Think of the shapeless houses, the forest of
ghastly chimney-pots, of the hell of distracting noises made by
»
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ghastly chimney-pots, of the hell of distracting noises made by
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Warner - World's Best Literature - v16 to v20 - Phi to Qui
9618 (#26) ############################################
9618
XAVIER DE MAISTRE
Four years later he tells another little tale, Les Prisonniers du
Caucase) (The Prisoners of the Caucasus), a stirring bit of adventure.
His last story, "La Jeune Sibérienne (The Siberian Girl), best
known as retold and weakened by Madame Cottin, is a striking pre-
monition of later realism. There is no forcing the pathetic effect
in the history of the heroic young daughter who braves a long and
terrible journey to petition the Czar for her father's release from
Siberian exile.
The charm of De Maistre's style is always in the ease and sim-
plicity of the telling. In his own time he was very popular; and his
work survives with little loss of interest to-day.
THE TRAVELING-COAT
PUT
I
From the Journey round My Room. Copyright 1871, by Hurd & Houghton
on my traveling-coat, after having examined it with a
complacent eye; and forth with resolved to write a chapter
ad hoc, that I might make it known to the reader.
The form and usefulness of these garments being pretty gen-
erally known, I will treat specially of their influence upon the
minds of travelers.
My winter traveling-coat is made of the warmest and softest
stuff I could meet with. It envelops me entirely from head to
foot; and when I am in my arm-chair, with my hands in my
pockets, I am very like the statue of Vishnu one sees in the
pagodas of India.
You may, if you will, tax me with prejudice when I assert
the influence a traveler's costume exercises upon its wearer. At
any rate, I can confidently affirm with regard to this matter that
it would appear to me as ridiculous to take a single step of my
journey round my room in uniform, with my sword at my side,
as it would to go forth into the world in my dressing-gown.
Were I to find myself in full military dress, not only should
I be unable to proceed with my journey, but I really believe I
should not be able to read what I have written about my travels,
still less to understand it.
Does this surprise you? Do we not every day meet with peo-
ple who fancy they are ill because they are unshaven, or because
some one has thought they have looked poorly and told them
so ? Dress has such influence upon men's minds that there are
valetudinarians who think themselves in better health than usual
## p. 9619 (#27) ############################################
XAVIER DE MAISTRE
9619
how many
:-
when they have on a new coat and well-powdered wig. They
deceive the public and themselves by their nicety about dress,
until one finds some fine morning they have died in full fig, and
their death startles everybody.
And in the class of men among whom I live,
there
are who, finding themselves clothed in uniform, firmly believe
they are officers, until the unexpected appearance of the enemy
shows them their mistake. And more than this, if it be the
king's good pleasure to allow one of them to add to his coat a
certain trimming, he straightway believes himself to be a general;
and the whole army gives him the title without any notion of
making fun of him! So great an influence has a coat upon the
human imagination!
The following illustration will show still further the truth of
my assertion:
It sometimes happened that they forgot to inform the Count
de some days beforehand of the approach of his turn to
mount guard. Early one morning, on the very day on which this
duty fell to the Count, a corporal awoke him and announced the
disagreeable news. But the idea of getting up there and then,
putting on his gaiters, and turning out without having thought
about it the evening before, so disturbed him that he preferred
reporting himself sick and staying at home all day. So he put
on his dressing-gown and sent away his barber. This made him
look pale and ill, and frightened his wife and family. He really
did feel a little poorly.
He told every one he was not very well, - partly for the sake
of appearances, and partly because he positively believed himself
to be indisposed. Gradually the influence of the dressing-gown
began to work. The slops he was obliged to take upset his
stomach. His relations and friends sent to ask after him. He
was soon quite ill enough to take to his bed.
In the evening Dr. Ranson found his pulse hard and feverish,
and ordered him to be bled next day.
If the campaign had lasted a month longer, the sick man's
case would have been past cure.
Now, who can doubt about the influence of traveling-coats
upon travelers, if he reflect that poor Count de thought
more than once that he was about to perform a journey to the
other world for having inopportunely donned his dressing-gown
in this?
## p. 9620 (#28) ############################################
9620
XAVIER DE MAISTRE
A FRIEND
I
From the Journey round My Room. ' Copyright 1871, by Hurd & Houghton
HAD a friend.
Death took him from me. He was snatched
away at the beginning of his career, at the moment when
his friendship had become a pressing need to my heart. We
supported one another in the hard toil of war. We had but
one pipe between us. We drank out of the same cup. We slept
beneath the same tent. And amid our sad trials, the spot where
we lived together became to us a new fatherland. I had seen
him exposed to all the perils of a disastrous war. Death seemed
to spare us to each other. His deadly missiles were exhausted
around my friend a thousand times over without reaching him;
but this was but to make his loss more painful to me. The
tumult of war, and the enthusiasm which possesses the soul at
the sight of danger, might have prevented his sighs from pier-
cing my heart, while his death would have been useful to his
country and damaging to the enemy. Had he died thus, I should
, I
have mourned him less. But to lose him amid the joys of our
winter-quarters; to see him die at the moment when he seemed
full of health, and when our intimacy was rendered closer by
rest and tranquillity,-ah, this was a blow from which I can
never recover!
But his memory lives in my heart, and there alone. He is
forgotten by those who surrounded him and who have replaced
him. And this makes his loss the more sad to me.
Nature, in like manner indifferent to the fate of individuals,
dons her green spring robe, and decks herself in all her beauty
near the cemetery where he rests. The trees cover themselves
with foliage, and intertwine their branches; the birds warble under
the leafy sprays; the insects hum among the blossoms: every-
thing breathes joy in this abode of death.
And in the evening, when the moon shines in the sky, and I
am meditating in this sad place, I hear the grasshopper, hidden
in the grass that covers the silent grave of my friend, merrily
pursuing his unwearied song. The unobserved destruction of
human beings, as well as all their misfortunes, are counted for
nothing in the grand total of events.
The death of an affectionate man who breathes his last sur-
rounded by his afflicted friends, and that of a butterfly killed in
a flower's cup by the chill air of morning, are but two similar
## p. 9621 (#29) ############################################
XAVIER DE MAISTRE
9621
epochs & in the course of nature. Man is but a phantom, a
shadow, a mere vapor that melts into the air.
But daybreak begins to whiten the sky. The gloomy thoughts
that troubled me vanish with the darkness, and hope awakens
again in my heart. No! He who thus suffuses the east with
light has not made it to shine upon my eyes only to plunge me
into the night of annihilation. He who has spread out that vast
horizon, who raised those lofty mountains whose icy tops the sun
is even now gilding, is also he who made my heart to beat and
my mind to think.
No! My friend is not annihilated. Whatever may be the
barrier that separates us, I shall see him again. My hopes are
based on no mere syllogism. The flight of an insect suffices to
persuade me. And often the prospect of the surrounding coun-
try, the perfume of the air, and an indescribable charm which
is spread around me, so raise my thoughts, that an invincible
proof of immortality forces itself upon my soul, and fills it to the
full.
THE LIBRARY
From the Journey round My Room): Copyright 1871, by Hurd & Houghton
I
PROMISED to give a dialogue between my soul and the OTHER.
But there are some chapters which elude me, as it were; or
rather, there are others which flow from my pen nolens volens,
and derange my plans. Among these is one about my library;
and I will make it as short as I can. Our forty-two days will
soon be ended; and even were it not so, a similar period would
not suffice to complete the description of the rich country in
which I travel so pleasantly.
My library, then, is composed of novels, if I must make the
confession - of novels and a few choice poets.
As if I had not troubles enough of my own, I share those of
a thousand imaginary personages, and I feel them as acutely as
my own. How many tears have I shed for that poor Clarissa,
and for Charlotte's lover!
