My Life as an Author Part 22

As to my several efforts in print to hinder cruelty to animals, beside and beyond what a reader may already find in my published books, let me chiefly mention these two fly-leaves, widely circulated by the Humane Society in Jermyn Street; to wit, "Mercy to Animals," and my "Four anti-Vivisection Sonnets." The latter I must preface with an interesting anecdote. Before Louis Napoleon was Emperor, I accompanied a deputation from Guernsey to Cherbourg, met him, had pleasant speech with him, and gave him a book ("Proverbial Philosophy"), thus making his personal acquaintance; which many years after I utilised as thus. The horrors of that infernal veterinary torture-house at Alfort, where disabled cavalry horses were on system vivisected to death, had been known to us by letters in the _Times_, of course denouncing the criminality: I remember reading that one poor old horse survived more than threescore operations, and used to be led in daily strapped with bandages and plaisters amid the cheers of the demoniacal students!--and this excited me to make a strong personal effort to stop the outrages at Alfort.

Accordingly I wrote from Albury a letter to the Emperor (if I kept and can find a copy I will print it here) as from one gentleman to another fond of his horse and dog, exhorting him to interfere and hinder such horrors. I told him that I purposely did this in a private way, and not through any newspaper or minister, because I wished him to cure, _proprio motu_, a crying evil whereof he was ignorant and therefore innocent: leaving the issue of my appeal to his own generous feeling and to Providence, but otherwise not expecting nor requesting any reply. I therefore got none; but (whether _post hoc_ or _propter hoc_ I do not know) the result was that vivisection at Alfort was suspended at once, though how long for is unknown to me. As, after all this, many may like to see my four sonnets before-mentioned, I have no room to place here more than one: it is fair to state that they are easily procurable for a penny at the S.P.C.A. office in Jermyn Street. They were written by me in the train between Hereford and London, at the request of a lady, the chatelaine of Pontrilas Court, for a bazaar at Brighton.

"If ever thou hast loved thy dog or horse, Or other favourite affectionate thing, If thou dost recognise in G.o.d the source Of all that live, their Father and their King, Stand with us on this rescue;--for the force Of sciolists hath legal right to seize Such innocents to torture as they please, Alive and sentient, with demoniac skill; UnG.o.dly men! hot with the lawless l.u.s.t Of violating Nature's holiest fane, Breaking it open at your wicked will,-- Yet shall ye tremble!--for the Judge is just; To Him those victims do not plead in vain, On you for aeons crowd their hours of pain."

When I was last at Boston my spirit was stirred by what I have poetised below: it has only appeared in some American papers, but I hope will be acceptable here.

_The Omnibus Hack._

"Worn, jaded, and faint, plodding on in the track, I praise your great patience, poor omnibus hack; In whose sad gentle eyes my spirit can trace The gloom of despair in that pa.s.sionless face, While way-wearied muscles, strain'd out to the full And cruelly check'd by the pitiless pull, With little for food, but of lashes no lack, Force me to pray for you, omnibus hack!

"Yes I--if I can pity you, omnibus hack, For nerves all atremble and sinews awrack, How should not his Maker, the Father above, Be just to His creature, and grant him His love?

Why may not His mercy give somewhat of bliss In some better world to compensate for this, By animal pleasure for animal pain, Receiving their lives but to give them again?

"And which of us isn't an omnibus hack, With galls on his withers and sores on his back,-- Buckled to circ.u.mstance, driven by fate, And chain'd on the pole of a oar that we hate-- Yon ponderous Past which we drag fast or slow On the coa.r.s.e-mended Present, this dull road we go, Hard-curb'd on the tongue and no bearing-rein slack, Ah! who of us isn't that omnibus hack?

"Yet great is the comfort considering thus That G.o.d doth take thought as for him so for us; That we shall find rest, reward, and relief Outweighing, outpaying all pain and all grief; That all things are kindly remembered elsewhere, The shame and the wrong and the press and the care, The evils that keep all better aback, And make one feel now but an omnibus hack.

"An omnibus hack?--and only a drudge?-- Is Duty no more in the eyes of the Judge?

He set thee this toil; His providence gave These bounds to His freedman; yes, free--not a slave!

