2014a true\nRussian. He had been a great favourite of the Emperor Paul, and by\nhis sage advice saved that unhappy man from many follies. It was said\nthat had he been at St. Petersburg on the fatal 24th of March, 1801,\nthe murder might not have been committed. During the early years of\nAlexander\u2019s reign Rostopchin was out of favour. But there came a time\nwhen the Emperor became aware of his worth and courage, and made him Lord\nChamberlain and Governor of Moscow. He was a descendant of the Great\nMongol warrior of the twelfth century, Genghis Khan, and so he described\nhimself in the following lines:\n\n    \u201cJe suis n\u00e9 Tatare,\n    Je voulais \u00eatre Romain.\n    Les Fran\u00e7ais m\u2019ont fait barbare,\n    Et les Russes Georges Dandin.\u201d\n\nThere is an excellent article on Rostopchin in the \u201cBiographie G\u00e9n\u00e9rale,\u201d\nthe book that Carlyle used to prize so highly.\n\nThe Emperor Alexander the First died in 1825 in circumstances which\ngave rise to some suspicion. He had left St. Petersburg in the month of\nDecember, with the Empress, who was ailing, his object being to take\nher to a warmer climate. He seems to have been for some time depressed\nand haunted by the sinister idea that his death was not far off. He was\nalways more or less dominated by the spell of mysticism, and, indeed, it\nwas under the influence of a mystic, a certain Madame de Kr\u00fcdener, that\nhe was induced to found the Holy Alliance. Before leaving St. Petersburg\nit is said that he went to the Church of the Convent of St. Alexander\nNevski and caused a funeral service to be read. As he left the town he\nstopped his carriage to cast a last yearning look upon the city where he\nhad been born and which he loved so well. He left the Empress at Taganrog\non the Sea of Azov, and went to the Crimea, where he caught a fever,\nhurried back to Taganrog and died, not before he was made aware of the\ndiscovery of a plot to murder him and the whole Imperial Family.\n\nIt is difficult to understand why any Russian should have wished his\ndeath. Educated as he had been by his Swiss tutor, the famous La Harpe,\nin the most liberal principles, in his domestic policy he devoted\nhimself heart and soul to the good of his people. Early in his reign\nhe abolished serfdom in Esthonia, Livonia and Kurland. He introduced\nreforms into the older universities and created new ones. He promoted the\nstudy of science, and gave his active patronage to all the educational\ninstitutions in the Empire. He did away with the so-called Secret\nTribunal, a sort of Star Chamber, for the arbitrary trial of political\noffences. Commerce and industry were special objects of his care. He\nbuilt new harbours and made roads, and in 1818 extended to the peasants\nthe right of establishing manufactories and commercial undertakings, a\nprivilege which up to his time had been confined to the upper classes.\n\nIf, later in his reign, he seemed rather inclined to go back upon these\nliberal principles, it must be ascribed to the poor and unsympathetic\nreturn with which his endeavours were met. The country was hardly ripe\nfor his audacious programme\u2014certainly not for parliamentary government,\nwhich at one time he had in view. His own wish was to substitute a\nconstitution for the absolutism which had existed up to his day. He was\nbefore his time. Napoleon might sneer at his duplicity and call him \u201cun\nGrec du bas Empire,\u201d but he recognized his talent and his capacity for\ngoverning. The vast majority of his people adored the handsome giant, but\ntreachery and treason were plotting underground, and rebellion broke out,\nas we shall see, as soon as his soul had left his body. That sorrow he\nwas mercifully spared, though the knowledge that it was coming arrived to\nembitter his last days.\n\n[Illustration: THE EMPEROR ALEXANDER I.\n\n_From an engraving after a portrait by Wolkoff._\n\n[_To face p. 260._]\n\nThe Emperor Nicholas came to the throne at a moment when a political\nstorm of the greatest violence was ready to burst. More than one division\nof the army was known to have been tampered with and to be disaffected,\nand many of the chief nobles were conspiring for a constitutional\ngovernment. The warning\u2014or was it more than a warning?\u2014received by the\ndead Emperor was sufficient to prove this, and there were at that moment\nspecial circumstances in the succession to the throne which were markedly\nfavourable to revolution.\n\nAlexander, deeply imbued, as I have said, with mysticism, had a\nforeboding that he would not be long-lived. He deposited with the Council\nof the Empire a packet, the seals of which were not to be broken without\nhis command except in the event of his death, in which case it was to\nbe opened at once and acted upon forthwith. As he died without issue,\nthe Imperial Crown would, in accordance with the law of succession\nfixed by his father Paul, devolve upon his next brother, Constantine.\nHe, however, was unwilling to reign. He preferred to remain as he was,\ngovernor and practically sovereign of Poland. Tsar of all the Russias he\nwould not be. The mysterious packet was found to contain a letter from\nhim, renouncing his claim to the throne in favour of his younger brother\nNicholas. As soon as this was known, Nicholas most scrupulously did all\nin his power to induce his brother to alter his determination. He even\nwent so far as to proclaim Constantine Emperor. The latter, however, in\nspite of repeated appeals from his brother, held to his fixed purpose,\nand Nicholas became Emperor against his own will and endeavours.\n\nThe conspirators found in these difficulties a rare opportunity for the\nattempt to carry out their plans. The interregnum had lasted fifteen\ndays, and it was not till the 24th of December that Nicholas took\npossession of the Imperial Palace. On the 25th of December he read to the\ncouncil the final renunciation of the Crown by Constantine, and on the\nfollowing day he was proclaimed Emperor. That day the conspirators and\nthe rebels assembled in the huge square\u2014the Isaac Place\u2014and shouted for\nConstantine and \u201chis bride, the Constitution,\u201d the soldiers believing\nin their innocence that \u201cConstitution\u201d was the name of the Grand Duke\u2019s\nreal wife. Nicholas, unarmed, but attended by General Milarodowitch,\nthe Governor of St. Petersburg, and a battalion of faithful grenadiers,\nand accompanied by M. de la Ferronays, the French Ambassador, left the\nPalace and faced the rebels. The general, who was greatly beloved by the\nwhole army, went forward and tried to speak with them, but he was at once\nbayoneted and shot.\n\nThe new Emperor showed the greatest courage and patience, and it was\nnot until near nightfall that, the rebels having fired the first shot,\nhe ordered his artillery to put an end to the trouble. Some two hundred\nmen were killed by grape and canister. The five ringleaders were taken\nprisoners, tried and hanged some months later. One of the Princes\nTroubetzkoi, who had been foremost in his threats against the Emperor\u2019s\nlife, being sent for by the Tsar, threw himself at his feet and implored\nhis pardon. \u201cSit down,\u201d said Nicholas, \u201cand write to your wife at my\ndictation.\u201d The Prince sat down and the Tsar dictated: \u201cMy life is\nspared.\u201d The Prince was so overcome that he could write no more. \u201cNow\nseal your letter and go,\u201d said the Tsar; \u201ctake your life, and spend it in\nremorse and repentance.\u201d\n\nThe remainder of the conspirators, men of noble family, were sent to\nSiberia\u2014so many of them as were still alive were pardoned and set free\nby that generous and noble sovereign, Alexander the Second, on his\naccession to the throne thirty years later. With the Dekabrists, the\n\u201cmen of December,\u201d as they were called, the cry for Constantine was a\nmere pretext\u2014the seizing of a possible chance. The real object was the\nabolition of Royalty and the proclaiming of a constitution. Nicholas\nhas sometimes been accused of taking too stern measures against the\nDekabrists. With that judgment I cannot agree. He was attacked with armed\nforce, his murder and that of his whole family being the object; he did\nnot strike the first blow. He could not expect to quell a formidable\nrevolution in the army with rose-water. It was no sudden, passionate\noutburst of a people aching under the sense of wrong. The murderous\nplot, long meditated and carefully prepared, had been executed in cold\nblood. His brother lay dead at Taganrog. He and his dearly-loved boy,\nwhom he had left entrusted to sure hands in the palace, were to have\nbeen the next victims. The whole conspiracy lay revealed as in an open\nbook. It was all the more dangerous in that it was not a mob riot, but a\nconspiracy of men of high birth, education and position, corrupting the\narmy itself. Put yourselves in his place. That he was horror-stricken at\nthe massacre was proved by the pathetic cry which he uttered to M. de la\nFerronays, the French Ambassador, who never left his side throughout that\ncruel day: \u201cAh! quel commencement de r\u00e8gne.\u201d It was to him the skeleton\nat the feast throughout his life.\n\nShortly after his accession to the throne the Duke of Wellington was\nsent to Russia as special ambassador, nominally to congratulate him, but\nalso with the object of inducing the new Tsar to adopt a conciliatory\nattitude towards the Sultan, between whom and the Greeks there was much\ntrouble. The irony of Fate made the Duke take with him as Secretary of\nEmbassy, Lord Fitzroy Somerset (Lord Raglan), the general whose victories\ntwenty-nine years later in the defence of Turkey were to break the proud\nheart of that same Tsar. It was during these negotiations that Nicholas\nformed his estimate of the Duke\u2019s character, and caused him to cherish\nin his heart the memory of the great soldier as of a model to be copied.\nIt was then, too, that he first declared that he had no higher ambition\nthan to be a \u201cgentleman,\u201d using the English word; and whatever may have\nbeen his faults, whatever his ambition, a truthful, honest gentleman he\nremained to his life\u2019s end. To the Duke of Wellington he made no secret\nof his determination to allow no foreign Power, or Powers, to interfere\nbetween himself and the Porte. That was his lifelong consistent policy.\nIf Nicholas was reactionary, if he hated education and opposed the spread\nof science, if he strained the powers of absolutism almost to the\nbreaking point, he did so openly, and it was the tragedy of his accession\nwhich poisoned his many fine qualities.\n\nDuring his reign the ship of State was seldom in smooth waters. He sent\nPrince Mentschikoff to Persia to announce his accession to the throne,\nwith instructions to enter into negotiations for the settlement of the\nfrontier questions which were in dispute. If the maintenance of peace\nbe the proper aim of diplomacy, Mentschikoff was not a successful\nambassador. His mission to Persia ended in war, as did his embassy to\nTurkey more than a quarter of a century later. The Russians, under Prince\nPaskiewitch, were victorious, and the province of Erivan was added to\nRussia.