'I Believe' and other essays Part 6

It is discerned, but only by the important people as yet--only by the people who matter and count. The Oxford historians whom I am attacking have not realized it and will never realize it, which is the precise reason why we must reform them or give them the alternative of staffing the upper grade board schools.

James Anthony Froude did realize this certainty, and his works are not recommended to be read by candidates for history honours. The malignant personal hatred of Freeman, the stupidity of lesser men, long endeavoured to crush and limit the influence of the greatest historian, because the completest artist, who wrote history in our era. The endeavour to suppress him continues, but it is no longer anything but an endeavour. The times are changing very rapidly, and the triumphant war-whoops of some years ago have sunk to-day into the moribund whimpers of the discredited and deposed.

Everybody in Oxford is waking up to the fact that if history is to have unity of organism and purpose it must have artistic proportion and be informed by art. The leaven has been working for a long time, un.o.bserved by the people it is destined to destroy at the moment of completed fermentation. It is always thus with revolutions. The period of gestation is lengthy and its processes are obscure. But the completed moment arrives, the G.o.ddess bursts in full armour from her sire, or Gargantua is born "crying not as other babes used to do, miez, miez, miez, miez, but with a high, st.u.r.dy, and big voice!"

The occasion that has set in motion forces which in no short time will destroy the little eminence of the Oxford Historicides, was the publication of Mr. Herbert Paul's _Life of James Anthony Froude_.

Everything had led up to that; I was cognizant of all the restlessness and disgust which were seething below the surface, and when at last the volume fell into Oxford with the noise and reverberation of a thunder-bolt, I was daily informed of the hideous consternation of those who realized that their day was over, that the judge was set and the doom begun, that no one could stay it.

I wish that I could write frankly and openly of the disturbance and alarm the book occasioned. If I were publishing this essay in the first instance in America I should certainly do so. However, as it will appear in England and afterwards in the Land of Freedom of Speech, this joy is not permitted to me. As Mr. H. G. Wells would say, "Figure that the bomb fell upon the green of All Souls' while the clock in the gateway of Christ Church was in the act of striking twelve."

The rush and hurry, the frightened consultations, the squeaks of those who realized that Nemesis was at hand at last and was beating at the door, were, I can a.s.sure the public that will read this paper, comparable to nothing so much as the occasion when the feet of the ferret are heard drumming down the hollow burrows of the warren, while the rabbits know the day of irresponsible frolic is over and that they must die in the dark or in the open, but must die.

The Historicides of Oxford have always feared an extended public and distrusted a name that has been made without their connivance, and which is beyond their reach. I find it difficult to suppose that those who do not realize the incredible narrowness and stupidity of a certain type of history don, will believe the anecdote I am about to tell. Nevertheless, it is true. A pedant, whose name I will not give, was recently heard to refer to Mr. Thomas Hardy in these words, "Hardy? Hardy? Oh, do you mean the little novelist man?"

Let me put it before you quite plainly and in ant.i.thesis. Hardly anything could better ill.u.s.trate the appalling mental position of the _camarilla_ that has got to go. Here is a priggish person, whom no one has ever heard of outside Oxford, piping out his contempt for a man who is generally recognized as one of the most distinguished novelists and one of the chief artists alive in our time.

It is possible that many people will not immediately appreciate the reason for all the terror excited by Mr. Paul's biography. The outside man cannot quite know how Froude is, and always was, hated and feared by a certain section of the Oxford historians. They were always trying to hit him below the belt because he hit them above the intellect.

There was a definite conspiracy among the malignant, from Freeman downwards, to lie about Froude in every conceivable way, and to complete their malicious impudence by calling Froude himself a liar.

Froude was a master of English prose; the highest praise that can be given to the jargon which his detractors wrote, and write, is that it is not exactly Esperanto. Froude understood the colour of words, the movements of a paragraph, the harmonic rhythm of an emotion expressed in prose. His words were the incarnation of his original thought, theirs but accentuated their borrowings. While the genius of this great man was coming into its own, while it burned brightly and yet more bright, while all thoughtful England was beginning to be moved and stirred by a new force, and the possessor of it was living with intellects as great and gracious as his own, the Oxford historians slept in their padded rooms, and because they snored loudly imagined they were thinking. Too indolent to search for the truth, they contented themselves with dodging difficulties, and persuading each other that their ostentatious obscurity was fame.