And if thou wilt serve Him, content with thy lot, Cheerfully working and murmuring not, Be sure, my poor brother--whose skies are so black-- Thou art His dear child, though an omnibus hack!"

My "Mercy to Animals," a simple handbill, has done great good, as it has prose instructions about loading, harnessing, &c. It also is to be had for a penny at Jermyn Street aforesaid: here is the first verse:--

"O boys and men of British mould, With mother's milk within you!

A simple word for young and old, A word to warn and win you; You've each and all got human hearts, As well as human features, So hear me, while I take the parts Of all the poor dumb creatures."

For my own part I have done it all my life. Those of my book-friends who have my Miscellaneous Poems may refer in this connection to verses therein on "A Dead Dog" and "A Dead Cat," and to those on "Cruelty."

Also in "Proverbial Philosophy," especially as to the "Future of Animals," and their too shameful treatment in this world, one good reason for a compensative existence.

CHAPTER x.x.xIX.

ORKNEY AND SHETLAND.

I took my family to these Northern Isles of the Sea in 1859, sailing from Aberdeen in a once-a-week steamer; some of our pa.s.sengers were notable, as Dasent of the Norse Tales (since Sir George) and his sons, Day the Oxonian in Norway, Ellicott, now Bishop of Bristol, Biot Edmondstone, and some others, inclusive of our n.o.ble selves. It was a dark night and a dense fog, and we had perilously to thread our careful way through the herring-fleet, fog-horns blowing all night, whilst our distinguished party bivouacked on deck, every cabin having been secured by folks crowding to the Kirkwall fair; and so we enjoyed a seagoing experience which, however cold and dark, was warmed and brightened by the conversation of clever friends all night through.

Next day, jumping into a boat on the top of a wave (it was very rough weather), I and a few others landed at Wick, and witnessed the extraordinary scene of a herring harvest being cured. Much as at Cincinnati they say pigs walk in, and come out at the other end of a long gallery salted and smoked,--live herrings are within some three minutes killed, cleaned, pickled, and tubbed by the fishermen's wives and daughters in their brightest caps and jewellery, for the whole scene is a fair and a festival.

In due time we arrived at Kirkwall, where we stayed a fortnight, in the course of which we were soon invited to Mr. Balfour's castle at Shapinshay. I call to mind in that mediaeval-looking stronghold (but it is a modern structure) his splendid banqueting-room, lighted by the illuminated points of twelve stags' heads, each having twelve tynes, thus 144 of them, ranged on the sides of that baronial hall: the castle, of grey granite in the Norman style, having its own gasometer, all the light was gas; this struck me as a remarkable feature inside: on the outside was one quite as memorable. Those sterile-looking isles of the North Sea are so swept by stormy winds as to be absolutely treeless: insomuch that it is jocularly said, that for cutting down a tree at Kirkwall, the penalty is _death!_ simply because no trees exist there.

Well, the wealthy Baron of Shapinshay conquers nature thus; he has dug round the castle vast hollow gardens (not a continuous moat) in which flourishes a profusion of flowers and shrubs and even trees,--till arboriculture is cut shear off, if it dares to look over the mounds. I put it thus:--

"When to the storm-historic Orcades The wanderer comes, he marvels to find there A stately palace, towering new and fair, Bedded in flowers, though unbanked by trees, A feudal dream uprisen from the seas: And when his wonder asks,--Whose magic rare Hath wrought this bright creation?--men reply, Balfour's of Balfour: large in mind and heart, Not only doth his duteous care reclaim All Shapinshay to new fertility, But to his brother men a brother's part Doing, in always doing good,--his fame Is to have raised an Orcade Arcady, Rich in gems of Nature as of Art."

At Kirkwall we could not help noticing what a fine race of men and women, blue-eyed and yellow-haired, many of these Northerners are; at St. Magnus Cathedral they trooped in looking like giants, seeming taller perhaps because the pews are on a dead level with the floor. Of course we duly did all the sights of the place, in the way of the ruinous bishop's palace and so forth, and received hearty welcomes from both high and low, the isolation of those parts conducing to the popularity of strangers; to say less of any greed for the cash of tourists.