\n\nPoland was the chief thorn in his side in 1828; two years after his\ncoronation at Moscow he caused himself to be crowned King of Poland at\nWarsaw. The ceremonial was gorgeous, and the King-Emperor, invoking the\nSupreme Majesty of Heaven, prayed that he might govern for the happiness\nof his people. He also wrote to the Pope, thanking His Holiness for the\nreception given to the Tsarevitch, promising to \u201cprotect the well-being\nof his Catholic subjects respecting their convictions,\u201d etc. That he was\nsincere in these undertakings admits of little doubt. Unfortunately he\nwas represented at Warsaw by his brother Constantine, who, as his elder,\nand as having renounced the throne in his favour, had more influence than\nan ordinary governor would have had. The revolution in Poland broke out\nin 1830, and Prince Sanguszko, the head of one of the noblest families in\nthe country, people whom I afterwards knew, was one of the leaders. He\nwas taken prisoner and degraded, and his estates were forfeited. It was\nsaid that when he was sent to Siberia, the Emperor, with his own hand,\nwrote that the journey was to be made on foot. When I was in Russia many\nyears later, I had reason to believe that this was not true. The troubles\nin Poland lasted for many years\u2014indeed, were never extinguished\u2014and they\nled to gross exaggerations.\n\nI was in Paris as a small boy in 1845, and I well remember hearing all\nthe horrors that were hawked about there, and all the stories of cruelty.\nEspecially I recollect one day how when certain news came to one of the\nPrince de la Moskowa\u2019s concerts\u2014he was the son of Marshal Ney and an\naccomplished musician and conductor\u2014the pious Roman Catholics present\nlashed themselves into a fury of emotion over the sufferings of the nuns\nof St. Basil. It was affirmed that they had been stripped naked, flogged\nand tortured, and that when they were starving and begged for food their\nmouths were filled with earthworms. Those were the lies by which the\nindignation of their co-religionists was aroused by Polish agents. The\nbest informed people did not believe them. That the Poles were cruelly\ntreated, and harshly misgoverned, was certainly to be laid to the charge\nof the Grand Duke Constantine. He had inherited the still-living hatreds\nand the memory of Moscow in the beginning of the seventeenth century.\nThere were old scores to be settled, and his doctrine was an eye for an\neye, the _lex talionis_ in its greatest rigidity. It would have been a\nhard matter in any case for the Tsar to bring Russia and Poland into\nharmony. With Constantine at Warsaw it was impossible\u2014yet the Grand Duke\nhad married a Polish lady.\n\nThe affairs of Poland were an apple of discord between France and Russia.\nThe military successes of Nicholas were really confined to the Persian\ncampaign, for although in his subsequent operations on the Danube in\n1828 (poor Wallachia and Moldavia), his troops had some success, and\neven took Varna, the expedition served no great purpose, while it\neffectually showed the Tsar\u2019s incapacity as a leader, for having taken\nthe field in person, he had to return to St. Petersburg a pronounced\nfailure\u2014recognized as such by his own generals.\n\nA civil triumph was the codification of the Russian law, begun in\n1827 and finished in 1846, by which the peasants greatly benefited;\nwas the chief feat in internal administration by which his reign was\ndistinguished.\n\nIn 1844 the Emperor Nicholas came to England and visited Queen Victoria\nat Windsor. The object of his visit was twofold. The Queen had received\nLouis Philippe, whom he hated and despised, and he was determined to see\nwhether he could not counteract the wily old King\u2019s influence. Secondly,\nthe Convention of London of 1841 placed the Ottoman dominions under the\nprotection of the Powers, and this manifestly did not suit the Tsar\u2019s\nbook. He had his own views as to the Sublime Porte, and would brook no\ninterference between himself and the Sultan, whose Christian subjects he\nwished to place under his own shield. That was for him a principle of\nreligion. It was a momentous visit, destined to bear bitter fruit ten\nyears later.\n\nSir Robert Peel was at this time Prime Minister, and Lord Aberdeen\nSecretary of State for Foreign Affairs. It was only natural that the\nForeign Secretary should have much conversation with his Sovereign\u2019s\nillustrious guest, and Lord Aberdeen was, by his gentle and conciliatory\nmanners, the man, above all others, fitted to charm the Tsar, who to the\nlast retained an affectionate admiration for him. Perhaps Lord Aberdeen\u2019s\ndeportment towards the Emperor was a little too deferential; at any rate,\nhe left Nicholas convinced that the Russian views as to Turkey were\nshared by the British Government, and it was with unfeigned joy that in\n1852 the Emperor learnt of the accession to power as Prime Minister of\na man whom he flattered himself that he had talked over to his way of\nthinking, and whose peace-loving disposition would never allow him to go\nto war on behalf of the autonomy of Turkey. That he honestly believed\nthat he had had such an assurance from Lord Aberdeen cannot be doubted.\n\nIn its main features the story of the Crimean War will never be\nforgotten. The storming of the heights of the Alma, which Nicholas\nbelieved to be impregnable, the beating back of the tidal wave of Russian\ninfantry at Inkermann, when my old friend, Billy Hewitt, ordered to spike\nhis guns and retire, answered, \u201cSpike be damned!\u201d and went on firing till\nthey were red hot and the enemy were in retreat\u2014just one gallant deed\namong many of that bloody battle; above all, the heroic charge of the six\nhundred at Balaclava, are feats of arms which must set men on fire as\nlong as they have pulses to quicken. But how many men are there nowadays\nwho could give any account of the causes which led to the war?\n\nThe quarrels between the monks of the Greek and Latin churches in\nPalestine seem trivial enough reason to have started so great a\ncatastrophe. The custody of the key of the Church of the Nativity at\nBethlehem, the right to worship in the Church of the Virgin near the\nGarden of Gethsemane, and the custody of the Sanctuaries of Jerusalem,\nwere the first pretexts of hostilities. That there was in the mind of the\nEmperor Nicholas a far wider-reaching motive, hardly suspected perhaps\neven by himself, will be seen presently.\n\nIn the year 1740 a treaty concluded between Louis XV. and the Porte,\npractically gave the care of the Sacred Places to the Latin Church. To\nthe Greeks certain similar concessions had been made later on by firmans,\nor edicts of the Sultan, which, however, could not technically be held to\nover-ride the solemn treaty with France. Louis Napoleon took up the cause\nof the Latins, and his ambassador, M. de Lavalette, insisted with some\nviolence on the exclusive rights of the Latin monks. The French people\nat large probably cared little for these squabbles between the rival\ncreeds. But to Louis Napoleon they furnished an opportunity for securing\nto himself, as Defender of the Faith, a powerful friend in the Church. He\nwished to arrogate to himself those sacred rights of primogeniture which\nhad been the pride of the Kings of France. It was, moreover, an outlet\nfor that feverish activity which his home policy had made a necessity for\nhim. In the month of December, 1852, a silver star, graven with the arms\nof France, was deposited in the church at Bethlehem with much pompous\nceremonial, attended by the Turkish officials, and the Latin Patriarch\nwith triumphant joy received the coveted keys of the church and Holy\nManger.\n\nThe fury of the Tsar was terrible. The insult to his Church, which he\nloved, and the affront to himself, were enhanced by the source from\nwhich they came. He had a special horror of all revolutions, pursued to\nhis dying day by the nightmare of the conspiracy of December, 1825, the\ntragedy which had inaugurated his reign. The revolutions of France were\nodious to him. Never would he, in the fullest sense, accept either Louis\nPhilippe or Louis Napoleon as sovereigns equal with himself. Neither of\nthem would he address as \u201cMonsieur mon fr\u00e8re.\u201d\n\nAnd now behold an upstart who was buffeting and opposing him in what he\nlooked upon as the most sacred of his Imperial duties as head of the\nChurch! The spiritual ambitions of the Tsars were hereditary. His father,\nthe Emperor Paul, had been anxious even to don the priestly robes and\ncelebrate the mass; but his wise and brave friend Rostopchin stopped him\nwith a clever conceit. \u201cSire,\u201d said he, \u201cyou have no rights as priest. A\npriest must only marry once; you have been twice married\u2014you cannot be a\npriest.\u201d The mad Emperor was convinced and refrained.\n\nOn another occasion the Metropolitan boldly stopped him when he tried to\nenter the Holy of Holies. Although not a priest, the Russian Tsar is head\nof his Church, much as the English King is the head of ours, and Nicholas\ntook the position very seriously. It was, moreover, intolerable to him\nthat the firmans which had been wrung from the Porte in favour of the\nOrthodox monks should be set aside as mere scraps of paper, on account\nof the more binding powers of a treaty, musty with age, extorted more\nthan a century previously by French chicane from an unwilling or callous\nSultan. He was determined to resist, and Prince Mentschikoff was sent on\na special embassy to Constantinople to demand compliance with the Russian\nclaims on behalf of the Greek Church.\n\nDeeply religious and full of zeal for his Church, Nicholas was animated\nby the same spirit which spurred on the old Crusaders to face dangers and\nhardships of which we in these days of easy transport can have no idea,\nin order to wrest from the Moslem those very shrines for the guardianship\nof which he was striving. No one can doubt that he was honest and sincere\nin his pious aims. But there was something more. How could he divest\nhimself of the hereditary ambition of Russia? It is true that in his\nconversations with Sir Hamilton Seymour he spoke only of the occupation,\nas distinct from the seizure, of Constantinople; but if he once succeeded\nin establishing himself there in the guise of Protector of the Greek\nChurch throughout the Sultan\u2019s dominions, would his people ever allow\nhim to give up the city upon which the covetous eyes of all the Russians\nhad so long been fixed? Would he even be willing to do so himself? Only\nthink what it meant: the Black Sea changed from the position of an inland\nlake; access to the Mediterranean through the Straits of the Bosphorus\nand the Dardanelles; the potentiality of a huge navy ready to dart out\nupon the world from hidden and unapproachable harbours; a strategic base\nfrom which to attack all the maritime Powers of Europe. The temptation\nwould be great indeed. Kinglake summed up the position in a striking and\neloquent passage:\n\n\u201cThe strife of the Church was no fable, but, after all, though near and\ndistinct, it was only the lesser truth. A crowd of monks, with bare\nforeheads, stood quarrelling for a key at the sunny gates of a church in\nPalestine; but beyond and above, towering high in the misty North, men\nsaw the ambition of the Tsars.