But if I go out of my way in search of unreal afflictions, I
find in return such virtue, kindness, and disinterestedness in this
imaginary world, as I have never yet found united in the real
world around me. I meet with a woman after my heart's desire,
## p. 9622 (#30) ############################################
9622
XAVIER DE MAISTRE
free from whim, lightness, and affectation. I say nothing about
beauty: this I can leave to my imagination, and picture her fault-
lessly beautiful. And then closing the book, which no longer
keeps pace with my ideas, I take the fair one by the hand, and
we travel together over a country a thousand times more delight-
ful than Eden itself. What painter could represent the fairyland
in which I have placed the goddess of my heart? What poet
could ever describe the lively and manifold sensations I experi-
ence in those enchanted regions ?
How often have I cursed that Cleveland, who is always em-
barking upon new troubles which he might very well avoid! I
cannot endure that book, with its long list of calamities. But if
I open it by way of distraction, I cannot help devouring it to
the end.
For how could I leave that poor man among the Abaquis ?
What would become of him in the hands of those savages ? Still
less dare I leave him in his attempt to escape from captivity.
Indeed, I so enter into his sorrows, I am so interested in him
and in his unfortunate family, that the sudden appearance of the
ferocious Ruintons makes my hair stand on end. When I read
that passage a cold perspiration covers me; and my fright is as
lively and real as if I were going to be roasted and eaten by the
monsters myself.
When I have had enough of tears and love, I turn to some
poet, and set out again for a new world.
## p. 9623 (#31) ############################################
9623
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
(1849–)
ILLIAM HURRELL Mallock is the interesting product of the
interesting period in which he was educated and the inter-
esting conditions of his social life. Well born, well bred,
well fed, well read, well supplied with luxuries, well disciplined at the
wicket and the oar, the son of a clergyman of the Church of England
(Rev. Roger Mallock) and the nephew of James Anthony and Richard
Hurrell Froude, he was educated at home by private tutors till he
entered Balliol College, Oxford. There he took a second class in final
classicals, and in 1871 the Newdigate poet-
ical prize, the subject of his poem being
(The Isthmus of Suez. '
In 1876 he published 'The New Repub-
lic, which first appeared in a magazine.
The first impression of the book is its
audacity, the second its cleverness; but
when one has gotten well into its leisurely
pages, and has found himself in what seems
to be the veritable company of Huxley,
Matthew Arnold, Ruskin, Professor Clifford,
Walter Pater, Professor Jowett, and Mr.
Tyndall, he is penetrated with the convic-
tion that the work the perfected flower WILLIAM H. MALLOCK
of the art of delicate characterization. The
parodies are so good that they read like reminiscences enlivened with
the lightest touch of extravaganza.
The sub-title of “The New Republic) —'Culture, Faith, and Phi-
losophy in an English Country-House) - indicates its plan. A young
man of fortune and distinction assembles at his villa a party of vis-
itors, who under thin disguises represent the leading thinkers of the
day. The company plays at constructing an ideal republic, which
is to be the latest improvement on Plato's commonwealth. To facil-
itate the discussion, the host writes the titles of the subjects to be
talked about on the back of the menus of their first dinner: they
prove to be such seductive themes as “The Aim of Life,' (Society,
Art, and Literature,' Riches and Civilization,' and The Present and
the Future.
In the expression of opinion that follows, the peculiarities and
inconsistencies of the famous personages are hit off with delicious
-
## p. 9624 (#32) ############################################
9624
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
appositeness. The first principle of the proposed New Republic is to
destroy all previous republics. Mr. Storks (Professor Huxley) elimi-
nates a conscious directing intelligence from the world of matter.
Mr. Stockton (Professor Tyndall) eliminates the poetry and romance
of the imagination, substituting those of the wonders of science.
The materialist, Mr. Saunders (Professor Clifford), eliminates the foul
superstition of the existence of God and the scheme of salvation
through the merits of Christ. Mr. Luke (Matthew Arnold) who is
represented as mournfully strolling about the lawn in the moonlight,
reciting his own poems, — poems which puzzle us in their oscillation
between mirth and moralizing, till an italicized line warns us to be
wary,- Mr. Luke eliminates the middle classes. Mr. Rose (Walter
Pater) eliminates religious belief as a serious verity, but retains it
an artistic finish and decorative element in life. Dr. Jenkinson
(Professor Jowett) in a sermon which he might have preached in
Balliol Chapel, and his habitual audience have heard without the
lifting of an eyebrow, eliminates the “bad taste” of conviction on
any subject. Finally Mr. Herbert (Mr. Ruskin), descending upon the
reformers in a burst of vituperation, eliminates the upper classes,
because they neither have themselves nor furnish the lower orders
any object to live for. The outcome of the discussion is predicted on
the title-page:-
as
«All is jest and ashes and nothingness; for all things that are, are of
folly. ”
So much space has been given to Mr. Mallock's first book because
it is representative of his quality, and discloses the line of his sub-
sequent thinking. Only once again does he permit himself the
relaxation of an irresponsible and clever parody,- that on Positivism
in «The New Paul and Virginia'; wherein the germ revealed in the
sketches of Huxley and his fellow scientists is more fully developed,
to the disedification of the serious-minded, who complain that the
representatives of Prometheus are dragged down to earth.
But the shades of the mighty whom he ridiculed have played a
curious trick on Mr. Mallock. As Emerson says of the soul of the
dead warrior, which, entering the breast of the conqueror, takes up
its abode there,—so the wraiths of doubt, materialism, discontent,
Philistinism, and the many upsetting emotions which the clever satir-
ist disposed of with a jest, entered his own hypersensitive organism,
and, for all the years succeeding, sent him about among the men
of his generation sharing with Ruskin the burden of their salvation.
Nor does he propose to let any sense of his own limitations as a
prophet interfere with the delivery of his message. In a volume of
several hundred pages he asks a nineteenth-century audience, Is
Life Worth Living? Can we, he demands in substance, like his own
## p. 9625 (#33) ############################################
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
9625
(
Mr. Herbert, go on buying blue china and enjoying the horse-show
and the season, and our little trips to Paris, and first editions in
rare bindings, if we are not sure that these tastes will be gratified
in another world ? In his mind, the reply to this question resolves
itself into the necessity for a final authority,- an authority which he
himself discovers in the voice of the Church of Rome.
He is an indefatigable worker. As a novelist he belongs to the
sentimental school, in which a craving for sympathy and a marked
tendency to reject conventional standards characterizes all his men
and many of his women. Because he has written them, his stories
are never dull; they abound in epigram, sketches of character, and
wise reflections: but the plots are slightly woven and hang at loose
ends, while a dénouement is as deliberately ignored as if the author
were a pupil of Zola. His novels or romances are A Romance of
the Nineteenth Century,' (The Old Order Changeth,' A Human Doc-
ument,' and 'The Heart of Life. )
As an essayist he is widely read. He was one of the famous
five who took part in the Christianity vs. Agnosticism controversy, in
which Bishop Wace and Mr. Huxley were the champions. He has
written two volumes of poems, translated Lucretius; and his varied
magazine articles, collected in book form, have been published under
the titles of Social Equality' (London, 1882), Property, Progress,
and Poverty' (1884), and Classes and Masses; or, Wealth and Wages
in the United Kingdom' (1896).
In the last-named volumes, all on social topics, Mr. Mallock pre-
sents himself as a sedate Conservative, committed to hereditary legis-
lation, the sacredness of the game laws, the Doomsday Book, and the
rest of mediævalism. Against democratic theories concerning social
equality, labor, and property, he sets up the counter proposition that
labor is not the cause of wealth, and of itself would be powerless to
produce it. As for social equality, he sees that diversity of station is
a part of the framework that holds society together.
These books are written in a serious manner. But it is interest-
ing to mark the characteristics of the author's individual and original
genius, as obvious in a blue-book as in a novel. It is an axiom that
the successful advocate must give the impression that he himself has
no doubt of his cause. This Mr. Mallock almost never does. The
more positive his plea, the more visible between the lines is the
mocking, unconvinced expression of the author's other self. More-
over, his fastidious discontent, and the subtlety of mind which is the
greatest perhaps of his many charms, point him toward some un-
explored quarter, where, as he has not investigated it, he fancies the
truth may lie. The reader of Mallock goes to him for witty com-
ment, satire, suggestion; and to get into a certain high-bred society
## p. 9626 (#34) ############################################
9626
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
where the scholar is at home and the gospel of good-breeding is
preached. But that reader will never know in what social system of
the past - in slavery, feudalism, or absolutism - Mallock's Utopia is
-
to be sought.