I made there good acquaintance also with Aytoun, the poet of Dundee and Montrose, of whom it is rememberable that he used to read all through Scott's novels every year. I thought it a marvellous feat, but at any rate he told me so. He was sheriff of all those northern regions; and writer, amongst other things, of "Hints for Authors" in _Blackwood_, which for their wit and sense ought to be reprinted: but when I urged it in Princes Street, I found such a booklet was not to be--nor "Firmilian"

either--which is a pity, as both are admirable for humour. He was a zealous florist and fruitist; the white currants trained by him upon walls were as large as grapes.

Among these Isles of Thule palpable evidences of the Gulf Stream are frequent; besides that it warms the northern seas so well that snow and ice are not too common there as in much lower lat.i.tudes they are with us--it is the fact that most of the seafaring men have for snuff-boxes the large brown circular beans from Mexico floated on tropical seaweed, full of hand coral, and found on the island beaches westwardly. Another notable matter in these Orcades is the strange disproportion between the s.e.xes, eleven women to one man, as Mr. Hayes, the Lerwick banker, told me; this being due to the too frequent drowning of whole boat's crews: hence, one often sees women at the oar. A pleasanter thing to mention is the Fair Isle hosiery, the patterns whereof in the woven worsted are distinctly Moorish, just like those at Tangiers; said to be a survival of some wreck from the Spanish Armada cast upon the sh.o.r.e, with of course its crew and contents, the local manufacture of said patterns having been kept up ever since, with dyes derived from seaweeds, and from flowers. I frequently observed how diligent in knitting the island women were (reminding me of those notable spinsters of Herodotus) working the needles all the while they tended cattle, and with the pile of some costly shawl upon their heads while they fidget at the fringe; its various devices being of natural unstained wools, white, grey, or brown. In those interesting islands I can dimly recall many other noticeable things and people, everywhere having received the warm welcome which is usually the privilege of a bookwright all the world over; visiting the Stones of Stennis with Mr. Petrie, the Celtic tower of Scalloway with Aytoun, and divers similar antiquities, as Maeshow and other refuges of the Picts and Troglodytes.

At Lerwick two of the boatmen who took us to sh.o.r.e from the steamer surprised me by quotations from my old book--even the common folk being full of literature. They are so separate from the great world, and have so little to do, that they cannot help being hard readers,--even of me.

A haberdasher told me that though there are in the short summer plenty of simple wild-flowers, there is naturally a dearth all the year round of the brighter and more highly-coloured cultivated kinds; and so these being scarce and female vanity rather common, there is a large trade in artificial fuchsias, pinks, and roses, &c., thus constantly making chapel and church quite gay; the same ladies who so bedizen themselves on the Sabbath going about all the week carrying burdens of peat, bare-footed and kilted to the knee on account of the bogs, among which they have to chase those small s.h.a.ggy equines, the Shetland ponies. By the way Mr. Balfour at Oronsay had a special breed of his own, and showed us a pair of little darlings which he valued at 100 apiece. The true race, stunted and s.h.a.ggy from climate, is rare in these days; and I suspect may be picked up cheaper at Aldridge's than at Shapinshay.

On our return voyage we skirted the whole north of Scotland, having had the rare chance of the steamer which once a year is chartered to take back the herring-fishers from Thurso to the Hebrides. But first Sir George Sinclair most hospitably entertained us at Thurso Castle, whose grim battlements frown flush over the Arctic Sea: all within the walls luxurious warmth, and without them wrecks and desolation. So also with the garden; on one side of the high wall greenhouses and flower-beds in the Italian style,--on the other, in strange contrast, the desolate wild ocean, which you see through windows of thick plate-gla.s.s let into the walls. At Thurso town I conversed with the local genius, Robert d.i.c.k, made of world-wide fame since by that kind-hearted and clear-minded author, Samuel Smiles, the said genius being a noted self-taught naturalist, who as a small baker struggled with poverty through life, to be inconsistently rewarded after death by a national monument; his fellow-townsmen let the living starve to deify him when dead. Cervantes and his like have met the same fate elsewhere. Leaving Thurso for the Hebrides, in company with no fewer than 700 Gaelic fishermen, we pa.s.sed the magnificent cliffs of Cape Wrath in a pleasant calm,--which next day when we had reached Stornoway turned to a furious storm: had we encountered it with those 700 loading the deck it would infallibly have wrecked us,--as it did many other vessels on that night.