\u201d\n\nIt is not the first time in history that religion has been made to\nsubserve the needs of politics. Martin Luther was spiritually sincere in\nhis attack upon the clerical abuses of the Roman Catholic Church; but the\nsuccess of the movement was due to the adhesion of the semi-barbarous\nGerman princes, who cared little for religion, but caught eagerly at the\nchance of shaking off the temporal yoke of Rome in their states. So it\nwas in this case. Nicholas was no doubt honestly eager to establish among\nthe Sacred Places of Palestine the supremacy of the Church that he loved;\nbut he knew full well that even the most agnostic of his Boyarin would be\nready to draw the sword if Constantinople was the prize dangled before\nhis eyes.\n\nOne man, the most considerable personage in the Empire after the Tsar\nhimself, cared but little for the religious side of the contention. That\nman was Count Nesselrode, the Chancellor. The squabbles between the Greek\nand Latin monks interested him in no way, for he belonged to neither\nfaith. Curiously enough, he was a member of the Church of England,\nhaving, in December, 1780, been baptized in the Bay of Biscay on board\nan English man-of-war which had given hospitality to his parents, his\nfather being at the time Russian Minister at Lisbon; and in our communion\nhe gratefully remained till his death, continuing from time to time, as\noccasion served, never less than once a year, as I have been assured, to\nattend the services of the English Church. However indifferent he might\nbe to the claims of Orthodoxy, he had, nevertheless, to obey the dictates\nof his Imperial\u2014and imperious\u2014master; and, of course, to him, as to every\nRussian, Constantinople was an irresistible lure; still, there is no\ndoubt that his attitude in regard to the war was but lukewarm. He would\nhave avoided it had it been possible.\n\nThe historic embassy of Prince Mentschikoff showed the Tsar\u2019s hand. The\nmatter at issue was no longer one confined to the custody of a key,\nhowever sacred, or to the position of the feet on a crucifix. In the\nGreek crucifix the feet are nailed separately; in the Latin crucifix the\nfeet are crossed. The Greek crucifix in the church at Gethsemane was one\nof the matters in dispute. The Latin monks claimed that the crucifix of\nthe Greeks should give place to one with the feet crossed; but these\nbecame minor questions when, in the most arbitrary fashion, the prince\ndemanded that the whole of the Christian subjects of the Sultan should\nbe placed under the protectorate of the Tsar. What this meant will be\nunderstood when we remember that it was computed that there were some\nthirteen millions of these out of a total of thirty-six millions of\npeople, and thus over something approaching a third of the Sultan\u2019s\nsubjects the Tsar was to be King. The Porte, well advised by Lord\nStratford de Redcliffe, peremptorily refused. The Turk was ready to make\nsome concession as regarded the Holy Places, but he would not renounce\nhis sovereignty over any portion of his people. Foiled at every step,\nPrince Mentschikoff left Constantinople, and the Tsar had once more to\nsee himself outwitted and bested by his old enemy, Lord Stratford.\n\nLord Stratford de Redcliffe has often been accused of having been the\ncause of the Crimean War, that great calamity in which, as Lord Salisbury\nsaid many years afterwards, \u201cwe backed the wrong horse.\u201d Nothing could be\nmore false than this charge laid against Lord Stratford, and yet probably\nnineteen out of every twenty Englishmen, imperfectly instructed as usual\nin foreign affairs, believe it to this day. The man really responsible\nfor the war was the French Emperor, who, as so often happened during the\nnineteen years of his reign, was in sore need of the counter-irritant of\na foreign war to calm the fever of his own subjects at home. Never was it\nmore needful to him than at the moment when the affairs of Turkey and the\nreligious demands of the Emperor Nicholas began to be discussed in the\nchanceries of Europe.\n\nFrenchmen, and, above all, Parisians (do not forget the old saying,\n\u201cParis c\u2019est la France\u201d), were still under the terrible impression of\nthe massacres of the _coup d\u2019\u00e9tat_ of the 2nd to the 4th of December,\n1851. Nothing could better serve the purpose of allaying the smouldering\nindignation than such a war as that which he saw he could foment,\nespecially if it were carried on in concert with England. Such an\nalliance would immeasurably increase his prestige both at home and\nabroad, and, if he could arrange a visit to Queen Victoria, for which he\nwas intriguing, would almost make it appear as if she approved or, at\nany rate, condoned the wholesale murders of 1851.\n\nAs a matter of fact, at the very moment when Lord Stratford was\nstriving with all his might to save England from war, he received\ninstructions from home directing him to order the English fleet to go\nto Constantinople in company with the French. This was in obedience to\nthe French Emperor, who seemed to have dominated the British Government.\nPeace did not suit his plans; war did. From that moment Lord Stratford\u2019s\nendeavours were frustrated; war was inevitable.\n\nIn the meantime the angry Tsar had sent his army to occupy for the second\ntime Moldavia and Wallachia, those unhappy provinces, the Danubian\nPrincipalities, as they were then called, upon which the curse of Cain\nseemed to have settled for all time.\n\nThose who have watched the landing of a crowd of Russian pilgrims at\nJaffa will realize the power which Nicholas had at his back in the\nexecution of his policy of fighting for the Holy Shrines. I have seen\nthe old people, men and women, the tears streaming from their poor tired\neyes, fall down upon their knees, to kiss the soil, the treading of which\nwas the reward of long lives of grinding labour, privation and parsimony.\nI have seen an old peasant, with matted hair and beard, meanly wrapped\nin a sheepskin robe, sobbing out his patient heart in an ecstasy of grief\nat the Holy Sepulchre. In order to save up the money for this pious\nerrand they must stint themselves, they must almost starve themselves,\nlaying up kopeck by kopeck, looking with surety for their reward in\nanother, a better and a less grinding life. The Church has promised it,\nand God will fulfil the promises of His Church.\n\nHalf a century and more has slipped away since I left Russia, and I\nshould have great hesitation in writing down my impressions of the\nintensely religious character of the Russian people were it not that\nrecent writings by well qualified observers show that those long years\nhave wrought little change. Mr. Stephen Graham\u2019s book, \u201cThe Way of Martha\nand the Way of Mary,\u201d is a most charming and sympathetic study of the\ncomplex psychological question of the religion of the Russian. Indeed,\nthe only fault with which it can be charged is that the writer is almost\ntoo enthusiastic\u2014more Orthodox than the Patriarch. I call it a complex\nquestion because it is so difficult to say how far it is pure religion\nand how far it is only mysticism, but, be it religion or be it mysticism,\nit is deeply ingrained in the soul of the Russian mujik; it is part\nof himself, and is revealed in a veneration for which I have found no\nparallel elsewhere. But the strange part about it is its powerlessness\nfor restraint from sin. The greatest criminal will obey the harassing\nprescriptions of his Church as though his very life depended upon it.\nIn Lent he will submit to a fast which is nothing short of cruel even\nthe Mohammedans\u2019 fast in the month of Ramadan is nothing to it, for\nwhen sunset comes the pious Moslem is free to feast as he pleases. With\nstreaming eyes, in a frenzy of religious rapture, the Orthodox peasant\nwill adore the sacred shrines and cross himself before the ikon, the\nblessed picture of his patron saint. But that is all. Piety and virtue\nare two things. The old Budotchnik (night-watchman), who had his hut\nupon the frozen Neva, would cut a hole in the ice, into which he might\nthrow the body of the wayfarer whom he had murdered, to be carried down\nto the Baltic; but in the Budotchka (his wooden hovel) a lamp always\nburned before the blessed ikon, in the presence of which he would count\nhis unholy spoil. The toper, reeling with the fumes of vodka, before the\ndays of that brave abstinence law of the present Tsar, would never be so\ndrunk as to forget the marks of obeisance due to the sacred image, whose\npresence he would not hesitate to pollute by any crime. When Nicholas\nraised the fiery cross of a holy war, he could count upon the fierce\nvalour of an army of fanatics. Death for his religion and for the soil of\nHoly Russia opens to the Russian the gates of Paradise.\n\nIf the religious fanaticism of the people and the ambition of the\ngoverning classes was great in Russia, here in England the political\nfrenzy was no less violent. For reasons which they would probably have\nfound it difficult to explain, the people took up the cause of the Turk\nwith the wildest enthusiasm, and the shibboleth, \u201cBalance of Power,\u201d\nwas continually in the mouths of men who were quite ignorant of its\nmeaning. In France the desire for war was, as I have hinted, confined\nto the Emperor and his surroundings; but it was a sad disillusion for\nthe Tsar when he saw the temper of England and of the Government of his\nfriend Lord Aberdeen, a temper which that lover of peace was powerless to\nresist, the man whom, when he was at Windsor in 1844, he believed himself\nto have talked over to his views. Trusting to his conversations with\nthe then Foreign Secretary, the Tsar was firmly convinced that England\nwould not go to war, in spite of Lord Stratford de Redcliffe, whom he\nhated more than ever for his defeat of Mentschikoff, in spite of Lord\nClarendon, and in spite of the fact that at the Colonial Office there was\na Minister called Palmerston, who, more than any other man, reflected\nthe spirit of his countrymen, and who, by no great stretch of the\nimagination, might be supposed to have some little influence in foreign\naffairs.\n\nDuring his whole life the chief hobby of the Tsar had been his army.