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hero Philip in the “Bothie," and it was there is nothing too high or too great to partly the visit paid by Tom Arnold be expected from him. and his friend John Campbell Shairp, “True," and a worker, Clough reafterwards Principal Shairp of St. An mained to the last hours of his short life. drew's, to Clough's reading party at But in spite of a happy marriage, the Drumnadrochit in 1845, and their report burden and perplexity of philosophic of incidents which had happened to

thought, together with the strain of failthem on their way along the shores of

ing health, checked, before long, the Loch Ericht, which suggested the scheme

strong poetic impulse shown in the of the “Bothie." One of the half

“Bothie,” its buoyant delight in natural dozen short poems of Clough which have beauty, and in the simplicities of human entered permanently into literature

feeling and passion. The “music” of Qui laborat oratwas found by my father his "rustic flute" one morning on the table of his bachelor lodgings in Mount Street, after Clough

Kept not for long its happy, country tone;

Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note had spent the night on a shake-up in his

Of men contention-tost, of men who groan. sitting-room, had breakfasted and gone off early-leaving the poem behind him The poet of the “Bothie" becomes the as payment for the night's entertain poet of “Dipsychus," "Easter Day,” ment. In one of Clough's letters to and the "Amours de Voyage"; and the New Zealand I find-“Say not the strug

young republican who writes in triumph gle naught availeth"-another of the -all humorous joy and animation-to half-dozen-written out by him; and my father, from the Paris of '48, which the original copy-tibi primo confisum, has just seen the overthrow of Louis of the graceful though unequal verses,

Philippe, says, a year later-February "A London Idyll." The little volume 24, 1849— of miscellaneous poems, called Ambar To-day, my dear brother republican, is the valia, and the “Bothie of Tober-na- glorious anniversary of '48, whereof what Vuolich” were sent out to New Zealand shall I now say? Put not your trust in by Clough, at the same moment that republics, nor in any constitution of man! Matt was sending his brother the God be praised for the downfall of Louis Poems by A.

Philippe. This with a faint feeble echo of Clough writes from Liverpool in Feb

that loud last year's scream of “A bas

Guizot!" seems to be the sum total. Or are ruary 1849,-having just received Matt's

we to salute the rising sun, with “Vive volume

l'Empereur!" and the green liveries? PresiAt last our own Matt's book! Read mine

dent for life I think they'll make him, and

then begin to tire of him. Meanwhile the first, my child, if our volumes go forth to

Great Powers are to restore the Pope, and gether. Otherwise you won't read mineAmbarvalia--at any rate, at all. Froude

crush the renascent Roman Republic, of also has published a new book of religious

which Joseph Mazzini has just been declared

a citizen! biography, auto or otherwise, (The Nemesis of Faith) and therewithal resigns his Fellow A few months later, the writer-at ship. But the Rector (of Exeter) talks of not Rome-"was in at the death" of this accepting the resignation, but having an

same Roman Republic, listening to the expulsion — fire - and - fagot fashion. Quo French bombardment in bitterness of usque?

soul. He writes several letters to my But when the books arrive, my father father in the very thick of the fighting. writes to his sister with affectionate These have already been published in welcome indeed of the Poems by A, but Mrs. Clough's memoir of her husband. with enthusiasm of the “Bothie."

But in another letter, written partly It greatly surpasses my expectations! It mained unprinted, I find:

after his return home, which has reis on the whole a noble poem, well held together, clear, full of purpose, and full of I saw the French enter.-Unto this has promise. With joy I see the old fellow be come our grand Lib. Eq. and Frat. revolustirring himself awakening like a strong man tion! And then I went to Naples—and home. out of sleep and shaking his invincible locks”; I am full of admiration for Mazzini. and if he remains truc and works, I think But on the whole-“Farewell Politics!"

utterly!-What can I do? Study is much under a particular rock I knew by heart? more to the purpose.