Sir James Matheson was our great host at Stornoway, who treated me and mine with magnificent hospitality. If I had wished to shoot a buck or to catch a salmon (the kilted gillie stood ready with his tackle), I might have done so and welcome; but there was no time to spare for anything but a visit to the prehistoric temple of Callanish, where the stones strangely enough are set in the form of a cross instead of the ordinary circle; and to a Pictish tower, and other antiquities,--which I preferred to sport.

Sir James's piper always wakes the guests a'mornings, parading round the terraces with his bagpipes, and after dinner, as usual at the feasts of Highland magnates, he marches round the table in kilt and flying tartans with his drone-like dirge or furious slogan,--being rewarded on the spot with whisky from the chief.

Here I will cease my quick reminiscence of that pleasant northern travel, though I might recount many noticeable matters about Skye and its dolomite Cuchullins, Staffa, Iona, and Oban, where The MacDougal allowed us to see and handle (an unusual honour) the famous brooch of Lorne, the loss of which saved The Bruce's life, when he broke away from his captor, the then MacDougal; leaving tartan and shoulder-brooch in his grasp.

CHAPTER XL.

LITERARY FRIENDS.

Among the many literary men and women of my acquaintance there are some (for it is not possible to enumerate all) of whom I should like to make some mention; and, _place aux dames_, let me speak of the ladies first.

In my boyhood I can recollect that astronomical wonder of womankind, _Mrs. Mary Somerville_, a great friend of my father's; she seemed to me very quiet and thoughtful, and so little self-conscious as to be humbly unregardful of her genius and her fame. Strangely enough I first met her in the same drawing-room in Grafton Street (she lived and died at Chelsea) where I acted a silent part years after in some private theatricals with _Miss Granville_ (met during my American visit in her then phase of a German Baroness), herself an auth.o.r.ess and a cantatrice, daughter of Dr. Granville, the well-known historian of Spas. I recollect, too, in those early times, _Mrs. Jameson_, then a celebrated writer, and a vivacious leader of literary society; and much nearer this day, _Mrs. Beecher Stowe_, whom I found too taciturn, and as if scared at the notice she excited, quite to realise one's expectation of a famous lioness. With her I have since broken a lance in the interest of Byron, whom I considered maligned in the matter of his "sweet sister,"

and accordingly wrote on his behalf a vindicatory fly-leaf of poetic indignation. Another lance, too, have I broken in favour of _Ouida_, as against a newspaper critic who had tried to crush her "Moths;" I had met her before that, and did my little best in her defence, receiving from her from Italy a charming letter of acknowledgment. "Ouida" is not generally known to have been the nursery name of "Louisa" de la Ramenay, just as "Boz" was of d.i.c.kens. Both "Ouida" and _Miss Braddon_, whom also I have seen as Mrs. Maxwell, remind me of that great and not seldom unfairly judged genius, Georges Sand. There remains a worthy duplicated friendship of later years, _Mr._ and _Mrs. Carter Hall_, of whose geniality and kindness I have often had experience; also _Mr._ and _Mrs.

Grote_, my learned and agreeable neighbours at Albury; also _Lady Wilde_, admirable both for prose and poetry on Scandinavian subjects, and her eloquent son _Oscar_, famous for taste all the world over; and as another duplicate the Gaelic historian and cheerful singer, _Charles Mackay_, with his charming daughter, the poetess.

Of celebrated men whom I have not previously mentioned in this volume, there is _Rogers_, the poet, with whom I once had an interview at his artistic house in St. James's Place; _Carlyle_, of course, well known to me by books, but personally only in a single visit, when I found him in Cheyne Row cordially glad to greet me;--after a long talk, taking my leave with a hearty "G.o.d bless you, sir," his emphatic reply, as he saw me to the door, was, "And good be with you!"

It was a coincidence, proving (as many things do) the narrowness of the world, that he was living very near to the house where in my young days I had wooed my cousin.

Near at hand also (in Cheyne Walk) I have visited _Haweis_, the eloquent preacher of St. James's, Marylebone; he lives in the picturesque old-fashioned house that was Rossetti's, and when I called there last Mr. Haweis showed me the strangest and most unwieldy testimonial that any public man surely ever received, in the shape of a ton-weight bell hung in its ma.s.sive frame and placed in his sanctum, which, when touched, gave out melodious thunder. This giant-gift had been sent to him from Holland in recognition of his musical genius, especially in the matter of campanology. And this word "musical" reminds me of Mr.