\nTo increase its numbers, its smartness, and its imposing glitter was\nthe object of his most watchful care. But his military aptitudes were\nconfined to those of the drill-sergeant. Company drill, battalion drill,\na grand review were his chief joy\u2014a shabby uniform, a button awry, a\nmistake in some detail of kit were crimes to be suitably punished; no\nstricter martinet ever existed.[20] But of strategy, tactics and the\nscience of war, he knew no more than the youngest drummer in one of his\npet regiments. Whenever he interfered in any of the wars in which he\nengaged, he only hindered and hampered his generals.\n\nWhen it became evident that his occupation of the Balkans was a strategic\nmistake, he had to call in old Prince Paskiewitch, the hero of his\nPersian War, to get him out of the scrape. Commissariat, equipment,\nmunitions, transport, and the various subordinate necessaries for his\narmy, were matters into which he did not deign to inquire. I do not\npropose to treat of the Crimean War; I will only say this much: that when\nI was discussing it one day, in 1863, with a Russian general, he told\nme that the losses suffered by the Tsar\u2019s army in the terrible marches\nto the Crimea cost them more men than all the fighting put together.\nWant of food, clothes, boots, medicine for the sick, the robberies of\ncommissariat and contractors, killed the soldiers by tens of thousands. I\nwas bound to confess that our men were not much better off, until my old\nfriend Billy Russell roused the indignation of the people.\n\nIn the autumn of 1854 the Tsar declared that he looked to \u201cle G\u00e9n\u00e9ral\nF\u00e9vrier\u201d to finish the war. It did, but not as he hoped. In the month\nof February, 1855, he died suddenly and mysteriously. The stories which\nhave been published of a lingering death lasting several days, and of\ntouching farewell interviews with the Empress and the Tsarevitch, may be\ndismissed as fables; I have dwelt upon this in my \u201cMemories.\u201d However\nthat may be, whether he died a natural death from influenza, or whether,\nas many people believed, he took poison, it was a broken heart that\nkilled him. The army that he had loved, the army that he had made and\ndrilled, clothed and cherished, had failed him. Paskiewitch, whom he\nthought invincible, had been compelled to raise the siege of Silistria;\nthe battle of Giurgevo had been lost; his troops, the bugbear of Europe,\nhad been driven across the Danube by the Turks. The heights of the Alma,\nthe night of Inkermann told the same tale. Sevastopol was doomed. The\nproud man was beaten; there was nothing left to him in this life; he\nlaid him down and died\u2014a man of many mistakes, but to the last the great\n\u201cgentleman\u201d that he claimed to be.\n\nOnce again the angel of death was merciful. He was spared the misery\nof the final and supreme defeat. His impregnable fortress fallen, his\nbutton-perfect army on which he pinned his faith shattered, the whole\nedifice of his hereditary ambition and his pious strivings crumbled to\ndust!\n\nThat Nicholas was greatly feared by his people must be admitted; at the\nsame time, he was admired as something more than a man; and by those who\nsurrounded him, though none came so often under the stinging lash of his\ndispleasure, he was venerated and loved. His domestic life was perfect.\nHe adored his wife\u2014as he once said: \u201cThe first time I saw her I knew that\nI had met the guardian angel of my life.\u201d She was the sister of that poor\nKing of Prussia who was chiefly famous for his dullness and his love of\nchampagne\u2014le Roi Cliquot, as his Imperial brother-in-law was wont to call\nhim.\n\nRussia had every right to look forward to a happy time under the milder\nrule of Alexander the Second, who, as Tsarevitch, had greatly endeared\nhimself to the people by travelling through the country, taking pains\npersonally to ascertain what were the wants and aspirations of the\nmillions whom he was one day to rule, and interesting himself on behalf\nof the political prisoners in Siberia, and endeavouring, so far as in him\nlay, to soften their hard lot. One of his first acts on coming to the\nthrone was to release so many of the Dekabrists\u2014the men of December\u2014who\nwere still living.\n\n[Illustration: THE EMPEROR NICHOLAS II.\n\n_From a lithograph._\n\n[_To face p. 284._]\n\nIt has been the fashion among writers upon Russia to depreciate Alexander\nas a weak ruler. They are kind enough to accredit him with a heart\nfull of good intentions, but they taunt him with a lack of vigour of\ncharacter. It is a hard matter for a Tsar to satisfy the requirements of\nhistorical critics. A Nicholas, with a stern hand, puts down a poisonous\nrebellion which aimed at nothing less than by corrupting the army to\nperpetrate the murder of the whole Imperial family. He is written down\nand held up to execration as a bloody-minded, revengeful tyrant. Then\ncomes his son, who at once sets about a vast number of reforms for the\nbenefit of his people, such as the emancipation of the Law Courts from\nthe supreme power of the politicians, the publication of an annual\nBudget, the establishment of provincial and district councils, and, above\nall, the emancipation of the serfs, of which I shall speak later. All\nthese liberal benefits are ascribed to the feebleness of the Emperor,\nwho, as they say, had not the force to resist the persistent demands\nof ministers. Such is the injustice of men and historians. Nothing\nastonished me more when I was in Russia than the freedom of speech. I\nhad been brought up in the faith that to criticize the Emperor meant the\nknut and Siberia. On the contrary, I found at the clubs and in Society\nmen talking, praising and blaming with all the confidence of truly free\ncitizens, little heeding who should hear them, and I soon became aware\nthat all the fables which I had heard of spies and reporters were just\nmoonshine. Even officials and officers in the army unsparingly criticized\nthe measures which they had to carry out and the men whom they must obey.\n\nOne of the shrewdest critics of international politics that I ever knew\nwas old Count Nicholas Pablen, whom I mentioned at the beginning of this\npaper. A great traveller, and an excellent speaker of modern languages,\nhe had been for half a century intimately associated with all the chief\nmakers of the nineteenth century. He had, moreover, a marvellous memory,\nof which I may give an example. One day I found him in a great state\nof mind, fussing and fuming over some annoyance. I asked what was the\nmatter. He said: \u201cI am losing my memory! I wanted to write down the\nKnights of the Garter\u2014I remembered twenty-four, but for the life of\nme I could not recollect the twenty-fifth!\u201d All of a sudden his face\nbrightened. \u201cI have it,\u201d he said, \u201cthe Duke of Westminster.\u201d The honour\nof his memory was saved. His memory for political facts never failed him,\nand his judgment was not to be denied. His view of the state of affairs\nat the end of the Crimean War is given in one of those delightful letters\nwith which Lord Granville used to keep Lord Canning posted in European\nmatters whilst the latter was Governor-General in India. Lord Granville\nwrote, on the 3rd of August, 1856 (see \u201cLord Edmond Fitzmaurice\u2019s Life,\u201d\nvol. I., page 185):\n\n    \u201cOld Pahlen was the most irritable of all on this subject\n    (the Crimean War). He says it has done no one good; not to\n    the English, certainly not to the Russians\u2014and has only been\n    of use to one man in France,[21] whom he is not, as you know,\n    fond of. He says that in England they considered him as merely\n    speaking like a Russian parrot when he said that the Emperor\n    Nicholas did not wish for war, and that he was considered in\n    Russia almost a treacherous Anglomane when he declared that\n    our Government did not wish it. He had been right in both\n    cases, and yet by extraordinary bad management the war had\n    come. He thinks it will take a whole generation to efface\n    the recollection of it. He attributes the hatred of us, and\n    comparative forgiveness of the French, not so much to the\n    destruction in the Baltic, not so much to our Press and our\n    public speaking, as to our having been old friends, and their\n    always having thought of the French as enemies. He does not\n    believe in any great changes in Russia. The Emperor has good\n    intentions, but there have always been good intentions at\n    the beginning of each reign. He has one great advantage over\n    his father. Alexander during his life told Nicholas nothing.\n    Nicholas, since his son has been of age, told him everything,\n    and the latter, being of a very amiable disposition, heard\n    everything that others did not dare tell his father. He is\n    supposed not to have military tastes, but he issued new\n    regulations about uniforms almost before his father was buried;\n    and he and Constantine appeared in new hussar jackets a day or\n    two afterwards, which were supposed to be foreign, instead of a\n    new dress which he had been in such a hurry to exhibit himself\n    in. He dismissed Klein Michel and another (two great robbers);\n    and when his mother remonstrated on the ground of their having\n    been his father\u2019s friends, he made a good answer, which he had\n    probably previously prepared. He said: \u2018I am not a great man\n    like my father. He could use such men as his tools\u2014I am not\n    strong enough.\u2019 He (Pahlen) lays much stress on the absolute\n    poverty of Russia in able men. He thinks Gortchakoff clever,\n    but indiscreet, vain, and not successful in things which he\n    undertakes. (This is confirmed by everybody.)\n\n    \u201cTolstoi, a great friend of the Emperor, by whom he is called\n    \u2018milord Tolstoi,\u2019 has no ability.\n\n    \u201cKisseleff, who is named Ambassador to Paris, is clever,\n    but has never been a diplomat and is seventy years old.\n    Meyendorf, really clever, is done up. Chreptowitch is nobody.\n    Orloff himself clever, but perfectly ignorant. He says that\n    Gortchakoff laments to everyone this dearth of men to appoint.\n    So Bloomfield told me. Pahlen says that in England it does not\n    signify if we want a man, we can always pick up an intelligent\n    man in some rank of life or other who will soon master the\n    specialities of his business. In Russia those who are not\n    diplomatists by profession are profoundly ignorant of all that\n    relates to it.