-or the first Grass of Parnassus, or the So in disillusion and disappointment, bog auricula, or streaming cotton-plant, “Citizen Clough” leaving Oxford and

amid a stretch of wet moss ahead? politics behind him, settled down to I might quite safely explore these eneducational work in London, married,

chanted spots under male eyes, since and became the happy father of child they took no account, mercifully, of dren, wrote much that was remarkable, a child's boots and stockings — male and will be long read—whether it be tongues besides being safely busy with poetry or no—by those who find


books and politics. Was that a dipper, nial attraction in the lesser-known ways rising and falling along the stream, orof literature and thought, and at last positively-a fat brown trout in hiding closed his short life at Florence in 1862, under that shady bank?-or that a buzat the age of forty-one, leaving an indel- zard, hovering overhead. Such hopes ible memory in the hearts of those who and doubts kept a child's heart and eyes had talked and lived with him.

as quick and busy as the "beck” itself.

It was a point of honor with me to get To a boon southern country he is filed, to Sweden Bridge—a rough crossing for

And now in happier air,
Wandering with the Great Mother's train

the shepherds and sheep, near the head

of the valley-before my companions; divine (And purer or more subtle soul than thee,

and I would sit dangling my feet over I trow the mighty Mother doth not see)

the unprotected edge of its grass-grown Within a folding of the Apennine,

arch, blissfully conscious on a summer

day of the warm stretches of golden fell Thou hearest the immortal chants of old !

folding in the stream, the sheep, the But I remember him, in an English circling hawks, the stony path that setting, and on the slopes of English wound up and up to regions beyond the hills. In the year 1858, as a child of ken of thought; and of myself, queenseven, I was an inmate of a little school ing it there on the weather-worn keykept at Ambleside, by Miss Anne stone of the bridge, dissolved in the Clough, the poet's sister, afterwards the mere physical joy of each contented well-known head of Newnham College, sense: the sun on my cotton dress, the Cambridge, and wisest leader in the scents from


the marvelcause of women. It was a small day ous rush of cloud-shadow along the fells, school for Ambleside children of all the brilliant browns and blues in the ranks, and I was one of two boarders, water, the little white stones on its tiny spending my Sundays often at Fox How. beaches, or the purples of the bigger I can recall one or two golden days, at rocks, whether in the stream or on the long intervals, when my father came for mountain-side. How did they come me, with “Mr. Clough," and the two there—those big rocks? I puzzled my • old friends, who, after nine years' separa head about them a good deal, especially tion, had recently met again, walked up as my father, in the walks we had to the Sweden Bridge lane into the heart ourselves, would sometimes try and of Scandale Fell, while I, paying no more teach me a little geology, attention to them, than they—after a I have used the words “physical joy,” first ten minutes—did to me, went wan because, although such passionate pleasdering, and skipping, and dreaming by ure in natural things as has been my myself. In those days every rock along constant Helper (in the sense of the the mountain lane, every boggy patch, Greek éníkovpos) through life, has conevery stretch of silken, flower-sown nected itself no doubt, in process of time, grass, every bend of the wild stream, and with various intimate beliefs, philosophic all its sounds, whether it chattered or religious, as to the Beauty which is gently over stony shallows, or leaped Truth, and therewith the only confull-throated into deep pools, swimming ceivable key to man's experience, yet with foam—were to me the never-ending I could not myself indorse the famous joys of a “land of pure delight." Should contrast in Wordsworth's “Tintern AbI find a ripe wild strawberry in a patch bey,” between the “haunting passion”

grass and


No one


of youth's delight in Nature, and the it, as though the earth-gods in us allmore complex feeling of later years, Pan, or Demeter-laid ghostly hands when Nature takes an aspect colored by again for a space, upon the soul and sense our own moods and memories, when our that nobler or sadder faiths have ravsorrows and reflections enter so much ished from them. into what we feel about the “bright and In these Westmorland walks, however, intricate device" of earth and her sea my father had sometimes another comsons, that “in our life alone doth Nature panion—a frequent visitor at Fox How,

answer for the

where he was almost another son to my changing moods that the future, long or grandmother, and an elder brother to short, may bring with it. But so far, her children. How shall one ever make I am inclined to think of this quick, the later generation understand the intense pleasure in natural things, which charm of Arthur Stanley? There are I notice in myself and others, as some many-very many—still living, in whom thing involuntary and inbred; inde the sense of it leaps up, at the very menpendent-often selfishly independent- tion of his name.