AN EVENING'S TABLE-TALK AT THE VILLA
From The New Republic)
N°
PROPOSAL could have been happier than Lady Grace's, of
the garden banquet in the pavilion. It seemed to the
guests, when they were all assembled there, that the lovely
summer's day was going to close with a scene from fairy-land.
The table itself, with its flowers and glowing fruit, and its many-
colored Venetian glass, shone and gleamed and sparkled in the
evening light, that was turning outside to a cool mellow amber;
and above, from the roof, in which the dusk was already dark-
ness, hung china lamps in the shape of green and purple grape
clusters, looking like luminous fruit stolen from Aladdin's garden.
The pavilion, open on all sides, was supported on marble pillars
that were almost hidden in red and white roses. Behind, the eye
rested on great tree trunks and glades of rich foliage; and before,
it would pass over turf and flowers, till it reached the sea be-
yond, on which in another hour the faint silver of the moonlight
would begin to tremble.
There was something in the whole scene that was at once
calming and exhilarating; and nearly all present seemed to feel
in some measure this double effect of it.
Dr. Jenkinson had
been quite restored by an afternoon's nap; and his face was now
all a-twinkle with a fresh benignity, that had, however, like an
early spring morning, just a faint suspicion of frost in it. Mr.
Storks even was less severe than usual; and as he raised his
champagne to his lips, he would at times look very nearly con-
versational.
" “My dear Laurence,” exclaimed Mr. Herbert, “it really
almost seems as if your visions of the afternoon had come true,
and that we actually were in your New Republic already. I can
only say that if it is at all like this, it will be an entirely charm-
ing place — too charming, perhaps. But now remember this:
you have but half got through the business to which you first
addressed yourselves, - that of forming a picture of a perfect
## p. 9627 (#35) ############################################
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
9627
>>
aristocracy, an aristocracy in the true and genuine sense of the
word. You are all to have culture, or taste. Very good: you
have talked a great deal about that, and you have seen what you
mean by it; and you have recognized, above all, that it includes
a discrimination between right and wrong. But now you, with
all this taste and culture,- you gifted men and women of the
nineteenth century,- what sort of things does your taste teach
you to reach out towards ? In what actions and aims, in what
affections and emotions, would you place your happiness? That
is what I want to hear,— the practical manifestations of this
culture. ”
“Ah,” said Mr. Rose, “I have at this moment a series of
essays in the press, which would go far towards answering these
questions of yours. They do indeed deal with just this: the
effect of the choicer culture of this century on the soul of man;
the ways in which it endows him with new perceptions; how it
has made him, in fact, a being altogether more highly organ-
All I regret is that these choicer souls, these Xaplevtes, are
as yet like flowers that have not found a climate in which they
can thrive properly. That mental climate will doubtless come
with time. What we have been trying to do this afternoon is, I
imagine, nothing more than to anticipate it in imagination. ”
“Well,” said Mr. Herbert, with a little the tone of an Inquis-
itor, “that is just what I have been asking. What will this
climate be like, and what will these flowers be like in this cli-
mate? How would your culture alter and better the present, if
its powers were equal to its wishes ? »
Mr. Rose's soft lulling tone harmonized well with the scene
and hour, and the whole party seemed willing to listen to him;
or at any rate, no one felt any prompting to interrupt him.
"I can show you an example, Mr. Herbert,” he said, “of
culture demanding a finer climate, in— if you will excuse my
seeming egoism - in myself. For instance (to take the widest
matter I can fix upon, the general outward surroundings of our
lives),- often, when I walk about London, and see how hideous
its whole external aspect is, and what a dissonant population
throng it, a chill feeling of despair comes over me. Consider
how the human eye delights in form and color, and the ear in
tempered and harmonious sounds; and then think for a moment
of a London street!
Think of the shapeless houses, the forest of
ghastly chimney-pots, of the hell of distracting noises made by
»
## p. 9628 (#36) ############################################
9628
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
»
the carts, the cabs, the carriages; think of the bustling, common-
place, careworn crowds that jostle you; think of an omnibus,
think of a four-wheeler — »
"I often ride in an omnibus,” said Lord Allen, with a slight
smile, to Miss Merton.
"It is true,” replied Mr. Rose, only overhearing the tone in
which these words were said, “that one may ever and again
catch some touch of sunlight that will for a moment make the
meanest object beautiful with its furtive alchemy. But that is
Nature's work, not man's; and we must never confound the
accidental beauty that Nature will bestow on man's work, even
at its worst, with the rational and designed beauty of man's
work at its best. It is this rational human beauty that I say
our modern city life is so completely wanting in; nay, the look
of out-of-door London seems literally to stifle the very power of
imagining such beauty possible. Indeed, as I wander along our
streets, pushing my way among the throngs of faces, — faces
puckered with misdirected thought or expressionless with none;
barbarous faces set towards Parliament, or church, or scientific
lecture-rooms, or government offices, or counting-houses, - I say,
as I push my way amongst all the sights and sounds of the
streets of our great city, only one thing ever catches my eye
that breaks in upon my mood and warns me I need not de.
spair. ”
“And what is that ? ” asked Allen with some curiosity.
« The shops,” Mr. Rose answered, “of certain of our uphol-
sterers and dealers in works of art. Their windows, as I look
into them, act like a sudden charm on me; like a splash of cold
water dashed on my forehead when I am fainting. For I seem
there to have got a glimpse of the real heart of things; and as
my eyes rest on the perfect pattern (many of which are really
quite delicious; indeed, when I go to ugly houses, I often take
a scrap of some artistic crétonne with me in my pocket as a
kind of æsthetic smelling-salts), — I say, when I look in at their
windows, and my eyes rest on the perfect pattern of some new
fabric for a chair or for a window curtain, or on some new de-
sign for a wall paper, or on some old china vase, I become at
once sharply conscious, Mr. Herbert, that despite the ungenial
mental climate of the present age, strange yearnings for and
knowledge of true beauty are beginning to show themselves like
flowers above the weedy soil; and I remember, amidst the roar
»
## p. 9629 (#37) ############################################
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
9629
-
and clatter of our streets, and the mad noises of our own times,
that there is amongst us a growing number who have deliber-
ately turned their backs on all these things, and have thrown
their whole souls and sympathies into the happier art ages of the
past. They have gone back," said Mr. Rose, raising his voice a
little, «to Athens and to Italy; to the Italy of Leo and to the
Athens of Pericles. To such men the clamor, the interests, the
struggles of our own times become as meaningless as they really
are. To them the boyhood of Bathyllus is of more moment than
the manhood of Napoleon. Borgia is a more familiar name than
Bismarck. I know, indeed, and I really do not blame them,
several distinguished artists who, resolving to make their whole
lives consistently perfect, will on principle never admit a news-
paper into their houses that is of later date than the times of
Addison: and I have good trust that the number of such men
is on the increase; men, I mean," said Mr. Rose, toying tenderly
with an exquisite wine-glass of Salviati's, who with a steady
and set purpose follow art for the sake of art, beauty for the
sake of beauty, love for the sake of love, life for the sake of
life. ”
Mr. Rose's slow gentle voice, which was apt. at certain times
to become peculiarly irritating, sounded now like the evening air
grown articulate; and had secured him hitherto a tranquil hear-
ing, as if by a kind of spell. This, however, seemed here in
sudden danger of snapping.
«What, Mr. Rose! ” exclaimed Lady Ambrose, "do you mean
to say, then, that the number of people is on the increase who
won't read the newspapers ?
"Why, the men must be absolute idiots ! ” said Lady Grace,
shaking her gray curls, and putting on her spectacles to look at
Mr. Rose.
Mr. Rose, however, was imperturbable.
“Of course,” he said, "you may have newspapers if you will;
I myself always have them: though in general they are too full
of public events to be of much interest. I was merely speaking
just now of the spirit of the movement. And of that we must
all of us here have some knowledge. We must all of us have
friends whose houses more or less embody it.