\u201d\n\nA long quotation\u2014but the appreciation of the state of affairs in his own\ncountry by so competent an observer as Count Pahlen, recorded, moreover,\nby no less a man than Lord Granville, seems to me to justify and even\ninvite its insertion here. I myself knew almost all the men whom the\nCount mentioned, and I can appreciate the accuracy of his estimate. In\ntwo cases, that of the new Tsar and that of M. Tolstoi, I think he was\nhardly fair. As it turned out, the reign of Alexander the Second, if by\nno other measure than that of the liberation of the serfs, marked an\nimportant step in Russian history; while M. Jean Tolstoi\u2014the \u201cmilord\u201d\u2014who\nwas Postmaster-General in my time, proved to be a capable minister, none\nthe worse for having travelled and being an accomplished man of the\nworld. As Ambassador to England, Count Chreptowitch, a delightful old\ngentleman, was not an eagle; and it was not long before the astute old\nBaron Brunnow\u2014with the\n\n    \u201cBaroness Brunnow who looked like Juno\u201d\n\nof the \u201cIngoldsby Legends\u201d\u2014appeared once more as pilot of the diplomatic\nship among the rather difficult shoals of British waters.\n\nNor at the outset of the new reign was English diplomacy any too strong.\nEngland, as Count Pablen pointed out, was in bad odour at St. Petersburg,\nand it needed all the exquisite tact of Lord Granville, when he went\nas special ambassador for the coronation, to conciliate the Emperor,\nwhile at the same time firmly giving His Majesty to understand that he\nmust insist upon being received with the courtesy and consideration due\nto the Queen\u2019s personal representative. Lord Granville\u2019s letters to\nLord Canning, quoted by Lord Fitzmaurice, tell the story in the most\ninteresting way.\n\nThe glove was of velvet, but the hand was of steel. It was no easy task,\nfor Count Pahlen was quite right when he warned Lord Granville that\nthe Emperor was deeply prejudiced against England, and had quite thrown\nhimself into the arms of France\u2014a strange infatuation, considering that\nit was Louis Napoleon\u2019s personal ambition and aggressive policy which\nraised the question of the Holy Places, and was the cause of the war,\nwhereas England did her best\u2014a bad best, it must be admitted\u2014to preserve\nthe peace. Yet France was in high favour, while for us there was as yet\nno forgiveness. At any rate, Lord Granville\u2019s special embassy was a great\nsuccess, and for years afterwards the Russians spoke with enthusiasm of\nthe English _grand seigneur_ who had conquered _\u00e0 force de plaire_ and\nupheld the dignity of his country. If in some future decade, century, or\n\u00e6on, I, on the eve of a new incarnation, should be consulted by the gods\nas to the quality with which I should prefer to be endowed, I should have\nlittle hesitation in asking to be blessed with the tact of Lord Granville.\n\nLord Wodehouse, afterwards Earl of Kimberley, who was our Minister at\nSt. Petersburg, was a man of great ability, singularly well read and\nthoroughly posted in diplomatic lore. He knew his trade, but he had not\nthe secret of treating business with charm. His talents were better\nfitted to the fuliginous atmosphere of Downing Street than to the bright\nsparkling air of the Russian capital. It was single-stick, very doughty\nsingle-stick, against the light play of the foils. The contrast with\nthat skilful fencer, Lord Granville, was great. But the victories gained\nby the latter could only be temporary. He had to go, and Lord Wodehouse\nremained, a brilliantly dull man\u2014or would it be better to say a dully\nbrilliant man?\u2014quite out of his element in the glittering gaiety of a\nRussian _salon_. Those who knew his solid worth appreciated his wisdom\nand scrupulous honesty. But he was rather a great parliamentarian than a\ncourtly diplomatist. When he opened the flood-gates of his talk, it was\na Niagara that issued forth, carrying all before it, not to be stopped\nor stayed, and this deluge was made even more overwhelming by a doctoral\nor donnish manner, which absolutely staggered the delightfully smart and\nrather cynical Prince Gortchakoff. As for the Emperor, the voluble envoy\nfrankly bored him. Lord Wodehouse could earn respect for England, but not\naffection.\n\nNor was England much better served when his place was taken in 1858\nby Sir John Crampton, a most delightful personality, but, in spite of\nhis long experience, little fitted for such a post as St. Petersburg.\nThe truth is that he was a Bohemian of the Bohemians, a man who loved\nhis ease and to whom the donning of a fine coat and a star was little\nshort of torture. I knew him well, for he was a contemporary of my\nfather\u2019s in the service, and there were few days\u2014when he was on leave\nin London\u2014on which he did not knock at our door. He had all the gifts\nof the Irish raconteur, and his stories were enhanced by the charm of\na musical speaking voice\u2014a great, handsome, leonine figure, with his\nsilver hair and beard, whose advent we always hailed with joy. Probably\nhe was at his best in his beautiful Irish home near Powerscourt, where,\nwith a congenial friend or two\u2014notably old Sharpe, the eccentric Dublin\nartist\u2014he could sit and smoke after dinner in the same frieze coat that\nhe had worn all day. With us and very few other friends he would sit\nby the fire, a great tame cat, purring the livelong winter afternoon.\nHowever great his personal attractiveness might be, he was certainly not\nsuccessful as a diplomatist.\n\nWhen he was at Washington, President Peirce broke off relations with\nhim on account of his recruiting activities\u2014when there were men wanted\nfor the Foreign Legion in the Crimean War. It was the one case in which\nhe overcame his constitutional indolence, and it was not lucky. He had\nto leave the United States, but Lord Palmerston, always the generous\ndefender of his subordinates, stood up for him, and sent him as Minister\nto Hanover, at the same time decorating him with the K.C.B., and thence\nhe was transferred to St. Petersburg, a post where the members of the\ndiplomatic body, unless they were prepared to face all the requirements\nof a delightful but rather exacting society, were bound to become mere\ncyphers.\n\nThat is what happened to Sir John Crampton, and that, too, at a moment\nwhen it was very important to bury the hatchet and establish relations of\ncordial friendship and sympathy with the Tsar and his ministers. It was\nat last the tame cat nature to which I have alluded above brought about\nhis retirement from Russia in 1860, and his transfer to Spain, where at\nthat moment there was little urgency for activity. In an unlucky moment\nfor all concerned, Balfe came to St. Petersburg, with his beautiful\nyoung daughter Victoire, who had been engaged at the Opera. Naturally\nthe Irish Minister and the Irish composer forgathered, and Balfe\u2019s rooms\nwere a delightfully congenial place, where, when the young lady was not\nsinging at the theatre, Crampton could pass the lazy evenings, free from\nthe cramping fetters of a tailcoat and from all the irksome restraint\nand exigencies of a diplomatist\u2019s life. Balfe, whom I knew well for\nmany years, was himself endowed with all the fascination of Irish wit\nand bonhomie, while his daughter was as attractive as youth, beauty\nand talent could make her. They must have been a delightful trio\u2014but\nthe lotus-eating was not to last. There came a day when Balfe, in the\ncharacter of the _p\u00e8re noble_, told Sir John that his visits must\ncease\u2014the old story, his daughter\u2019s happiness was at stake\u2014and so the\nveteran diplomatist hoisted the white flag, surrendered unconditionally,\nand January and May were united for a very brief time, at the end of\nwhich the marriage was annulled, and the lady married the Duc de Friar, a\ngrandee of Spain.\n\nWhen I reached St. Petersburg in 1863, and went through the archives of\nthe Embassy, which were in my charge, I found that there was a dispatch\nmissing. No trace could be found of it and no one had ever seen it. I\nwrote to London, asking the Foreign Office to send out a copy. When it\ncame, it turned out to be a severe wigging from Lord Russell, scolding\nCrampton for not keeping him better informed on Russian affairs. Crampton\nhad burned the dispatch! It was easy for him to do this, for the\nmessenger arrived about ten o\u2019clock at night, and he was in the habit\nof opening the bag himself, and only sending down its contents to the\nChancery on the following morning. This particular document he kept to\nhimself. In 1869 he left the service, and from that time lived chiefly\nat his Irish home in County Wicklow, where he died, full of years and\ncomfort, in 1886, greatly regretted by all of us who knew him as a dear,\nkind, affectionate old friend.\n\nNever was there a happier appointment than that of Lord Napier, who\nsucceeded him in Russia in 1860, with the more exalted rank of\nAmbassador, seconded by an ambassadress who seemed to have been born\nfor the position. The British Embassy soon became the most popular\ncentre of society in Russia. John Lumley\u2014afterwards Lord Savile\u2014was\nFirst Secretary (what would now be called Councillor), and he was a most\nvaluable aide-de-camp socially to his chief. In these happy circumstances\nthe prestige and influence increased every day, until at the end, when\nLord Napier, in 1864, was transferred to Berlin, the Emperor Alexander\nwished to give him the Order of St. Andrew, the Garter of Russia, but\nunfortunately in those days the acceptance of foreign Orders was strictly\nforbidden. Queen Victoria was like Queen Elizabeth, who said that she\nwould not allow her dogs to wear any collar but her own.\n\nFew men ever had a much more difficult task than that with which Lord\nNapier was confronted when he took possession of the Embassy. Not only\ndid he conjure into life a new popularity out of the ashes of the dead\nindifference, and worse, in which England was held, but he succeeded\nin winning the personal love and affection of all with whom he came in\ncontact; and this he did in spite of the emasculate meddlings in Polish\naffairs which were the favourite pastime of Lord Russell and the cynical\namusement of Prince Gortchakoff.\n\n[Illustration: PRINCE GORTCHAKOFF.\n\n_From a photograph._\n\n[_To face p. 296._]\n\nIt must not be supposed that Lord Napier did not himself openly condemn\nmuch that was going on in Poland; but he did so with tact, as an\nonlooker, and not like Lord Russell, with the appearance of impertinent\ninterference in the internal government of a friendly country. There\nwere, as I have shown in my \u201cMemories,\u201d many Russians in high positions\nwho were outspoken in their detestation of General Muraieff, whom Prince\nSuvoroff did not hesitate to call a \u201changman\u201d in the Tsar\u2019s presence\nat a banquet at Tsarskoe Selo. Lord Napier would have cried \u201cAmen\u201d to\nthat. But though he was an uncompromising critic, he never forfeited the\ngoodwill of the court to which he was accredited.