There came a time at last when James Anthony Froude could no longer be ignored. His achievement was beginning to be a national possession, and he shared the councils of the rulers. The echoes of his fame reached the ears of the troglodytes, and, led by Freeman, they swarmed to the attack, yelping a paean to mediocrity and brandishing weapons from a more than doubtful armoury.

Froude, as Mr. Paul has pointed out, "toiled for months and years over parchments and ma.n.u.scripts often almost illegible, carefully noting the calligraphy, and among the authors of a joint composition a.s.signing his proper share to each. Freeman wrote his _History of the Norman Conquest_, upon which he was at this time engaged, entirely from books, without consulting a ma.n.u.script or original doc.u.ment of any kind."

Freeman,--the head of the daguerreotypical historians,--attacked a man whom he very well knew was his superior, pretending publicly to a greater knowledge of the special subject under discussion, and cynically denying any special knowledge in private. In public Freeman represented his hostile att.i.tude as the natural outcome of his zeal for truth; in private it was known that he was actuated by personal hatred, and the discoveries made by Mr. J. B. Rye on the margins of Freeman's books in Owens College library have discredited him for all time. Again I quote from Mr. Paul's _Life of Froude_:--

"Freeman's biographer, Dean Stephens, preserves absolute and unbroken silence on the duel between Freeman and Froude. I think the Dean's conduct was judicious. But there is no reason why a biographer of Froude should follow his example. On the contrary, it is absolutely essential that he should not; for Freeman's a.s.siduous efforts, first in _The Sat.u.r.day_, and afterwards in _The Contemporary Review_, did ultimately produce an impression, never yet fully dispelled, that Froude was an habitual garbler of facts and const.i.tutionally reckless of the truth. But, before I come to details, let me say one word more about Freeman's qualifications for the task which he so lightly and eagerly undertook. Freeman, with all his self-a.s.sertion, was not incapable of candour. He was staunch in friendship, and spoke openly to his friends. To one of them, the excellent Dean Hook, famous for his _Lives of the Archbishops of Canterbury_, he wrote, on the 27th of April, 1857, 'You have found me out about the sixteenth century. I fancy that from endlessly belabouring Froude, I get credit for knowing more of those times than I do. But one can belabour Froude on a very small amount of knowledge, and you are quite right when you say that I "have never thrown the whole force of my mind on that portion of history."' These words pour a flood of light on the temper and knowledge with which Freeman must have entered on what he really seemed to consider a crusade. His object was to belabour Froude. His own acquaintance with the subject was, as he says, 'very small,' but sufficient for enabling him to dispose satisfactorily of an historian who had spent years of patient toil in thorough and exhaustive research. On another occasion, also writing to Hook, whom he could not deceive, he said, 'I find I have a reputation with some people for knowing the sixteenth century, of which I am profoundly ignorant.' It does not appear to have struck him that he had done his best in _The Sat.u.r.day Review_ to make people think that, as Froude's critic, he deserved the reputation which he thus frankly and in private disclaims.

"Another curious piece of evidence has come to light. After Freeman's death his library was transferred to Owens College, Manchester, and there, among his other books, is his copy of Froude's _History_. He once said himself, in reference to his criticism of Froude, 'In truth there is no kind of temper in the case, but only a strong sense of amus.e.m.e.nt in bowling down one thing after another.' Let us see. Here are some extracts from his marginal notes. 'A lie, _teste_ Stubbs,' as if Stubbs were an authority, in the proper sense of the term, any more than Froude. Authorities are contemporary witnesses, or original doc.u.ments. Another entry is 'Beast,' and yet another is 'Bah!' 'May I live to embowel James Anthony Froude,' is the pious aspiration with which he has adorned another page. 'Can Froude understand honesty?' asks this anxious inquirer; and again, 'Supposing Master Froude were set to break stones, feed pigs, or do anything else but write paradoxes, would he not curse his day?' Along with such graceful compliments as 'You've found that out since you wrote a book against your own father,'

'Give him as slave to Thirlwall,' there may be seen the culminating a.s.sertion, 'Froude is certainly the vilest brute that ever wrote a book.' Yet there was 'no kind of temper in the case,' and 'only a strong sense of amus.e.m.e.nt.' I suppose it must have amused Freeman to call another historian a vile brute. But it is fortunate that there was no temper in the case. For if there had, it would have been a very bad temper indeed."