And even if we
had not, we could not help seeing signs of it-signs of how true
and earnest it is, in the enormous sums that are now given for
really good objects. ”
>>>
(
## p. 9630 (#38) ############################################
9630
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
-
((
“That,” said Lady Grace, with some tartness, “is true enough,
thank God! ”
“But I can't see,” said Lady Ambrose, whose name often
figured in the Times, in the subscription lists of advertised chari-
ties,— «I can't see, Mr. Rose, any reason in that why we should
not read the newspapers. ”
« The other day, for instance,” said Mr. Rose reflectively,
“I heard of eight Chelsea shepherdesses picked up by a dealer.
I really forget where,- in some common cottage, if I recollect
aright, covered with dirt, giving no pleasure to any one, - and
these were all sold in a single day, and not one of them fetched
less than two hundred and twenty pounds. ”
"I can't help thinking they must have come from Cremorne,”
said Mrs. Sinclair softly.
“But why,” said Mr. Rose, "should I speak of particular
instances ? We must all of us have friends whose houses are
full of priceless treasures such as these; the whole atmosphere of
whose rooms really seems impregnated with art, — seems, in fact,
Mr. Herbert, such an atmosphere as we should dream of for our
New Republic. "
« To be sure,” exclaimed Lady Ambrose, feeling that she
had at last got upon solid ground. By the way, Mr. Rose,
"”
she said with her most gracious of smiles, “I suppose you have
hardly seen Lady Julia Hayman's new house in Belgrave Square ?
I'm sure that would delight you. I should like to take you there
some day and show it to you. "
"I have seen it,” said Mr. Rose with languid condescension.
“It was very pretty, I thought, — some of it really quite nice. »
This, and the slight rudeness of manner it was said with,
raised Mr. Rose greatly in Lady Ambrose's estimation, and she
began to think with respect of his late utterances.
"Well, Mr. Herbert,” Mr. Rose went on, “what I want to
say is this: We have here in the present age, as it is, fragments
of the right thing. We have a number of isolated right interiors;
we have a few, very few, right exteriors. But in our ideal State,
a
our entire city—our London, the metropolis of our society –
would be as a whole perfect as these fragments. Taste would
not there be merely an indoor thing. It would be written visi-
bly for all to look upon, in our streets, our squares, our gardens.
Could we only mold England to our wishes, the thing to do, I
am persuaded, would be to remove London to some kindlier site,
-
## p. 9631 (#39) ############################################
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
9631
»
(c
that it might there be altogether born anew. I myself would
have it taken to the southwest, and to the sea-coast, where the
waves are blue, and where the air is calm and fine, and there — »
"Ah me! ” sighed Mr. Luke with a lofty sadness, cælum non
animam mutant. "
« Pardon me,” said Mr. Rose: “few paradoxes — and most para-
doxes are false — are, I think, so false as that. This much at
least of sea-like man's mind has: that scarcely anything so dis-
tinctly gives a tone to it as the color of the skies he lives under.
And I was going to say,” he went on, looking out dreamily
towards the evening waves, “that as the imagination is a quick
«
workman, I can at this moment see our metropolis already trans-
planted and rebuilt. I seem to see it now as it were from a
distance, with its palaces, its museums, its churches, its convents,
its gardens, its picture galleries,- a cluster of domed and pillared
marble, sparkling on a gray headland. It is Rome, it is Athens,
it is Florence, arisen and come to life again, in these modern
days. The aloe-tree of beauty again blossoms there, under the
azure stainless sky. ”
“Do you know, Mr. Rose,” said Lady Ambrose in her most
cordial manner, "all this is very beautiful; and certainly no one
can think London as it is more ugly than I do. That's natural
in me, isn't it, being a denizen of poor prosaic South Audley
Street as I am ? But don't you think that your notion is-
it's very beautiful, I quite feel that — but don't you think it is
perhaps a little too dream-like – too unreal, if you know what I
mean? ”
"Such a city,” said Mr. Rose earnestly, is indeed a dream;
but it is a dream which we might make a reality, would circum-
stances only permit of it. We have many amongst us who know
what is beautiful, and who passionately desire it; and would
others only be led by these, it is quite conceivable that we might
some day have a capital, the entire aspect of which should be
the visible embodiment of our finest and most varied culture, our
most sensitive taste, and our deepest æsthetic measure of things.
This is what this capital of our New Republic must be, this
dwelling-place of our ideal society. We shall have houses, gal-
leries, streets, theatres, such as Giulio Romano or Giorgio Vasari
or Giulio Campi would have rejoiced to look at; we shall have
metal-work worthy of the hand of Ghiberti and the praise of
Michel Angelo; we shall rival Domenico Beccafumi with
pavements. As you wander through our thoroughfares and our
our
## p. 9632 (#40) ############################################
9632
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
gardens, your feelings will not be jarred by the presence of
human vulgarity, or the desolating noise of traffic; nor in every
spare space will your eyes be caught by abominable advertise-
ments of excursion trains to Brighton, or of Horniman's cheap
tea. They will rest instead, here on an exquisite fountain, here
on a statue, here on a bust of Zeus or Hermes or Aphrodite,
glimmering in a laureled nook; or on a Mater Dolorosa looking
down on you from her holy shrine; or on the carved marble
gate-posts of our palace gardens, or on their wrought-iron or
wrought-bronze gates; or perhaps on such triumphal arches as
that which Antonio San Gallo constructed in honor of Charles V. ,
and of which you must all remember the description given by
Vasari. Such a city,” said Mr. Rose, would be the externaliza-
tion of the human spirit in the highest state of development that
we can conceive for it. We should there see expressed openly
all our appreciations of all the beauty that we can detect in the
world's whole history. The wind of the spirit that breathed
there would blow to us from all the places of the past, and be
charged with infinite odors. Every frieze on
Every frieze on our walls, every
clustered capital of a marble column, would be a garland or nose-
gay of associations. Indeed, our whole city, as compared with
the London that is now, would be itself a nosegay as compared
with a faggot; and as related to the life that I would see lived
in it, it would be like a shell murmuring with all the world's
memories, and held to the ear of the two twins Life and Love. "
Mr. Rose had got so dreamy by this time that he felt him-
self the necessity of turning a little more matter-of-fact again.
« You will see what I mean, plainly enough,” he said, “if you
will just think of our architecture, and consider how that natur-
ally will be
“Yes,” said Mr. Luke, "I should be glad to hear about our
architecture. ”
« — how that naturally will be,” Mr. Rose went on, "of no
style in particular. ”
The deuce it won't! ” exclaimed Mr. Luke.
“No,” continued Mr. Rose unmoved; “no style in particular,
but a renaissance of all styles. It will matter nothing to us
whether they be pagan or Catholic, classical or mediæval. We
shall be quite without prejudice or bigotry. To the eye of true
taste, an Aquinas in his cell before a crucifix, or a Narcissus
gazing at himself in a still fountain, are — in their own ways,
you know - equally beautiful. ”
(
>
## p. 9633 (#41) ############################################
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
9633
«Well, really,” said Miss Merton, “I can not fancy St. Thomas
being a very taking object to people who don't believe in him
either as a saint or a philosopher. I always think that except
from a Christian point of view, a saint can be hardly better de-
scribed than by Newman's lines, as-
(A bundle of bones, whose breath
Infects the world before his death. ) »*
"I remember the lines well,” said Mr. Rose calmly, “and the
writer you mention puts them in the mouth of a yelping devil.
But devils, as far as I know, are not generally — except perhaps
Milton's - conspicuous for taste; indeed, if we may trust Goethe,
the very touch of a flower is torture to them. ”
“Dante's biggest devil,” cried Mr. Saunders, to everyone's
amazement, "chewed Judas Iscariot like a quid of tobacco, to all
eternity. He, at any rate, knew what he liked. ”
Mr. Rose started, and visited Mr. Saunders with a rapid
frown. He then proceeded, turning again to Miss Merton as if
nothing had happened.