\n\nThe honour and reputation of England were safe in his hands, and\nhe enjoyed an influence which had been vouchsafed to none of his\npredecessors. What Prince Gortchakoff and all other Russians resented in\nLord Russell was the schoolmaster tone of his dispatches. That Prince\nSuvoroff\u2019s condemnation of the cruelties of Warsaw did not meet with an\nImperial reproof was significant enough, and an English ambassador would\nfind plenty of men who would applaud a similar reproof from him. But none\nof them, even of those who were loudest in their blame, would accept\nLord Russell\u2019s sermons and prescriptions. The Polish Revolution was a\nterrible first act in the drama upon which the curtain was to fall in so\ntragic a fashion.\n\nThe liberation of the serfs in 1861 was manifestly the greatest\nachievement of Alexander\u2019s reign\u2014indeed, it was one of the greatest and\nnoblest achievements in the whole history of Society. It was a great\nupheaval, far more wide-reaching and searching than the abolition of\nnegro slavery which rewarded the humane labours of Clarkson, Sharp\nand Wilberforce. That only affected the planters of the West Indies.\nThere were no negro slaves in London, Edinburgh, or Dublin. In Russia,\non the contrary, serfdom was universal. There were serfs even among\nthe tradesmen of St. Petersburg, Moscow and Warsaw, and all the great\ntowns\u2014men who had raised themselves by industry and knowledge into a\nhigher status than that of the drudge or labourer, the hewer of wood and\ndrawer of water, but who yet remained serfs, and had to pay a share of\ntheir gains to their lords. The fortunes of rich Boyarin were calculated\nin the souls of men. There had been more than once talk of putting an\nend to this horror, but it was left to the generous and good Tsar to\ncarry the reform into execution. He was ably seconded by M. Valouieff,\nMinister of the Interior, who worked out all the details of the scheme.\nIt was no easy task to carry out so mighty a change, for, of course,\nthe vested interests were powerful and the mighty ego was on guard, as\never; but the Tsar was in deadly earnest, and in spite of all opposition,\ntwenty-three millions of dead souls were born again into life.\n\nIt was an audaciously bold piece of statesmanship. Even an autocrat is\ndependent upon the will of others for his power. He cannot stand up in\nthe Agora, and, like a god, proclaim himself \u201cI am that I am!\u201d He needs\nsupport, and in Russia at that time, when the proletariat had not yet\neven the semblance of political existence, the only prop upon which the\nTsar could rely was the _noblesse_, and it was precisely their privileges\nthat he was attacking. It needed moral courage, it needed physical\ncourage, to set such a machinery in motion. Remember who and what were\nthe men who murdered the Emperor Paul. Not a gang of revolutionary\n_carbonari_\u2014Turg\u00e9nieff was not yet born and the word \u201cNihilist\u201d had not\nyet been coined[22]\u2014but a band of powerful nobles, headed by his own\nprime minister. Remember who were the leading Dekabrists, men bearing\nhistoric names, proud of their descent from the sacred stock of Rurik. It\nwas men of that importance who would be the most affected by the change,\nand whose opposition was to be feared. No weak man would have braved\nthem. It is true that emancipation had long been in the air, and that a\ngreat number\u2014perhaps even a large majority\u2014of the landed aristocracy had\npledged themselves to it. But there was a dangerous leaven of discontent,\nand none could say how far the taint might have penetrated.\n\nM. Valouieff, the minister who was the Tsar\u2019s right-hand man in this\ndifficult business, was a remarkable personality. Strikingly handsome,\ntall and dignified, with all the characteristics of blue blood, he was\nnot dwarfed even by the mighty stature of his Imperial master. When,\ntwo years after the liberation of the serfs in Russia, the measure was\nextended to Poland, I was present, as I have related in my \u201cMemories,\u201d\nat the reception of the Tsar of the peasants\u2019 deputation who came to St.\nPetersburg to thank the Tsar. It was impossible not to be struck by the\ncommanding aspect of the Emperor and his minister, both sons of Anak,\ntowering above the rest of the crowd.\n\nThe emancipation of the serfs was, of course, Valouieff\u2019s masterpiece\nin statesmanship, but he had several other measures of first-class\nimportance to his credit. It was he who in 1864 established the\nZemstvo\u2014elected bodies for the local conduct of provincial business\u2014and\nanother of his achievements was the regulation of the laws relating to\nthe Press. He, moreover, had something of a literary reputation as the\nauthor of two or three novels. But these were rather amateurish, and it\nis upon his statesmanship that his fame must rest.\n\nLike the Chancellor, Prince Gortchakoff, he was very kind to me, and\nwhenever we met in Society, he always had a friendly word for me. When\nI got back to London, he was next to Prince Gortchakoff, the Russian\nstatesman in whom I found Lord Palmerston and Lord Clarendon the most\ninterested. They fully appreciated the greatness of his work in the\nemancipation business, and were glad to have some first-hand impressions\nof his very remarkable personality.\n\nThe emancipation was a colossal task. It is not possible by a mere stroke\nof the pen to revolutionize the lives of twenty-three millions of men.\nThe serfs were to be freed\u2014that is easily said; but the interests of the\nlanded aristocracy must also be taken into consideration, and it says\nmuch for Valouieff\u2019s statesmanship and wisdom that the measure should\nhave been carried into effect practically without any friction.\n\nIt was impossible suddenly to deprive of its labour the whole of the\nagricultural land of that vast empire. There had to be a transition\nperiod during which the peasants, though no longer serfs, still remained\nunder certain obligations to their former masters; but within the\nspace of two years the landlords were bound to make over to them their\nhouses with suitable allotments of land against a fair rent, with the\nfurther privilege of purchase, with the consent of the proprietor. The\nobligations of the peasant and his rent were capitalized on a basis of\nsix per cent. Of this capital, twenty per cent. was to be paid at once\nto the landlord, while the Government gave him the remaining eighty per\ncent. in Government bonds bearing five per cent. interest, the Government\nrecouping itself for this advance in forty-nine years by a payment of six\nper cent. from the peasant. The purchases might be effected by single\nindividuals or by partnerships. This would be facilitated by the Russian\ncommunal system, by which the members of each commune were able to\ncombine for the redemption money and other expenses.\n\nIt was calculated that about one-third of the property of the landed\naristocracy, equal to 390,886 square kilometres, was made over to the\npeasants. This is Brockhaus\u2019 calculation. He goes on to point out\nthat for various reasons, chiefly the ignorance and intemperance of\nthe peasants, there were not a few troubles arising out of the great\neconomic change. Although in some instances land soon rose in value\nfifty per cent. above the estimate of 1861, in others it suffered great\ndeterioration.\n\nThere is one feature in this great economic change which is worthy of\nnote. If we read the lives, memoirs and correspondence of the ministers\nwho have ruled England in modern times, it is impossible not to recognize\nan underlying element of personal ambition in all their contentions.\nThat, I take it, is inseparable from a constitutional Government where\nthe \u201cOuts\u201d are always struggling to become \u201cIns.\u201d Here there was no such\nmotive possible. A Tsar of Russia could become no greater than he already\nwas, and even the minister who did his behest had nothing to fear or to\ngain from the _arbitrium popularis aurae_. The Emperor had, and could\nhave, nothing in view but the good of his people, and for that those\nwho saw him at work knew that his efforts were untiring. It is strange\nthat it should have been precisely in the reign of so good a monarch, a\nreal benefactor of the world over which he ruled, that the seeds of the\npoisonous plant of Nihilism should have germinated, spreading like the\nvirus of cancer, which, cut out of one place by the surgeon\u2019s knife,\nstill travels through the system and reappears in some new spot.\n\nNihilism was not confined, as has been popularly supposed, to the\nstudents of the universities and a few clever but discontented literary\nmen and artists. As a matter of fact, it had invaded all classes. The\ncivil service, the army, the police\u2014even the secret police\u2014were infected.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe diplomatic negotiations which took place at St. Petersburg in the\nwinter of 1863-64 were big with the fate of Europe and of the world.\nIt was the result of the grievous blunders made by Lord Russell that\nPrussia was enabled to take the first step in that career of plunder and\naggrandisement which has wrought such terrible tragedies. I have dealt\nwith that story fully in my \u201cMemories.\u201d I was at St. Petersburg at the\ntime, and owing to my confidential relations with Lord Napier, and to the\nkindness of Prince Gortchakoff and other Russian ministers, I had the\nopportunity of being well posted, not only in what took place publicly,\nbut also in the feeling which was prevalent in Russia in regard to the\nDanish war.\n\nIn his brilliantly fascinating fourth volume of the \u201cLife of Lord\nBeaconsfield,\u201d Mr. Buckle[23] revives the time-honoured fallacy that\nRussia was not ready to join hands with us in defence of Denmark.\nThat fallacy can only owe its existence to the careful handling of\npersons whose aim it was to whitewash Lord Russell. It is true that his\nblustering and bullying in the Polish Revolution\u2014followed by the eating\nof the leek with appetite\u2014had made England very unpopular in Russia;\nbut in regard to Denmark there was another motive at work, and a very\npowerful one, in the prospective marriage of the Princess Dagmar to the\nTsarevitch.\n\nIn principle, Russia did not want to go to war, but she was ready to\nsacrifice her wish for peace if only England would join in with her\nand cry \u201cHands off!\u201d to Prussia and Austria. England did not want war\nin July, 1914, but on the 4th of August war was declared. The cases\nare exactly similar. In both cases a \u201cscrap of paper\u201d was torn up by\nPrussia, who only a few months earlier had guaranteed the integrity of\nKing Christian\u2019s dominions. In 1914 mercifully Lord Russell had been long\n\u201cresting and being thanked\u201d over the mischief he had wrought. Sterner and\nmore chivalrous doctrines prevailed, and this time England was ready to\ndraw the sword for a principle of honour.