Until Mr. Herbert Paul's _Life of Froude_ appeared a year ago, the Historicides had been continually repeating the lie that Froude garbled doc.u.ments, was untrustworthy, and wrote not history but fiction. History, of course, often imitates fiction, for good fiction always deals with realities. But these slanderers did not pause for a definition. They continued to abuse Froude, to prevent their pupils from reading him, and to refuse him a place in the recognized curriculum of historical study at the University.

From time to time a doubter or inquirer arose and was promptly suppressed. Nor was it likely that a man, whatever his private opinion of those in authority might be, was going to jeopardize his chance of a good degree by publishing it. There were awkward moments, of course, for the slanderers. A lie is like a forged promissory note. When it becomes due another must be forged in order to take up the first. But the Historicides had the whip-hand. They controlled the examinations, and they could do what they pleased.

I once wrote a little story which I will outline here, because I think it ill.u.s.trates the method of these people whenever any ugly fact was discovered and some one required an explanation.

There was once a simple-minded old gentleman of a philosophic temper and an inquiring mind. Blessed with an ample fortune and untroubled by any business instincts, he devoted his life to the search for truth.

On the whole his life was a happy one, because he possessed the faculty of going on. His failures were not made tragic with courage, but were minimized by persistence, and so were not very different from successes. Yet, as the years went on, he began to feel that in his time he would never achieve his end. Seeing him somewhat downcast, and becoming indifferent to his chop and Chambertin, his butler, a faithful person, came to him one day, and, after venturing a privileged remonstrance, stated that he had something to disclose. "I have lately heard, sir," said the butler, "that truth is really hidden at the bottom of a well. It may of course, sir, be mere idle talk, but I think, as far as I remember, we have not looked there yet? There was the church, sir--we found nothing there--and then I held the lantern for you in the chapel, too. There was none behind the art wall-paper, nor did Liberty have any in stock. And it wasn't in history, sir, because I turned over every leaf of them Oxford books myself, and shook them well, too. You did think you'd found it in science, sir, I remember, there was something that you thought was truth in the bottom of the test-tube, but then you told me it wasn't, though I forget what you said it was after all."

"Merely a note of a recorded fact, Thomas," said the old gentleman sorrowfully. "But do you _really_ think there is anything in this idea of yours?"

"I cannot be positive, sir," the butler replied; "but I see it stated definite at the end of a leading article in the _Artesian Engineer_."

"Have we a well on the premises, Thomas?" the old gentleman asked, putting on his spectacles and rubbing his hands briskly together.

"I asked the gardener this morning, sir," Thomas answered, "and he informs me that there is an old disused well by the cuc.u.mber-frame which could be opened easily enough by a couple of men working for a week."

"Engage some men at once," said the old gentleman, now thoroughly interested and pleased, and that day he enjoyed his chop with all his accustomed pleasure. The faithful butler, who had all his life lived worthily and well without truth, was overjoyed at the success of his suggestion. Antic.i.p.ating, however, another disappointment, he gave private instructions, received _con amore_ by the workmen, that they were not to hurry over their task of opening the well, and for a month the old gentleman's appet.i.te whetted by hope, was all that his faithful retainer could desire.

At length the work was done, the well was fully opened, and the page-boy (an adventurous youth) descended in the bucket. There was a tense silence in the garden as the boy disappeared, until his hollow-sounding voice hailed them from below vibrating with excitement.

"I've got un, sir," ascended in a triumphant pipe; "he be here, sir, sure 'nuff!"

In a moment more the young fellow came to the surface, holding a large and speckled toad in his hand. On the back of the reptile an arrangement of orange-coloured spots spelt out the word TRUTH.

The old gentleman saw it, fell into uncontrollable rage, s.n.a.t.c.hed the wondering reptile from the page-boy's hand and stamped out its life upon the ground.

"To the house all of you," he cried; "and never let me hear the name of truth again!" With that he forswore all his former theories, and in bitter irony started a society paper. However, the gardener, a wise, silent, and pawky person, came along later, and, picking a diamond from the crushed _debris_ of the toad took it home and hid it away for the rest of his life, fearing discovery. When the gardener died, his relatives discovered the jewel, and knowing nothing of its value threw it away.