"Let me rather,” he said, “read a nice sonnet to you, which
I had sent to me this morning, and which was in my mind
just now. These lines ” (Mr. Rose here produced a paper from
his pocket) “were written by a boy of eighteen,-a youth of
extraordinary promise, I think,— whose education I may myself
claim to have had some share in directing Listen,” he said,
laying the verses before him on a clean plate.
»
« Three visions in the watches of one night
Made sweet my sleep - almost too sweet to tell.
One was Narcissus by a woodside well,
And on the moss his limbs and feet were white;
And one, Queen Venus, blown for my delight
Across the blue sea in a rosy shell;
And one, a lean Aquinas in his cell,
Kneeling, his pen in hand, with aching sight
Strained towards a carven Christ: and of these three
I knew not which was fairest. First I turned
Towards that soft boy, who laughed and fled from me;
Towards Venus then, and she smiled once, and she
Fled also. Then with teeming heart I yearned,
O Angel of the Schools, towards Christ with thee! »
* Vide J. H. Newman's Dream of Gerontius. )
XVII-603
## p. 9634 (#42) ############################################
9634
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
(
(
c
(
“Yes," murmured Mr. Rose to himself, folding up the paper,
“they are dear lines. Now there,” he said, we have a true and
tender expression of the really catholic spirit of modern æstheti-
cism, which holds nothing common or unclean. It is in this
spirit, I say, that the architects of our State will set to work.
And thus for our houses, for our picture galleries, for our
churches, -I trust we shall have many churches, - they will
,
select and combine - »
"Do you seriously mean,” broke in Allen a little impatiently,
" that it is a thing to wish for and to look forward to, that we
should abandon all attempts at original architecture, and content
ourselves with simply sponging on the past ? ”
"I do,” replied Mr. Rose suavely; "and for this reason, if
;
for no other, - that the world can now successfully do nothing
else. Nor indeed is it to be expected, or even wished, that it
should. ”
“You say we have no good architecture now! ” exclaimed
Lady Ambrose; “but, Mr. Rose, have you forgotten our modern
churches ? Don't you think them beautiful ? Perhaps you never
go to All Saints'? »
"I every now and then," said Mr. Rose, “when I am in the
weary mood for it, attend the services of our English Ritualists,
and I admire their churches very much indeed. In some places
the whole thing is really managed with surprising skill. The
dim religious twilight, fragrant with the smoke of incense; the
tangled roofs that the music seems to cling to; the tapers, the
high altar, and the strange intonation of the priests,- all produce
a curious old-world effect, and seem to unite one with things that
have been long dead. Indeed, it all seems to me far more a
part of the past than the services of the Catholics. "
Lady Ambrose did not express her approbation of the last
part of this sentiment, out of regard for Miss Merton; but she
gave a smile and a nod of pleased intelligence to Mr. Rose.
“Yes,” Mr. Rose went on, “there is a regretful insincerity
about it all, that is very nice, and that at once appeals to me,
Gleich einer alten halbverklungnen Sage. )* The priests are
(
only half in earnest; the congregations even -
Then I am quite sure,” interrupted Lady Ambrose with
vigor, "that you can never have heard Mr. Cope preach. ”
>
*«Like some old half-forgotten legend. ”
## p. 9635 (#43) ############################################
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
9635
»
-
“I don't know," said Mr. Rose languidly. "I never inquired,
nor have I ever heard any one so much as mention, the names
of any of them. Now all that, Lady Ambrose, were life really
in the state it should be, you would be able to keep. ”
“Do you seriously, and in sober earnest, mean," Allen again
broke in, “that you think it a good thing that all our art and
architecture should be borrowed and insincere, and that our very
religion should be nothing but a dilettante memory? ”
« The opinion,” said Mr. Rose, - "which by the way you
slightly misrepresent, — is not mine only, but that of all those
of our own day who are really devoting themselves to art for
its own sake. I will try to explain the reason of this. In the
world's life, just as in the life of a man, there are certain peri-
ods of eager and all-absorbing action, and these are followed by
periods of memory and reflection. We then look back upon
our past and become for the first time conscious of what we
are, and of what we have done. We then see the dignity of
toil, and the grand results of it; the beauty and the strength
of faith, and the fervent power of patriotism: which whilst we
labored, and believed, and loved, we were quite blind to. Upon
such a reflective period has the world now entered. It has acted
and believed already: its task now is to learn to value action
and belief, to feel and to be thrilled at the beauty of them. And
the chief means by which it can learn this is art; the art of a
renaissance. For by the power of such art, all that was beauti-
ful, strong, heroic, or tender in the past, — all the actions, pas-
sions, faiths, aspirations of the world, that lie so many fathom
deep in the years,- float upward to the tranquil surface of the
present, and make our lives like what seems to me one of the
loveliest things in nature, the iridescent film on the face of a
stagnant water. Yes; the past is not dead unless we choose that
it shall be so. Christianity itself is not dead. There is nothing
of it that doth fade,' but turns into something rich and strange,'
for us to give a new tone to our lives with. And believe me,”
Mr. Rose went on, gathering earnestness, that the happiness
possible in such conscious periods is the only true happiness.
Indeed, the active periods of the world were not really happy at
all. We only fancy them to have been so by a pathetic fallacy.
Is the hero happy during his heroism ? No, but after it, when
he sees what his heroism was, and reads the glory of it in the
eyes of youth or maiden. ”
## p. 9636 (#44) ############################################
9636
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
>
>
(
"All this is very poor stuff very poor stuff,” murmured Dr.
Jenkinson, whose face had become gradually the very picture of
crossness,
"Do you mean, Mr. Rose,” said Miss Merton, with a half
humorous, half incredulous smile, that we never value religion
till we have come to think it nonsense ? »
« Not nonsense - no,” exclaimed Mr. Rose in gentle horror;
"I only mean that it never lights our lives so beautifully as
when it is leaving them like the evening sun. It is in such
periods of the world's life that art springs into being in its
greatest splendor. Your Raphael, Miss Merton, who painted you
your dear Madonnas,' was a luminous cloud in the sunset sky
of the Renaissance,- a cloud that took its fire from a faith that
was sunk or sinking. ”
“I'm afraid that the faith is not quite sunk yet,” said Miss
Merton, with a slight sudden Aush in her cheeks, and with just
the faintest touch of suppressed anger.
Mr. Saunders, Mr.
9618
XAVIER DE MAISTRE
Four years later he tells another little tale, Les Prisonniers du
Caucase) (The Prisoners of the Caucasus), a stirring bit of adventure.
His last story, "La Jeune Sibérienne (The Siberian Girl), best
known as retold and weakened by Madame Cottin, is a striking pre-
monition of later realism. There is no forcing the pathetic effect
in the history of the heroic young daughter who braves a long and
terrible journey to petition the Czar for her father's release from
Siberian exile.
The charm of De Maistre's style is always in the ease and sim-
plicity of the telling. In his own time he was very popular; and his
work survives with little loss of interest to-day.
THE TRAVELING-COAT
PUT
I
From the Journey round My Room. Copyright 1871, by Hurd & Houghton
on my traveling-coat, after having examined it with a
complacent eye; and forth with resolved to write a chapter
ad hoc, that I might make it known to the reader.
The form and usefulness of these garments being pretty gen-
erally known, I will treat specially of their influence upon the
minds of travelers.
My winter traveling-coat is made of the warmest and softest
stuff I could meet with. It envelops me entirely from head to
foot; and when I am in my arm-chair, with my hands in my
pockets, I am very like the statue of Vishnu one sees in the
pagodas of India.
You may, if you will, tax me with prejudice when I assert
the influence a traveler's costume exercises upon its wearer. At
any rate, I can confidently affirm with regard to this matter that
it would appear to me as ridiculous to take a single step of my
journey round my room in uniform, with my sword at my side,
as it would to go forth into the world in my dressing-gown.
Were I to find myself in full military dress, not only should
I be unable to proceed with my journey, but I really believe I
should not be able to read what I have written about my travels,
still less to understand it.