Haweis's n.o.ble self-sacrifice in giving up his idolised violin that he might concentrate all his energies on religious teaching; when I asked to see his famous "Straduarius," worth three hundred guineas, and found it unstrung, I expressed my disappointment at not having had the chance of hearing its dulcet tones drawn out by himself, but it lies dumb, though he is eloquent. Of course I have visited the great _Tennyson_ at Farringford, and remember him showing me the tree overhanging his garden fence, which "Yankees" climb to have a look at him. _Browning_ also, _tantum vidi_, I met at Moxon's, a grandly rugged poet; contrasted with the Laureate he seems to me as Wagner is to Mendelssohn. _Mortimer Collins_ has given us "a happy day" at Albury, coming in _a pied poudre_ on one of his dusty walks through Surrey, as recorded in his book; how he enjoyed his tumbler of cool claret and the ramble with my son through the Albury woods as a most genial Bohemian! _d.i.c.kens_ I have met several times, and he gave me good hints on my first American visit; a man full of impulsive kindliness and sincerely one's friend. His son _Charles_ also I have occasionally met, the worthy successor to his ill.u.s.trious father: I may here state that many of the articles and poems in _Household Words_ are from the pen of my youngest daughter. _Richard Owen_, too, now worthily K.C.B., our most famous comparative anatomist, I am privileged to number among my true friends; he was one of those who stood sponsor to me when I was to receive a civil service pension. Also I knew for many years my late Surrey neighbour, _G.o.dwin Austen_, the geologist; and I have met _Pengelly_, with whom I searched Kent's Cavern; and _Dr. Bowerbank_, the great authority as to sponges, and my then hobby choanites; he gave me certain microscopic plates of Bacilli which I was glad to transfer to my worthy and eminent friend, _Stephen Mackenzie_, Physician and Lecturer to the London Hospital. _Matthew Arnold_ also, with whose celebrated father I was in early youth nearly placed as a pupil, I have sometimes encountered; and _Shirley Brooks_, _Albert Smith_, and _Mark Lemon_, once a chief of _Punch_, who acted Falstaff without padding; and the genial _John Tenniel_, our most exquisite limner in outline; the venerable _Thomas Cooper_ also, now in his old age the zealous preacher of a faith he once as zealously attacked: an excellent man, and vigorous both in prose and verse. My old friend from boyhood, _Owen Blayney Cole_, must not be forgotten; year after year for some forty of them he has sent me reams of his poetry.

_Edmund Yates_, than whom a kindlier, cleverer, and better-hearted man does not exist, I have known for years; his father and mother having been frequent guests at our house in Burlington Street; and I sympathised indignantly with him in his recent editorial trouble wherein he was used so hardly. I remember also how he dropped in upon me at Albury one morning just as I happened to be pasting into one of my Archive-books a few quips and cranks anent my books from _Punch_: he adjured me "_not_ to do it! for Heaven's sake, spare me!" covering his face with his hands. "What's the matter, friend?" "_I_ wrote all these,"

added he, in earnest penitence, "and I vow faithfully I'll never do it again!" "Pray, don't make so rash a promise, Edmund, and so unkind a one too: I rejoice in all this sort of thing,--it sells my books, besides--'I'se Maw-worm,--I likes to be despised!'" "Well, its very good-natured of you to say so; but I really never will do it again:" and the good fellow never did--so have I lost my most telling advertis.e.m.e.nt.

I must also not forget to praise that humorous novelist, the late _Frank Smedley_,--a remarkable instance of the triumph of a strong and cheerful mind over a weak and crippled body, with whom I have many reminiscences as a brother author. It was wonderful to see how he enjoyed--from his invalid chair--"the dances and delights" he could not take part in; and one day I remember finding him unusually exhilarated, as he was just come from a wedding-breakfast,--"rehearsing, rehearsing," he laughingly shouted. Poor fellow,--the victim of an accident in infancy, he lived strapped and banded with steel springs,--but as a gracious compensation Heaven gave him a seeming unconsciousness of his helpless condition, and added the happy mind to make the best of this world while looking forward to a better. And let me not neglect to record, however slightly, a few more recent authorial friendships much valued by me among my Norwood neighbours. I will begin with _J.G. Wood_, perhaps our best naturalist, especially in matters entomological. Never were there more humorous no less than instructive lectures than his, ill.u.s.trated admirably as they are by his own graphic chalk-sketches on the spot: and if any one wishes to be convinced that animals have souls, let him read the said Rev. J.G. Wood's "Man and Beast." Next will I mention _Dr.