The old gentleman made an enormous fortune out of the society paper.

Forgive the digression. This, or something like it, was what the Historicides of Oxford did before the publication of Mr. Paul's book.

Whenever any one showed them the truth they s.n.a.t.c.hed it from him, and ordered him back into Stubbs's Charters.

I have already said something of the terror the _Life of Froude_ excited. In a swift moment pretensions were exposed, lies were shown to be lies, and people began to read _Froude_. Mr. Paul made it quite plain that the accusations of dishonesty against Froude were utter fabrications. Mr. Paul, himself a learned historian, an artist and a man of letters, has gone into the charges _seriatim_, and triumphantly disproved them. No one can ever make them again. _They are lies, they have been proved once and for ever to be lies._ I cannot quote here the ma.s.s of refutation which has brought about the complete vindication of the accused historian. This is a summary and nothing more. It stands for all to read in Mr. Paul's book, a volume which should be in the hands of every man who is reading, and means to read history at Oxford.

This memorable book is a protest against the charlatanry of the pseudo-scientific school of history. The acts and intentions of people in the past cannot be known better than the intentions and acts of people in the present. No one man can possibly sift all, or anything like all the evidence for any period. Much of the important evidence is missing. No one can be examined or cross-examined, and for an historian to write as if he were a judge delivering a decision is a piece of impertinence. The abler man, a.s.suming his honesty, will make the abler historian, and the mere bookworm is not the best judge of what probably happened. It is the dull and incompetent who formerly invented the fable that brilliant writers are superficial. This is the lie behind which the "dry as dusts" have lurked for years; it was their last line of defence, and Mr. Paul has destroyed it.

The historian must be able to write distinguished English, and he must understand the enormous possibilities of his medium. He must add a sense of artistry to his scholarship. He must be a man of experience in human event, a man who has done and suffered; must have been in crowds and seen "how madly men can care about nothings," and he must disabuse his mind of formula and theory before he begins to write. Sir Arthur Helps said this years ago:--

"To make themselves historians, they should also have considered the combinations among men and the laws that govern such things; for there are laws. Moreover our historians, like most men who do great things, must combine in themselves qualities which are held to belong to opposite natures; must at the same time be patient in research and _vigorous in imagination_, energetic and calm, cautious and enterprising."

History, in short, is the complement of poetry, and with this definition as a basis let us proceed to examine some of the Oxford historians of to-day. But first let me recapitulate the points at which we have so far arrived.

I have endeavoured to make plain, that--

(_a_) The Oxford historians of the moment enjoy an unjust monopoly, and exercise a disastrous power of veto.

(_b_) That the _power_ to stop all this, to force these people to their duty or to send them about their business lies with the majority.

(_c_) That the majority is composed of those who pay for the education of their sons, and of those who proceed to the University for an education.

(_d_) That the historian must be not only a scholar, but an artist and man of letters also.

(_e_) That the fear of Froude provoked the attack on him in the past, and has maintained it until a year ago.

(_f_) That Mr. Paul's _Life of Froude_ has silenced the misstatements of mediocrity and incompetence for ever.

The whole business of Froude has provided one with a lens in which to focus the question upon the page, and no one was ever provided with a better text than I have been. Excuse me, however, if I make a brief personal explanation. While engaged upon this piece of work an Oxford man, an old-fashioned High Churchman of the Freeman type, has been staying with me. It is forty years since he was in residence, and he did not see with me at all in this matter when we discussed it.

"I cannot understand," he said, "how you are going to champion Froude and Mr. Paul against Freeman, who was perfectly sound on Church matters, as I believe you to be. All you have ever published has been in support of Catholic Truth, and yet you are earnestly advocating a historian who was the incarnation of Protestantism."

It was, in the first place, difficult to make my interlocutor see that I was writing of the art of the historian, and not the trend of his opinions. In the second place, I do not agree with him as to the essential Protestantism of Froude. Froude's religious att.i.tude has been summed up once and for all by one of the most brilliant writers of our time, an historian, artist, and scholar, whom Oxford dons rejected, but for whom Oxford calls aloud, and for whom St. Stephen's has naturally a greater attraction--much as one deplores it.

Mr. Belloc writes:--

"See how definite, how downright, and how clean are the sentences in which Froude a.s.serts that Christianity is Catholic or nothing:--