But for those who of the real human experience. I have never saw him, who are still in their been sometimes ashamed-pricked even twenties and thirties, what shall I say? with self-contempt-to remember how That he was the son of a Bishop of in the course of some tragic or sorrowful Norwich, and a member of the old hours, concerning myself, or others of Cheshire family of the Stanleys of great account to me, I could not help Alderley, that he was a Rugby boy and a observing some change in the clouds, devoted pupil of Arnold, whose Life he some effect of color in the garden, some wrote, so that it stands out among the picture on the wall, which pleased me biographies of the century, not only even--for the moment--intensely. The for its literary merit, but for its wide impression would be gone, perhaps, as and varied influence on feeling and soon as felt, rebuked by something like opinion; that he was an Oxford tutor a flash of remorse. But it was not in my

and Professor all through the great power to prevent its recurrence. And struggle of Liberal thought against the the delight in natural things--colors, reactionary influences let loose by Newforms, scents—when there was nothing man and the Tractarian movement; to restrain or hamper it, has often been that, as Regius Professor at Oxford, and a kind of intoxication, in which thought Canon of Canterbury, if he added little and consciousness seemed suspended to learning, or research, he at least kept "as though of hemlock I had drunk.” alive-by his power of turning all he Wordsworth has of course expressed it knew into image and color—that great constantly, though increasingly, as life "art" of history which the Dryasdusts went on, in combination with a too facile so willingly let die; that as Dean of pantheistic philosophy. But it is my Westminster, he was still the life and belief that it survived in him in its soul of all the Liberalism in the church, • primitive form, almost to the end. still the same generous friend and cham

The best and noblest people I have pion of all the spiritually oppressed that known have been, on the whole-except he had ever been? None of the old in first youth-without this correspond “causes” beloved of his youth could ever ence between some constant pleasure- have said of him as of so many others:sense in the mind, and natural beauty. It cannot therefore be anything to be

Just for a handful of silver he left us

Just for a riband to stick in his coatproud of. But it is certainly something to be glad of "amid the chances and He was no doubt the friend of kings changes of this mortal life"; it is one of and princes and keenly conscious always the joys in widest commonalty spread” of things long-descended, with pictu-and that may last longest. It is resque or heroic associations. But it therefore surely to be encouraged both was he who invited Colenso to preach in oneself, and in children; and that, in the Abbey after his excommunication although I have often felt that there is by the fanatical and now forgotten something inhuman, or infrahuman in Bishop of Cape Town; it was he who

brought about that famous Communion feeling and farewell, addressed to “my of the Revisers in the Abbey, where the earliest, dearest, and best of pupils, Unitarian received the Sacrament of Stanley gave free voice to his love both Christ's death, beside the Wesleyan and for the father and the son. He describes . the Anglican, and who bore with un how, in 1842, when he returned to Oxflinching courage the idle tumult which ford lonely and heart-broken, in the followed; it was he too who first took October term after the sudden death of special pains to open the historical Arnold of Rugby, his guide and hero, Abbey to working-men, and to give them the companionship and affection of Aran insight into the meaning of its nold's favorite son, then an undergradutreasures. He was not a social reformer ate in the college of which Stanley was in the modern sense; that was not his fellow and tutor, had made the solace business. But his unfailing, power of of his life; and he pours into his good seeing and pouncing upon the interesting wishes for “Tom's” success and happi—the dramatic-in any human lot, soon ness on the other side of the world, a brought him into relation with men of yearning personal note, which was percallings and types the most different haps sometimes lacking in the muchfrom his own; and for the rest he ful- surrounded, much-courted Dean of later filled to perfection that hard duty- life. It was not that Arthur Stanley, “the duty to our equals," on which ảny more than Matthew Arnold, ever Mr. Jowett once preached a caustic and became a worldling in the ordinary suggestive sermon. But for him John sense. But “the world” asks too much Richard Green would have abandoned of such men as Stanley. It heaps all history, and student after student, here its honors and all its tasks upon them, tic after heretic, found in him the man and without some slight stiffening of its who eagerly understood them, and chiv- substance the exquisite instrument canalrously fought for them.