Cuthbert Collingwood_, famous as a naturalist and voyager among the China seas, a poet also, well proved by his "Vision of Creation," and a thoughtful writer on religion and metaphysics. There is _Dr. Zerffi_, too, whose varied orations on history and other topics have filled our Crystal Palace with his advanced wisdom for fifteen years. There is _Birch_ the sculptor, author of the "G.o.diva" and "The Last Call,"

exhibited here, and well appreciated by me as another _Durham_,--really a metempsychosis of character. Among literary ladies here I may mention as my friends _Madame Zerffi_, _Miss Mary Hooper_, and _Miss Ellen Barlee_,--all noted in their several departments, the first as an eloquent lecturer like her husband, the second known by her domestic essays, and the third for religious writings. I will add as casually encountered by me hereabouts _George MacDonald_, whose magnificent presence in the pulpit is as memorable as his conversation at the dinner-table, and the interest of his books; and _Lord Ronald Gower_, creator of that finest group of modern statuary "the Apotheosis of Shakespeare," exhibited at the Crystal Palace, where, as well, as by correspondence, I have had with him much pleasant intercourse.

And here may come a brief memory I wrote lately of Colonel Fred. Burnaby for an American editor.

"I am asked to give a short note of personal reminiscence about my lately departed friend, Colonel _Fred. Burnaby_, with whom I was intimate for three years before his death. Every one has read his popular life, and heard of his many exploits; how alone in mid-air he navigated a balloon across the Channel; how he accomplished, in spite of State telegrams to the contrary, his adventurous and patriotic ride to Khiva in dead winter and defying perils of all sorts; how he stood six feet four in his stockings (with another foot to be added to that magnificent specimen of manhood when in jack-boots and in his plumed helmet); how he was strong enough to bind a kitchen poker round his neck, to crack cobnuts in his fingers, and to carry a pair of Shetland ponies upstairs under his arms,--how also the genial giant, quite the Arac of Tennyson's Princess, was the gentlest and kindest and least dangerous of knights-errant (unless, indeed, his just wrath was aroused by anything mean or insolent, when doubtless he could be terrible), and how he was the idolised of men, especially his own brother giants of the Royal Regiment of Blues, and naturally was also the adored of women wherever he showed himself. This Admirable Crichton had every social accomplishment, but as he was also gifted with a knowledge of many tongues, even to Turkish and Arabic, beyond the more familiar French, German, Italian, and Spanish, of course he must dare all sorts of perilous travel, if only to prove that he was no carpet-knight, no mere 'gold stick' at court, or silver-casqued statue at the Horse Guards. So he fearlessly risked his life in all ways on every possible occasion which the War Office routine gave him on holiday.

"Khiva and Kars, and of late at last the fatal Mahdi war, had fascinations for him of danger which his thirst for active service (too much refused to him as obliged officially to be a stay-at-home) had not power to resist; and we all know how gallantly, if indeed too rashly, he fought and fell on what his Viking blood loved best as a deathbed, the field of battle. For he came of an old Teutonic family, and on his mother's side was also a direct descendant, as he told me himself, of our heroic and gigantic King Edward III., whom he is said greatly to have resembled, as the portrait at Windsor Castle proves. We were talking about ancestry and the anecdote came out naturally enough.

"In politics a strong Conservative, he, with characteristic antagonism, chose radical Birmingham for his coveted seat in Parliament, but alas!

he has not lived to hazard the election. He was a neat, fluent, and epigrammatic speaker, as potent with his tongue as with his sword; and as for the pen (albeit his handwriting must have puzzled compositors), the myriads of readers who have enjoyed his stirring books in print, can testify how brilliant and eloquent he was for the matter of authorship.