Does this surprise you? Do we not every day meet with peo-
ple who fancy they are ill because they are unshaven, or because
some one has thought they have looked poorly and told them
so ? Dress has such influence upon men's minds that there are
valetudinarians who think themselves in better health than usual
## p. 9619 (#27) ############################################
XAVIER DE MAISTRE
9619
how many
:-
when they have on a new coat and well-powdered wig. They
deceive the public and themselves by their nicety about dress,
until one finds some fine morning they have died in full fig, and
their death startles everybody.
And in the class of men among whom I live,
there
are who, finding themselves clothed in uniform, firmly believe
they are officers, until the unexpected appearance of the enemy
shows them their mistake. And more than this, if it be the
king's good pleasure to allow one of them to add to his coat a
certain trimming, he straightway believes himself to be a general;
and the whole army gives him the title without any notion of
making fun of him! So great an influence has a coat upon the
human imagination!
The following illustration will show still further the truth of
my assertion:
It sometimes happened that they forgot to inform the Count
de some days beforehand of the approach of his turn to
mount guard. Early one morning, on the very day on which this
duty fell to the Count, a corporal awoke him and announced the
disagreeable news. But the idea of getting up there and then,
putting on his gaiters, and turning out without having thought
about it the evening before, so disturbed him that he preferred
reporting himself sick and staying at home all day. So he put
on his dressing-gown and sent away his barber. This made him
look pale and ill, and frightened his wife and family. He really
did feel a little poorly.
He told every one he was not very well, - partly for the sake
of appearances, and partly because he positively believed himself
to be indisposed. Gradually the influence of the dressing-gown
began to work. The slops he was obliged to take upset his
stomach. His relations and friends sent to ask after him. He
was soon quite ill enough to take to his bed.
In the evening Dr. Ranson found his pulse hard and feverish,
and ordered him to be bled next day.
If the campaign had lasted a month longer, the sick man's
case would have been past cure.
Now, who can doubt about the influence of traveling-coats
upon travelers, if he reflect that poor Count de thought
more than once that he was about to perform a journey to the
other world for having inopportunely donned his dressing-gown
in this?
## p. 9620 (#28) ############################################
9620
XAVIER DE MAISTRE
A FRIEND
I
From the Journey round My Room. ' Copyright 1871, by Hurd & Houghton
HAD a friend.
Death took him from me. He was snatched
away at the beginning of his career, at the moment when
his friendship had become a pressing need to my heart. We
supported one another in the hard toil of war. We had but
one pipe between us. We drank out of the same cup. We slept
beneath the same tent. And amid our sad trials, the spot where
we lived together became to us a new fatherland. I had seen
him exposed to all the perils of a disastrous war. Death seemed
to spare us to each other. His deadly missiles were exhausted
around my friend a thousand times over without reaching him;
but this was but to make his loss more painful to me. The
tumult of war, and the enthusiasm which possesses the soul at
the sight of danger, might have prevented his sighs from pier-
cing my heart, while his death would have been useful to his
country and damaging to the enemy. Had he died thus, I should
, I
have mourned him less. But to lose him amid the joys of our
winter-quarters; to see him die at the moment when he seemed
full of health, and when our intimacy was rendered closer by
rest and tranquillity,-ah, this was a blow from which I can
never recover!
But his memory lives in my heart, and there alone. He is
forgotten by those who surrounded him and who have replaced
him. And this makes his loss the more sad to me.
Nature, in like manner indifferent to the fate of individuals,
dons her green spring robe, and decks herself in all her beauty
near the cemetery where he rests. The trees cover themselves
with foliage, and intertwine their branches; the birds warble under
the leafy sprays; the insects hum among the blossoms: every-
thing breathes joy in this abode of death.
And in the evening, when the moon shines in the sky, and I
am meditating in this sad place, I hear the grasshopper, hidden
in the grass that covers the silent grave of my friend, merrily
pursuing his unwearied song. The unobserved destruction of
human beings, as well as all their misfortunes, are counted for
nothing in the grand total of events.
The death of an affectionate man who breathes his last sur-
rounded by his afflicted friends, and that of a butterfly killed in
a flower's cup by the chill air of morning, are but two similar
## p. 9621 (#29) ############################################
XAVIER DE MAISTRE
9621
epochs & in the course of nature. Man is but a phantom, a
shadow, a mere vapor that melts into the air.
But daybreak begins to whiten the sky. The gloomy thoughts
that troubled me vanish with the darkness, and hope awakens
again in my heart. No! He who thus suffuses the east with
light has not made it to shine upon my eyes only to plunge me
into the night of annihilation. He who has spread out that vast
horizon, who raised those lofty mountains whose icy tops the sun
is even now gilding, is also he who made my heart to beat and
my mind to think.
No! My friend is not annihilated. Whatever may be the
barrier that separates us, I shall see him again. My hopes are
based on no mere syllogism. The flight of an insect suffices to
persuade me. And often the prospect of the surrounding coun-
try, the perfume of the air, and an indescribable charm which
is spread around me, so raise my thoughts, that an invincible
proof of immortality forces itself upon my soul, and fills it to the
full.
THE LIBRARY
From the Journey round My Room): Copyright 1871, by Hurd & Houghton
I
PROMISED to give a dialogue between my soul and the OTHER.
But there are some chapters which elude me, as it were; or
rather, there are others which flow from my pen nolens volens,
and derange my plans. Among these is one about my library;
and I will make it as short as I can. Our forty-two days will
soon be ended; and even were it not so, a similar period would
not suffice to complete the description of the rich country in
which I travel so pleasantly.
My library, then, is composed of novels, if I must make the
confession - of novels and a few choice poets.
As if I had not troubles enough of my own, I share those of
a thousand imaginary personages, and I feel them as acutely as
my own. How many tears have I shed for that poor Clarissa,
and for Charlotte's lover!
But if I go out of my way in search of unreal afflictions, I
find in return such virtue, kindness, and disinterestedness in this
imaginary world, as I have never yet found united in the real
world around me. I meet with a woman after my heart's desire,
## p. 9622 (#30) ############################################
9622
XAVIER DE MAISTRE
free from whim, lightness, and affectation. I say nothing about
beauty: this I can leave to my imagination, and picture her fault-
lessly beautiful. And then closing the book, which no longer
keeps pace with my ideas, I take the fair one by the hand, and
we travel together over a country a thousand times more delight-
ful than Eden itself. What painter could represent the fairyland
in which I have placed the goddess of my heart? What poet
could ever describe the lively and manifold sensations I experi-
ence in those enchanted regions ?
How often have I cursed that Cleveland, who is always em-
barking upon new troubles which he might very well avoid! I
cannot endure that book, with its long list of calamities. But if
I open it by way of distraction, I cannot help devouring it to
the end.
For how could I leave that poor man among the Abaquis ?
What would become of him in the hands of those savages ? Still
less dare I leave him in his attempt to escape from captivity.
Indeed, I so enter into his sorrows, I am so interested in him
and in his unfortunate family, that the sudden appearance of the
ferocious Ruintons makes my hair stand on end. When I read
that passage a cold perspiration covers me; and my fright is as
lively and real as if I were going to be roasted and eaten by the
monsters myself.
When I have had enough of tears and love, I turn to some
poet, and set out again for a new world.
## p. 9623 (#31) ############################################
9623
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
(1849–)
ILLIAM HURRELL Mallock is the interesting product of the
interesting period in which he was educated and the inter-
esting conditions of his social life. Well born, well bred,
well fed, well read, well supplied with luxuries, well disciplined at the
wicket and the oar, the son of a clergyman of the Church of England
(Rev. Roger Mallock) and the nephew of James Anthony and Richard
Hurrell Froude, he was educated at home by private tutors till he
entered Balliol College, Oxford. There he took a second class in final
classicals, and in 1871 the Newdigate poet-
ical prize, the subject of his poem being
(The Isthmus of Suez. '
In 1876 he published 'The New Repub-
lic, which first appeared in a magazine.
The first impression of the book is its
audacity, the second its cleverness; but
when one has gotten well into its leisurely
pages, and has found himself in what seems
to be the veritable company of Huxley,
Matthew Arnold, Ruskin, Professor Clifford,
Walter Pater, Professor Jowett, and Mr.