not meet the strain. And then, what a joy he was to the Mr. Hughes always strongly denied eye! His small spare figure, miracu that the "George Arthur" of Tom lously light, his delicate face of tinted Brown's School Days had anything ivory-only that ivory is not sensitive whatever to do with Arthur Stanley. and subtle, and incredibly expressive, as But I should like to believe that some were the features of the little Dean; tradition of Stanley's school-days, still the eager thin-lipped mouth, varying surviving when “Tom Hughes” went to with every shade of feeling in the inno- Rugby, had entered at least into the cent great soul behind it; the clear eyes well-known scene where Arthur breaks of china-blue; the glistening white hair, down in construing the last address of still with the wave and spring of youth Helen to the dead Hector, in class. in it; the slender legs, and Dean's dress, Stanley's memory indeed was alive with which becomes all but the portly, withthe great things or the picturesque detail on festal occasions, the red ribbon of of literature and history, no less than the Bath crossing the mercurial frame: with the humorous or striking things of there are still a few pictures and photo contemporary life. And in later life it graphs by which these characteristics was not only for the grown-up that he are dimly recalled to those at least who used these gifts of his. As a child at knew the living man. To my father, Fox How I remember them well,—the who called him “Arthur," and to all the fascination and terror with which they Fox How circle he was the most faithful

held one.

To listen to him quoting of friends, though no doubt my father's Shakespeare or Scott or Macaulay was conversion to Catholicism to some ex fascination—to find his eye fixed on one, tent, in later years, separated him from and his slender finger darting towards Stanley. But not long ago I unfolded a one, as he asked a sudden historical letter from Stanley to "dearest Tom,"

dearest Tom,” question—“Where did Edward the First written by Stanley on the night before die?” -“Where was the Black Prince my father left England for New Zealand buried?”— terror-lest, seven in 1847, and cherished by its recipient · years old, one should not be able to play all his life. In these lines of profound up. I remember a particular visit of his

- was


to Fox How, when the dates and places tle Mary”—and the expected thunderof these royal deaths and burials kept us bolt: -myself in particular-in a perpetual "Where did Henry the Fourth die?" ferment. It must, I think, have been Confusion-and blank ignorance! when he was still at Canterbury, investi But memory leaps forward to a day gating, almost with the zest and passion four or five years later, when my father of the explorer of Troy or Mycenæ, what and I invaded the little Dean in his study bones lie hid and where, under the at Westminster. I remember well the Cathedral floor, what sands-“fallen dark high room, and the Dean standing from the ruined sides of Kings”-that at his reading desk. He looks roundthis passion of deaths and dates was upon sees "Tom," and the child with him. him. I can see myself as a child of seven His charming face breaks into a broad or eight, standing outside the drawing- smile; he remembers instantly, though room door at Fox How, bracing myself it is some years since he and "little in a mixture of delight and fear, as to Mary” met. He holds out both his what "Doctor Stanley” might ask me hands to the little girlwhen the door was opened; then the "Come and see the place where Henry opening, and the sudden sharp turn of the Fourth died!” the slight figure, writing letters at And off we ran together to the Jeruthe middle table, at the sight of “lit salem Chamber.


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