\n\nIt is, I know, an absolute mistake to suppose that if we had carried out\nthe policy indicated by Lord Palmerston in Parliament at the end of the\nSession of 1863 we should have stood alone. Russia would have been with\nus. Our position, supposing we had gone to war, would have been all to\nour advantage\u2014as Lord John Manners pointed out, it would have been \u201cthe\nmost popular, the easiest and the cheapest war (for it can be managed by\nour navy alone) of the century.\u201d[24] Lord John Manners was quite right.\nWe should have sent our navy to Danish waters, and we need not have sent\nout a single soldier.\n\nTo march upon Berlin would have been a mere holiday task for the Russian\narmy, a sort of picnic, like our march upon Magdala. But I can assert\nthat it was the firm conviction of the best informed diplomatists of\nEurope that the mere knowledge that England and Russia were determined\nto uphold the rights of Denmark would of itself have sufficed to avert\nwar. I have written elsewhere how, when Lord Napier had to tell Prince\nGortchakoff that England would not join with him, the Prince answered:\n\u201cAlors, milord, je mets de c\u00f4t\u00e9 la supposition que l\u2019Angleterre fasse\njamais la guerre pour une question d\u2019honneur.\u201d That was the conviction\nwhich guided him in all his subsequent dealings with England, the\nadvances in Central Asia, in defiance of all treaties, until the gates\nof Afghanistan were reached, and in 1870, when France was crippled, the\ntearing up of the Black Sea Treaty obligations of 1856.\n\nMr. Buckle is so clear-minded a critic of foreign politics that I should\nhesitate to differ from him were I not possessed of absolute knowledge\nnot from hearsay. A study of the \u201cOrigines diplomatiques de la guerre de\n1870\u201d can only confirm what I have said; and that exhaustive publication\nproves up to the hilt my contention that since the origin of the war of\n1870 was due to the betrayal of Denmark in 1863-64, it is to the grave\npolitical blunders then made that we must ascribe the outrage of 1914.\n\nFree of England and Russia, Bismarck was able to carry out his full\nprogramme: (1) Kiel and a navy. (2) The crippling of Austria. (3) The\nhumiliation of France. (4) Who can doubt what that was? The destruction\nof England\u2019s sea power, and the world under the heel of Prussia.\n\nLord Russell\u2019s meddling and muddling in the affairs of Poland had,\nit is true, estranged Russia and France. But the former Power was,\nnevertheless, keenly in favour of Denmark; as regards France, there was\nperhaps another consideration which was not without its influence. It is\na matter of common knowledge that Louis Napoleon was very ambitious to\nbuild up a navy which should be able to hold its own with ours. In the\n\u201cOrigines diplomatiques\u201d there is published a dispatch from the French\ncharg\u00e9 d\u2019affaires at St. Petersburg, M. de Massignac, a very clever man,\nwith whom I was intimate, urging upon M. Drouyn de Lhuys the expediency\nof furthering the views of Prussia. He pointed out that the success of\nPrussia would give her Kiel, and enable her to build a navy which might,\nin given circumstances, help the other Continental Powers to destroy\nEngland\u2019s preponderant supremacy at sea! I am inclined to think that\nthis view may have had more restraining influence with Louis Napoleon\neven than the snubbing with which Lord Russell met his proposals for a\nconference or congress at Brussels. We know, moreover, that the Emperor\nhad a distinct leaning towards Prussia, which he looked upon as making\nfor progress in contradistinction to Austria, which in his eyes was\nantiquated and retrograde.\n\nIt was, then, at St. Petersburg that the fate of Denmark was sealed and\nthe first triumph of Bismarck\u2019s policy secured. The Danish Duchies were\nstolen by Prussia, and, as my old friend M. de Massignac had foreseen,\nthe foundations were laid of a navy which up to that time had been a\ndream in Cloudcuckooland. For the shameful abandonment of Denmark we are\nnow, fifty years later, paying the just penalty.\n\n\nTHE END\n\n          _Printed at The Chapel River Press, Kingston, Surrey._\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n\n[1] See my \u201cGarter Mission to Japan,\u201d pp. 193-203.\n\n[2] Max M\u00fcller, \u201cChips from a German Workshop,\u201d IX., 178.\n\n[3] Max M\u00fcller, _ut supra_.\n\n[4] Even the famous Laws of Manu were only held to be Smriti\u2014tradition.\n\n[5] See Max M\u00fcller\u2019s \u201cAncient Sanskrit Literature,\u201d pp. 57 and 80.\n\n[6] How like a passage in one of Robert Louis Stevenson\u2019s prayers written\nat Vailima: \u201cWe thank Thee, Lord, for the glory of the late days and the\nexcellent face of Thy Sun.\u201d\n\n[7] \u201cChips from a German Workshop,\u201d Vol. I., p. 13.\n\n[8] Max M\u00fcller\u2019s \u201cChips,\u201d Vol. I., pp. 36-37.\n\n[9] _Picea pungens glauca._\n\n[10] The Japanese, following the horology of the Chinese, used to\ndivide the day of 24 hours into 12 periods, each of which had its sign,\nsomething like the sign of the Zodiac.\n\n    Midnight until 2 a.m. was the hour of the Rat\n      2 a.m.   \u201d   4 a.m.        \u201d    \u201d       Ox\n      4 a.m.   \u201d   6 a.m.        \u201d    \u201d       Tiger\n      6 a.m.   \u201d   8 a.m.        \u201d    \u201d       Hare\n      8 a.m.   \u201d  10 a.m.        \u201d    \u201d       Dragon\n     10 a.m.   \u201d  12 noon        \u201d    \u201d       Snake\n     12 noon   \u201d   2 p.m.        \u201d    \u201d       Horse\n      2 p.m.   \u201d   4 p.m.        \u201d    \u201d       Ram\n      4 p.m.   \u201d   6 p.m.        \u201d    \u201d       Ape\n      6 p.m.   \u201d   8 p.m.        \u201d    \u201d       Cock\n      8 p.m.   \u201d  10 p.m.        \u201d    \u201d       Hog\n     10 p.m.   \u201d midnight        \u201d    \u201d       Fox\n\n[11] See my \u201cTales of Old Japan: the Loves of Gompachi and Komurasaki.\u201d\n\n[12] _Morning Post_, May 8th, 1915.\n\n[13] Quoted in the _Spectator_, May 8th, 1915.\n\n[14] Lord March, afterwards \u201cOld Q.\u201d\n\n[15] The Duke of Queensberry.\n\n[16] Mr. Thrale\u2019s profits from the brewery were estimated at \u00a330,000 a\nyear.\n\n[17] M\u00fcgge, pp. 131, 134.\n\n[18]\n\n    \u201cAs when upon a tranc\u00e8d summer night\n    Those green-robed senators of mighty woods,\n    Tall oaks, branch-chain\u00e8d by the earnest stars,\n    Dream, and so dream all night without a stir.\u201d\n\n                                  HYPERION, I., 72.\n\n[19] Tomini later quarrelled with Napoleon and entered the service of\nAlexander.\n\n[20] The craze for absolute uniformity was exemplified in the Kurros\n(snub-nosed) Grenadier Regiment of the Emperor Paul. Not only was every\nnose in the regiment tip-tilted, but the meter-like brass shakos of\nthe old pattern seen in Hogarth\u2019s pictures\u2014\u201cThe March to Finchley,\u201d\nfor example\u2014each has a bullet-hole exactly in the same place. This\nwas to commemorate an attempt on the Tsar\u2019s life. The bullet missed\nhim, but found its billet in the shako of one of his guards. Whether\nthe snub-noses and the shakos still exist I know not. They were very\nconspicuous in my time.\n\n[21] The Emperor Louis Napoleon.\n\n[22] The word, \u201cNihilist\u201d first appeared in Turg\u00e9nieff\u2019s story, \u201cFathers\nand Sons,\u201d in 1861.\n\n[23] \u201cThe Life of Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield,\u201d Vol. IV., p.\n342.\n\n[24] Buckle\u2019s \u201cLife of Disraeli,\u201d _ut supra_, Vol. IV., p. 343.\n\n\n\n\nINDEX\n\n\n\n\nINDEX\n\n\n  Abdul Hamid, Sultan of Turkey, 138, 274.\n\n  Aberdeen, George H. Gordon, 4th Earl of, 269, 270.\n\n  Abrant\u00e8s, Junot, Duc d\u2019, 173-4.\n\n  Addison, Joseph, 114.\n\n  Albert, Prince Consort, 141-2.\n\n  Alexander I., Emperor of Russia, 247-8, 253 _et sq._, 258 _et sq._\n\n  Alexander II., Emperor of Russia, 264, 284 _et sq._, 296.\n\n  Allard, Father, 87.\n\n  Ananda, 25, 35, 40, 42.\n\n  Anatha Pindaka, 35.\n\n  Angeli, Von, 144.\n\n  Arnold, Sir Edwin, 18, 23.\n\n  Aryans, The, 49 _et sq._, 59 _et sq._\n\n  As\u014dka, King, 18, 51.\n\n  Aston, Molly, 241.\n\n  Aston, Sir Thomas, 241.\n\n\n  Bacon, Francis (Lord Verulam), 62, 189.\n\n  Bagatelle, 162-3, 175, 190-1, 193, 195.\n\n  Balfe, Michael William, 294.\n\n  Balfe, Victoire, 294-5.\n\n  \u201cBamboo Garden, The,\u201d Lord Redesdale\u2019s, ix.\n\n  Barbosa, 49.\n\n  Baring, Maurice, 203-4.\n\n  Barlaam and Josaphat, The Story of, 27 _et sq._\n\n  Batsford, x. _et sq._, xviii., xix., xxi.\n\n  Beaconsfield, Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of, 304.\n\n  Beal, Samuel, 23.\n\n  Beethoven, 151-2, 218, 251.\n\n  Benares, King of, 37.\n\n  Benfey, Theodor, 60 _et sq._\n\n  Berghaus, Heinrich, 52.\n\n  Bernhardt, Sarah, 152.\n\n  Bezbarooks, Count, 248.\n\n  Bhikshus, The, 42 _et sq._, 214.\n\n  Bimbisara, King of Maghada, 12, 32, 35.\n\n  Bismarck, Prince, 307-8.\n\n  Bizet, Georges, 218.\n\n  Bl\u00fcmml, Emil, 130.\n\n  Bodhisatva Maitriya, 37 _et sq._\n\n  Bonjean, M., 87.\n\n  Bopp, Franz, 60.\n\n  Boutourlin, 256.\n\n  Brahmans, The, 48 _et sq._, 65, 68-9\n\n  Brockhaus, Professor, 214.\n\n  Broughton, John Cam Hobhouse, Lord, 45.\n\n  Buckingham, Richard Grenville, 2nd Duke of, 186.\n\n  Buckle, George Earle, 304, 306.\n\n  Buddha, The, 8 _et sq._, 46 _et sq._, 65 _et sq._, 96, 233.\n\n  Bunsen, Baron, 54 _et sq._\n\n  Burnouf, Jean Louis, 60.\n\n  Byron, Lord, 45, 207.\n\n\n  Cambridge, xx.\n\n  Canning, Lord, 287, 290.\n\n  Canning, George, 167.\n\n  Capell, Edward, 242-3.\n\n  Carlisle, Lord, 171-2.\n\n  Carlyle, Thomas, 259.\n\n  Caste, 48 _et sq._\n\n  Castiglione, Countess, 222-31.\n\n  Castlereagh, Lord, 167.\n\n  Catherine the Great, 248-9, 252.\n\n  Cavell, Nurse, 93.\n\n  Cellini, Benvenuto, 155.\n\n  Chandana, 26.\n\n  Charles VI., Emperor, 137, 145.\n\n  Charles X. of France, 175.\n\n  Chandra Mukherji, 13-14, 18, 30.\n\n  Chelsea Hospital, 97.\n\n  Chreptowitch, Count, 289, 290.\n\n  Christian, King of Denmark, 305.\n\n  Cimarosa, Domenico, 151.\n\n  Cissey, General, 91.\n\n  Clair, Father, 87.\n\n  Clarendon, George Villiers, Earl of, 301.\n\n  Clarkson, Thomas, 298.\n\n  Clopton, Sir Hugh, 240 _et sq._\n\n  Commune, The, 78 _et sq._\n\n  Confucius, 33, 52-3.\n\n  Constantine, Grand Duke, 262, 267-8, 288.\n\n  Cook, Dr., 227-8.\n\n  Courbet, Gustave, 83 _et sq._\n\n  Cowes, Royal Yacht Squadron Castle, xii. _et sq._\n\n  Crampton, Sir John, 292 _et sq._\n\n  Crawley, George, 79.\n\n  Crimean War, 270 _et sq._\n\n\n  Dagmar, Empress of Russia, 304.\n\n  Dandapani, 24.\n\n  Dante, xix. _et sq._, 206.\n\n  Darboy, Monseigneur, Archbishop of Paris, 87 _et sq._\n\n  Dasson, M., 180.\n\n  Daudet, Alphonse, xxiii.\n\n  Daudet, Ernest, xxiii.\n\n  Davids Rhys, 23, 31, 37.\n\n  Davis, Mr. Charles, 198.\n\n  Devadatta, 24-5, 35-6, 40.\n\n  Dietrichstein, Count, 134.\n\n  Dodgson, Rev. Charles, 229.\n\n  Domenichino, 183.\n\n  Donay, General, 91.\n\n  Dostoieffski, Feodor, 205.\n\n  Drummond, Messrs. G. & E., 158.\n\n  Ducondray, Father, 87.\n\n  Duplessis, Isabella, 132.\n\n  Dyer, Sir William, 243.