Tyndall, he is penetrated with the convic-
tion that the work the perfected flower WILLIAM H. MALLOCK
of the art of delicate characterization. The
parodies are so good that they read like reminiscences enlivened with
the lightest touch of extravaganza.
The sub-title of “The New Republic) —'Culture, Faith, and Phi-
losophy in an English Country-House) - indicates its plan. A young
man of fortune and distinction assembles at his villa a party of vis-
itors, who under thin disguises represent the leading thinkers of the
day. The company plays at constructing an ideal republic, which
is to be the latest improvement on Plato's commonwealth. To facil-
itate the discussion, the host writes the titles of the subjects to be
talked about on the back of the menus of their first dinner: they
prove to be such seductive themes as “The Aim of Life,' (Society,
Art, and Literature,' Riches and Civilization,' and The Present and
the Future.
In the expression of opinion that follows, the peculiarities and
inconsistencies of the famous personages are hit off with delicious
-
## p. 9624 (#32) ############################################
9624
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
appositeness. The first principle of the proposed New Republic is to
destroy all previous republics. Mr. Storks (Professor Huxley) elimi-
nates a conscious directing intelligence from the world of matter.
Mr. Stockton (Professor Tyndall) eliminates the poetry and romance
of the imagination, substituting those of the wonders of science.
The materialist, Mr. Saunders (Professor Clifford), eliminates the foul
superstition of the existence of God and the scheme of salvation
through the merits of Christ. Mr. Luke (Matthew Arnold) who is
represented as mournfully strolling about the lawn in the moonlight,
reciting his own poems, — poems which puzzle us in their oscillation
between mirth and moralizing, till an italicized line warns us to be
wary,- Mr. Luke eliminates the middle classes. Mr. Rose (Walter
Pater) eliminates religious belief as a serious verity, but retains it
an artistic finish and decorative element in life. Dr. Jenkinson
(Professor Jowett) in a sermon which he might have preached in
Balliol Chapel, and his habitual audience have heard without the
lifting of an eyebrow, eliminates the “bad taste” of conviction on
any subject. Finally Mr. Herbert (Mr. Ruskin), descending upon the
reformers in a burst of vituperation, eliminates the upper classes,
because they neither have themselves nor furnish the lower orders
any object to live for. The outcome of the discussion is predicted on
the title-page:-
as
«All is jest and ashes and nothingness; for all things that are, are of
folly. ”
So much space has been given to Mr. Mallock's first book because
it is representative of his quality, and discloses the line of his sub-
sequent thinking. Only once again does he permit himself the
relaxation of an irresponsible and clever parody,- that on Positivism
in «The New Paul and Virginia'; wherein the germ revealed in the
sketches of Huxley and his fellow scientists is more fully developed,
to the disedification of the serious-minded, who complain that the
representatives of Prometheus are dragged down to earth.
But the shades of the mighty whom he ridiculed have played a
curious trick on Mr. Mallock. As Emerson says of the soul of the
dead warrior, which, entering the breast of the conqueror, takes up
its abode there,—so the wraiths of doubt, materialism, discontent,
Philistinism, and the many upsetting emotions which the clever satir-
ist disposed of with a jest, entered his own hypersensitive organism,
and, for all the years succeeding, sent him about among the men
of his generation sharing with Ruskin the burden of their salvation.
Nor does he propose to let any sense of his own limitations as a
prophet interfere with the delivery of his message. In a volume of
several hundred pages he asks a nineteenth-century audience, Is
Life Worth Living? Can we, he demands in substance, like his own
## p. 9625 (#33) ############################################
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
9625
(
Mr. Herbert, go on buying blue china and enjoying the horse-show
and the season, and our little trips to Paris, and first editions in
rare bindings, if we are not sure that these tastes will be gratified
in another world ? In his mind, the reply to this question resolves
itself into the necessity for a final authority,- an authority which he
himself discovers in the voice of the Church of Rome.
He is an indefatigable worker. As a novelist he belongs to the
sentimental school, in which a craving for sympathy and a marked
tendency to reject conventional standards characterizes all his men
and many of his women. Because he has written them, his stories
are never dull; they abound in epigram, sketches of character, and
wise reflections: but the plots are slightly woven and hang at loose
ends, while a dénouement is as deliberately ignored as if the author
were a pupil of Zola. His novels or romances are A Romance of
the Nineteenth Century,' (The Old Order Changeth,' A Human Doc-
ument,' and 'The Heart of Life. )
As an essayist he is widely read. He was one of the famous
five who took part in the Christianity vs. Agnosticism controversy, in
which Bishop Wace and Mr. Huxley were the champions. He has
written two volumes of poems, translated Lucretius; and his varied
magazine articles, collected in book form, have been published under
the titles of Social Equality' (London, 1882), Property, Progress,
and Poverty' (1884), and Classes and Masses; or, Wealth and Wages
in the United Kingdom' (1896).
In the last-named volumes, all on social topics, Mr. Mallock pre-
sents himself as a sedate Conservative, committed to hereditary legis-
lation, the sacredness of the game laws, the Doomsday Book, and the
rest of mediævalism. Against democratic theories concerning social
equality, labor, and property, he sets up the counter proposition that
labor is not the cause of wealth, and of itself would be powerless to
produce it. As for social equality, he sees that diversity of station is
a part of the framework that holds society together.
These books are written in a serious manner. But it is interest-
ing to mark the characteristics of the author's individual and original
genius, as obvious in a blue-book as in a novel. It is an axiom that
the successful advocate must give the impression that he himself has
no doubt of his cause. This Mr. Mallock almost never does. The
more positive his plea, the more visible between the lines is the
mocking, unconvinced expression of the author's other self. More-
over, his fastidious discontent, and the subtlety of mind which is the
greatest perhaps of his many charms, point him toward some un-
explored quarter, where, as he has not investigated it, he fancies the
truth may lie. The reader of Mallock goes to him for witty com-
ment, satire, suggestion; and to get into a certain high-bred society
## p. 9626 (#34) ############################################
9626
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
where the scholar is at home and the gospel of good-breeding is
preached. But that reader will never know in what social system of
the past - in slavery, feudalism, or absolutism - Mallock's Utopia is
-
to be sought.
AN EVENING'S TABLE-TALK AT THE VILLA
From The New Republic)
N°
PROPOSAL could have been happier than Lady Grace's, of
the garden banquet in the pavilion. It seemed to the
guests, when they were all assembled there, that the lovely
summer's day was going to close with a scene from fairy-land.
The table itself, with its flowers and glowing fruit, and its many-
colored Venetian glass, shone and gleamed and sparkled in the
evening light, that was turning outside to a cool mellow amber;
and above, from the roof, in which the dusk was already dark-
ness, hung china lamps in the shape of green and purple grape
clusters, looking like luminous fruit stolen from Aladdin's garden.
The pavilion, open on all sides, was supported on marble pillars
that were almost hidden in red and white roses. Behind, the eye
rested on great tree trunks and glades of rich foliage; and before,
it would pass over turf and flowers, till it reached the sea be-
yond, on which in another hour the faint silver of the moonlight
would begin to tremble.
There was something in the whole scene that was at once
calming and exhilarating; and nearly all present seemed to feel
in some measure this double effect of it.
Dr. Jenkinson had
been quite restored by an afternoon's nap; and his face was now
all a-twinkle with a fresh benignity, that had, however, like an
early spring morning, just a faint suspicion of frost in it. Mr.
Storks even was less severe than usual; and as he raised his
champagne to his lips, he would at times look very nearly con-
versational.