\n\n\n  Edward VII., 93, 200.\n\n  Elizabeth, Empress, 132.\n\n  Ellis, Sir Arthur, 201.\n\n  Enghien, Duc d\u2019, 254.\n\n  Esher, Reginald Brett, 2nd Viscount, 189 _et sq._, 199.\n\n  Eton College, 209 _et sq._\n\n  Eug\u00e9nie, 94.\n\n  Evans, Jennie, 209, 211.\n\n  Evans, William, 209 _et sq._\n\n  Evelyn, John, 243.\n\n\n  Fagnani, Marchese, 165 _et sq._, 172.\n\n  Fagnani, Marchesa, 165 _et sq._\n\n  Fagnani, Maria. _See_ LADY HERTFORD.\n\n  Fa Hsien, 13.\n\n  Faraday, Michael, 53.\n\n  Ferronays, M. de la, 263-4.\n\n  Fitzmaurice, Lord Edmond, 287, 290.\n\n  Fragonard, Jean, 112, 175.\n\n  Francis of Assisi, St., 47, 54 _et sq._, 214.\n\n  Francis I., Emperor, 134, 137-8, 142, 147.\n\n  Fraser, Sir James, 125.\n\n  Frederick the Great, 143, 146.\n\n  Friar, Duc de, 295.\n\n  Fryatt, Captain, 93.\n\n  Fuchs, Gr\u00e4fin, 133.\n\n\n  Gainsborough, Sir Thomas, 101, 172.\n\n  Gaisman, 145.\n\n  Gallifet, Marquis de, 91 _et sq._\n\n  Gallifet, Madame de, 93.\n\n  Garrick, David, 241.\n\n  Gastrell, Rev. Mr., 241-2.\n\n  Genghis Khan, 258.\n\n  George IV., 167, 184.\n\n  Gluck, Christoph, 145.\n\n  Goethe, 152, 206.\n\n  Gogol, Nicolai, 205.\n\n  Gop\u0101 (wife of the Buddha), 18, 24-5, 35.\n\n  Gortchakoff, Prince Alexander, 289, 292, 296-7, 301, 306-7.\n\n  Graham, Stephen, 279.\n\n  Granville, Lord, 287 _et sq._\n\n  Greiner, Herr von, 147 _et sq._\n\n  Grimm, Jakob, 60.\n\n  Grisi, 223.\n\n  Grousset, Paschal, 85.\n\n  Guerry, Abb\u00e9 de, 87.\n\n  Gurwood, Colonel, 159, 191.\n\n\n  Halloy, Omalius d\u2019, 60, 62.\n\n  Hawtrey, Dr., 207.\n\n  Haydn, 145, 151-2.\n\n  Hearn, Lafcadio, 120 _et sq._\n\n  Heine, Heinrich, 138.\n\n  Hertford, Francis Seymour, 2nd Marquis of, 186.\n\n  Hertford, Francis Charles Seymour, 3rd Marquis of (Thackeray\u2019s \u201cLord\n        Steyne\u201d), xx., xxi., 155, 166 _et sq._, 173, 176, 186, 191, 193.\n\n  Hertford, Francis Seymour, 5th Marquis of, 163, 194-5.\n\n  Hertford, Richard Seymour, 4th Marquis of, xx., xxi., 155, 157 _et\n        sq._, 173 _et sq._\n\n  Hertford, Lady Maria, 159 _et sq._, 192 _et sq._\n\n  Hicks-Beach. _See_ ST. ALDWYN.\n\n  Hieronymus, Lieutenant Friedrich, 131-2.\n\n  Hieronymus, Charlotte, 131 _et sq._, 138 _et sq._, 144, 147 _et sq._\n\n  Hogg, James, 215.\n\n  Homer, 62, 206.\n\n  Houdon, Jean, 180.\n\n  Hsi, Emperor-King, 67.\n\n  Hs\u00fcan Chwang, 11, 13, 68.\n\n  Humboldt, Baron von, 60.\n\n\n  James I., 239, 240, 243.\n\n  Japanese Gardens, 2 _et sq._, 102, 106;\n    customs, 118 _et sq._;\n    legends, 121 _et sq._\n\n  Jefferies, Richard, 233.\n\n  J\u00e9ta, Prince, 35.\n\n  J\u00e9tavana, 35.\n\n  John of Damascus, St., 27 _et sq._\n\n  Johnson, Dr., 203, 238, 241 _et sq._\n\n  Joseph II., Emperor of Austria, xxiii., 135, 140.\n\n\n  Kalanta, 11.\n\n  Karamzin, Nicholas, 205-6.\n\n  Kassapa the Prince, 37, 40.\n\n  Keats, John, 235.\n\n  Kennedy, Mr., xxii.\n\n  Kerner, Andreas, 225.\n\n  Kew Gardens, 243 _et sq._\n\n  Kimberley, John Wodehouse, Earl of, 291-2.\n\n  Kisseleff, Sergius, 289.\n\n  Kosciusko, 249.\n\n  Kr\u00fcdener, Madame de, 259.\n\n  Krylov, Ivan, 204-5.\n\n  Kshatriya, The, 48.\n\n  Kusin\u0101r\u0101, 42, 44.\n\n\n  Laboulaye, M., 29.\n\n  Ladmisault, General, 91.\n\n  La Harpe, Jean, 260.\n\n  Laking, Sir Guy, 201.\n\n  Lamington, Baillie Cochrane, Lord, 157.\n\n  Lancret, Nicolas, 112.\n\n  Lansdowne, Henry Fitzmaurice, 5th Marquis of, 201.\n\n  Lao Tze, 52.\n\n  Lamballe, Princesse de, 78.\n\n  Landseer, Sir Edwin, 144.\n\n  Latham, Robert Gordon, 60, 62.\n\n  Lavalette, M. de, 271.\n\n  Lee, Sir Sidney, 238-9, 245.\n\n  Leighton, Sir Frederick, 144.\n\n  Lemoyne, 180.\n\n  Leopold II., 147.\n\n  Lhuys, M. Drouyn de, 307.\n\n  Lissauer, Herr, 138.\n\n  Liszt, Abb\u00e9, 152.\n\n  Lofft, Mr., 243.\n\n  Louis XV., 271.\n\n  Louis-Philippe, Emperor of the French, 184, 269, 272.\n\n  Louise, Princess (Duchess of Argyll), 144.\n\n  Lowell, John Russell, 99.\n\n  Lumbini Garden, 16, 18 _et sq._, 26, 44.\n\n  Luther, Martin, 47, 274.\n\n\n  MacColl, Mr., 180 _et sq._, 202.\n\n  Macklin, Charles, 241.\n\n  Maintenon, Madame de, 193.\n\n  Malet, Sir Edward, 85, 201.\n\n  Malone, Edmund, 240-1.\n\n  Manners, Lord John, 305.\n\n  Maria Theresia, Empress of Germany, xv., 129.\n\n  Mario, Signor, 223.\n\n  Marie Antoinette, Queen, 133-4, 145, 175.\n\n  Marlborough Club, xvii.\n\n  Massignac, M. de, 307-8.\n\n  Mawson, S., 178 _et sq._, 187-8.\n\n  Maxwell, Sir John Stirling, 201.\n\n  Maya, Queen of Kapilavastu (mother of the Buddha), 15 _et sq._, 30,\n        40.\n\n  \u201cMemories,\u201d Lord Redesdale\u2019s, ix. _et sq._, 283, 297, 304.\n\n  Mendelssohn, 54, 218.\n\n  Mentschikoff, Prince, 266, 273, 276.\n\n  Mercier, Karoline, 135.\n\n  Metastasio, 134.\n\n  Metternich, Madame de, 93-4.\n\n  Meyendorf, 289.\n\n  Milarodowitch, General, 263.\n\n  Millais, Sir John, 144.\n\n  Milton, John, 206.\n\n  Mitford, Major the Hon. Clement, xi.\n\n  Moffat, Mary Maxwell, 143, 145.\n\n  Mohammed, 33.\n\n  Montaigne, xxi.\n\n  Moore, Sir John, 143.\n\n  Moskowa, Prince de la, 267.\n\n  Mowatt, Sir Francis, 200.\n\n  Mozart, 145, 151-2, 218.\n\n  Mrighadeva, The, 32, 44.\n\n  M\u00fcgge, Dr., 215-16.\n\n  Muraieff, General, 297.\n\n  Murillo, 188.\n\n  M\u00fcller, Max, 27-8, 48, 51 _et sq._, 60 _et sq._, 66, 68-9, 72, 75-6.\n\n  Murray, Mr., 197.\n\n\n  Napier, Francis, Lord, 296-7, 304, 306.\n\n  Napoleon, 13, 152, 251, 254 _et sq._\n\n  Napoleon III., 179, 271-2, 287, 291, 307-8.\n\n  National Gallery, xvii.\n\n  Nesselrode, Count, 275.\n\n  Newton, Sir Isaac, 53.\n\n  Ney, Marshal, 267.\n\n  Nicholas, Emperor of Russia, 167, 247, 262 _et sq._\n\n  Nietzsche, xiii., 213 _et sq._\n\n  North, Christopher, 215.\n\n  Northcote, James, 184.\n\n  Northcote, Sir Stafford, 157.\n\n  Norns, The, 115-16.\n\n\n  Orloff, Alexis, 289.\n\n  Oubrie, M. d\u2019, 254.\n\n  Ovid, 116 _et sq._\n\n\n  Paesiello, 151.\n\n  Pahlen, Count Nicholas, 251, 286 _et sq._\n\n  Pahlen, Count Peter, 250-1.\n\n  Palmerston, Henry Temple, Viscount, 293-4, 301, 305.\n\n  Paris, the Commune, 78 _et sq._\n\n  Parkes, Sir Harry, xvii.\n\n  Parsees, The, 65-6.\n\n  Paskiewitch, Prince, 267, 282-3.\n\n  Paul I., Emperor of Russia, 248 _et sq._, 258, 262, 272, 299.\n\n  Pechler, xv.\n\n  Peel, Right Hon. Sir Robert, 269.\n\n  Peirce, President, 293.\n\n  Penka, 60.\n\n  Pepys, Samuel, 243 _et sq._\n\n  Persigny, Madame de, 93.\n\n  Peter III., Emperor of Russia, 249, 250.\n\n  Phillips, Sir Claude, 176, 201-2.\n\n  Phillips, March, 107, 109, 110, 113.\n\n  Pichler, Frau, 130-1, 134, 136-7, 142, 150, 152.\n\n  Pigalle, 180.\n\n  Plant life, 221 _et sq._\n\n  Poesche, 60.\n\n  Poe, Edgar Allan, 234.\n\n  Pourtal\u00e8s, Comtesse de, 93-4.\n\n  Poynter, Sir Edward, 199, 200.\n\n  Prain, Sir David, 245.\n\n  Prajapati Gautama, 18, 30.\n\n  Pushkin, Alexandre, 205 _et sq._\n\n\n  Queensberry, William Douglas, Duke of, 164, 167-8, 173.\n\n\n  Raglan, Fitzroy Somerset, Lord, 265.\n\n  Rahula (son of the Buddha), 22, 32.\n\n  Rasumowski, Countess, 251-2.\n\n  Redcliffe, Lord Stratford de, 276 _et sq._\n\n  Rembrandt, 152, 182-3, 188.\n\n  Reynolds, Sir Joshua, 101, 172, 176, 186 _et sq._\n\n  Rhode, Erwin, xiii., 213.\n\n  Ribeaupierre, Count, 252.\n\n  Richmond, 104-5.\n\n  Robinson, William, 114-15.\n\n  Rockhill, William Woodville, 23, 44.\n\n  Rogers, Rev. William, 124.\n\n  Roscoe, Edward Stanley, 170, 173-4.\n\n  Rosebery, Lord, 93-4, 201-2.\n\n  Royal Society of Literature, xxii.\n\n  Royal Horticultural Society, 97.\n\n  Romney, George, 176.\n\n  Rostopchin, Fedor, 257 _et sq._, 272.\n\n  Rothschild, Alfred de, 200-1.\n\n  Rubens, 186.\n\n  Russell, Lord John, 295 _et sq._, 304, 307.\n\n  Ruysdael, 184.\n\n  Russia, 246 _et sq._\n\n\n  Sabatier, Louis, 54, 58.\n\n  Sagan, Princesse de, 93-4.\n\n  St. Aldwyn, Rt. Hon. Sir Michael Hicks-Beach, 1st Viscount, 201.\n\n  St. Hilaire Barth\u00e9lemy, 11, 23, 40.\n\n  Sanguszko, Prince, 267.\n\n  Satow, Sir Ernest, xvii.\n\n  Savile, John Lumley, Lord, 296.\n\n  Scheffer, Ary, 188.\n\n  Schlegel, August von, 60.\n\n  Schopenhauer, 214, 216.\n\n  Schrader, Eberhard, 60.\n\n  Schumann, 218.\n\n  Schwendener, 226 _et sq._\n\n  Scott, Sir John, 156, 159, 177, 190, 194, 197-8, 201-2.\n\n  Seaford, Charles Ellis, Lord, 167.\n\n  Sedley, Sir Charles, 244-5.\n\n  Selwyn, George, 164-5, 167 _et sq._\n\n  Selwyn, Bishop John, 210.\n\n  S\u00e9vign\u00e9, Madame de, 46, 171.\n\n  Seymour, Sir Hamilton, 195, 273.\n\n  Seymour, Lord Henry, 160, 173-4, 177.\n\n  Seymour, Lord Henry (son of 1st Marquis of Hertford), 174.\n\n  Shakespeare, 206-7, 238 _et sq._\n\n  Sharp, Granville, 298.\n\n  Siddartha, Prince. _See_ THE BUDDHA.\n\n  Smith, Assheton, 45.\n\n  Smith, J. R., 186.\n\n  Spiegel, 60.\n\n  Sta\u00ebl, Madame de, 152.\n\n  Stevenson, Robert Louis, 58.\n\n  Stockmar, Baron, 142.\n\n  Stowe, 182, 188.\n\n  Subasio, Mount, 56.\n\n  Subhadra, 42, 44.\n\n  Suddh\u014ddana, King of Kapilavastu (father of the Buddha), 14 _et sq._,\n        24 _et sq._, 32 _et sq._\n\n  Sudras, The, 49, 51-2.\n\n  Sujata, 31.\n\n  Suprabuddha, King, 15, 23.\n\n  Sutherland, George Leveson-Gower, 3rd Duke of, 79, 156.\n\n  Suvoroff, Prince, 297.\n\n  Swift, Dean, 229.\n\n  Swinbrook, Glos., xxii.\n\n\n  Talbot, Henry, 241.\n\n  \u201cTales of Old Japan,\u201d Lord Redesdale\u2019s, iv., 127.\n\n  Talleyrand, Prince, 254.\n\n  Terry, Mrs., 171.\n\n  Thackeray, W. M., 173.\n\n  Thalberg, Sigismund, 152.\n\n  Thynne, Lady Edward, 84.\n\n  _Times_, 4, 203.\n\n  Titian, 176.\n\n  Tolstoy, Count, 205, 289 _et sq._\n\n  Tomini, 255-6.\n\n  Tragedy in Stone, A, x.\n\n  Troubetzkoi, Prince, 263.\n\n  Turgeniev, Ivan, 205-6, 299.\n\n\n  Underhill, William, 239.\n\n\n  Vaisiyas, The, 49.\n\n  Valouieff, M., 299 _et sq._\n\n  Vandyck, 176.\n\n  Veda, Religion of the, 59, 66 _et sq._\n\n  Velasquez, 184-5, 187-8.\n\n  Vernon, Hon. W. W., xix.\n\n  Veronese, Paul, 184.\n\n  Victoria, German Empress (Princess Royal), 144, 150.\n\n  Victoria, Queen, 129 _et sq._, 135, 138 _et sq._, 150, 153-4, 269, 277.\n\n  Vihara, 12, 34, 36.\n\n  Vinoy, General, 91.\n\n  Virgil, 206.\n\n  Visakha, 36.\n\n  Voltaire, 206.\n\n\n  Wagner, Richard, 214 _et sq._\n\n  Wagner, Frau Cosima, 215-16, 220.\n\n  Wallace, Agnes (Jackson), 159, 192.\n\n  Wallace, Sir Richard, 155 _et sq._, 173, 175 _et sq._, 181-2, 188,\n        190 _et sq._\n\n  Wallace, Lady, 194 _et sq._\n\n  Wallace Collection, xvii., 155 _et sq._\n\n  Walmesley, Mrs., 241.\n\n  Warner, Dr., 170.\n\n  Watteau, Antoine, 112-113, 188.\n\n  Watts, George Frederick, 144.\n\n  Weber, Carl von, 152.\n\n  Wellington, Arthur Wellesley, Duke of, 265.\n\n  Whately, Archbishop, 13.\n\n  Wilberforce, William, 298.\n\n  Wilhelm II., Kaiser, xxiii.\n\n  Wilkinson, Sir Gardner, 126.\n\n  Winterhalter, Friedrich, 144.\n\n  Worth, M., 94.\n\n\n  Yas\u014ddhara (wife of the Buddha), 18, 22, 32, 35-6.\n\n  Yule, Sir Henry, 49.\n\n  York, Cardinal, 193.\n\n  Yriarte, 177-8.\n\n\n  Zarathustra, 66-7.","title":"Further memories","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":79952}