" “My dear Laurence,” exclaimed Mr. Herbert, “it really
almost seems as if your visions of the afternoon had come true,
and that we actually were in your New Republic already. I can
only say that if it is at all like this, it will be an entirely charm-
ing place — too charming, perhaps. But now remember this:
you have but half got through the business to which you first
addressed yourselves, - that of forming a picture of a perfect
## p. 9627 (#35) ############################################
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
9627
>>
aristocracy, an aristocracy in the true and genuine sense of the
word. You are all to have culture, or taste. Very good: you
have talked a great deal about that, and you have seen what you
mean by it; and you have recognized, above all, that it includes
a discrimination between right and wrong. But now you, with
all this taste and culture,- you gifted men and women of the
nineteenth century,- what sort of things does your taste teach
you to reach out towards ? In what actions and aims, in what
affections and emotions, would you place your happiness? That
is what I want to hear,— the practical manifestations of this
culture. ”
“Ah,” said Mr. Rose, “I have at this moment a series of
essays in the press, which would go far towards answering these
questions of yours. They do indeed deal with just this: the
effect of the choicer culture of this century on the soul of man;
the ways in which it endows him with new perceptions; how it
has made him, in fact, a being altogether more highly organ-
All I regret is that these choicer souls, these Xaplevtes, are
as yet like flowers that have not found a climate in which they
can thrive properly. That mental climate will doubtless come
with time. What we have been trying to do this afternoon is, I
imagine, nothing more than to anticipate it in imagination. ”
“Well,” said Mr. Herbert, with a little the tone of an Inquis-
itor, “that is just what I have been asking. What will this
climate be like, and what will these flowers be like in this cli-
mate? How would your culture alter and better the present, if
its powers were equal to its wishes ? »
Mr. Rose's soft lulling tone harmonized well with the scene
and hour, and the whole party seemed willing to listen to him;
or at any rate, no one felt any prompting to interrupt him.
"I can show you an example, Mr. Herbert,” he said, “of
culture demanding a finer climate, in— if you will excuse my
seeming egoism - in myself. For instance (to take the widest
matter I can fix upon, the general outward surroundings of our
lives),- often, when I walk about London, and see how hideous
its whole external aspect is, and what a dissonant population
throng it, a chill feeling of despair comes over me. Consider
how the human eye delights in form and color, and the ear in
tempered and harmonious sounds; and then think for a moment
of a London street!
Think of the shapeless houses, the forest of
ghastly chimney-pots, of the hell of distracting noises made by
»
## p. 9628 (#36) ############################################
9628
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
»
the carts, the cabs, the carriages; think of the bustling, common-
place, careworn crowds that jostle you; think of an omnibus,
think of a four-wheeler — »
"I often ride in an omnibus,” said Lord Allen, with a slight
smile, to Miss Merton.
"It is true,” replied Mr. Rose, only overhearing the tone in
which these words were said, “that one may ever and again
catch some touch of sunlight that will for a moment make the
meanest object beautiful with its furtive alchemy. But that is
Nature's work, not man's; and we must never confound the
accidental beauty that Nature will bestow on man's work, even
at its worst, with the rational and designed beauty of man's
work at its best. It is this rational human beauty that I say
our modern city life is so completely wanting in; nay, the look
of out-of-door London seems literally to stifle the very power of
imagining such beauty possible. Indeed, as I wander along our
streets, pushing my way among the throngs of faces, — faces
puckered with misdirected thought or expressionless with none;
barbarous faces set towards Parliament, or church, or scientific
lecture-rooms, or government offices, or counting-houses, - I say,
as I push my way amongst all the sights and sounds of the
streets of our great city, only one thing ever catches my eye
that breaks in upon my mood and warns me I need not de.
spair. ”
“And what is that ? ” asked Allen with some curiosity.
« The shops,” Mr. Rose answered, “of certain of our uphol-
sterers and dealers in works of art. Their windows, as I look
into them, act like a sudden charm on me; like a splash of cold
water dashed on my forehead when I am fainting. For I seem
there to have got a glimpse of the real heart of things; and as
my eyes rest on the perfect pattern (many of which are really
quite delicious; indeed, when I go to ugly houses, I often take
a scrap of some artistic crétonne with me in my pocket as a
kind of æsthetic smelling-salts), — I say, when I look in at their
windows, and my eyes rest on the perfect pattern of some new
fabric for a chair or for a window curtain, or on some new de-
sign for a wall paper, or on some old china vase, I become at
once sharply conscious, Mr. Herbert, that despite the ungenial
mental climate of the present age, strange yearnings for and
knowledge of true beauty are beginning to show themselves like
flowers above the weedy soil; and I remember, amidst the roar
»
## p. 9629 (#37) ############################################
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
9629
-
and clatter of our streets, and the mad noises of our own times,
that there is amongst us a growing number who have deliber-
ately turned their backs on all these things, and have thrown
their whole souls and sympathies into the happier art ages of the
past. They have gone back," said Mr. Rose, raising his voice a
little, «to Athens and to Italy; to the Italy of Leo and to the
Athens of Pericles. To such men the clamor, the interests, the
struggles of our own times become as meaningless as they really
are. To them the boyhood of Bathyllus is of more moment than
the manhood of Napoleon. Borgia is a more familiar name than
Bismarck. I know, indeed, and I really do not blame them,
several distinguished artists who, resolving to make their whole
lives consistently perfect, will on principle never admit a news-
paper into their houses that is of later date than the times of
Addison: and I have good trust that the number of such men
is on the increase; men, I mean," said Mr. Rose, toying tenderly
with an exquisite wine-glass of Salviati's, who with a steady
and set purpose follow art for the sake of art, beauty for the
sake of beauty, love for the sake of love, life for the sake of
life. ”
Mr. Rose's slow gentle voice, which was apt. at certain times
to become peculiarly irritating, sounded now like the evening air
grown articulate; and had secured him hitherto a tranquil hear-
ing, as if by a kind of spell. This, however, seemed here in
sudden danger of snapping.
«What, Mr. Rose! ” exclaimed Lady Ambrose, "do you mean
to say, then, that the number of people is on the increase who
won't read the newspapers ?
"Why, the men must be absolute idiots ! ” said Lady Grace,
shaking her gray curls, and putting on her spectacles to look at
Mr. Rose.
Mr. Rose, however, was imperturbable.
“Of course,” he said, "you may have newspapers if you will;
I myself always have them: though in general they are too full
of public events to be of much interest. I was merely speaking
just now of the spirit of the movement. And of that we must
all of us here have some knowledge. We must all of us have
friends whose houses more or less embody it.
And even if we
had not, we could not help seeing signs of it-signs of how true
and earnest it is, in the enormous sums that are now given for
really good objects. ”
>>>
(
## p. 9630 (#38) ############################################
9630
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
-
((
“That,” said Lady Grace, with some tartness, “is true enough,
thank God! ”
“But I can't see,” said Lady Ambrose, whose name often
figured in the Times, in the subscription lists of advertised chari-
ties,— «I can't see, Mr. Rose, any reason in that why we should
not read the newspapers. ”
« The other day, for instance,” said Mr. Rose reflectively,
“I heard of eight Chelsea shepherdesses picked up by a dealer.
I really forget where,- in some common cottage, if I recollect
aright, covered with dirt, giving no pleasure to any one, - and
these were all sold in a single day, and not one of them fetched
less than two hundred and twenty pounds. ”
"I can't help thinking they must have come from Cremorne,”
said Mrs. Sinclair softly.
“But why,” said Mr. Rose, "should I speak of particular
instances ? We must all of us have friends whose houses are
full of priceless treasures such as these; the whole atmosphere of
whose rooms really seems impregnated with art, — seems, in fact,
Mr. Herbert, such an atmosphere as we should dream of for our
New Republic. "
« To be sure,” exclaimed Lady Ambrose, feeling that she
had at last got upon solid ground. By the way, Mr. Rose,
"”
she said with her most gracious of smiles, “I suppose you have
hardly seen Lady Julia Hayman's new house in Belgrave Square ?
I'm sure that would delight you. I should like to take you there
some day and show it to you. "
"I have seen it,” said Mr. Rose with languid condescension.
“It was very pretty, I thought, — some of it really quite nice. »
This, and the slight rudeness of manner it was said with,
raised Mr. Rose greatly in Lady Ambrose's estimation, and she
began to think with respect of his late utterances.
"Well, Mr. Herbert,” Mr. Rose went on, “what I want to
say is this: We have here in the present age, as it is, fragments
of the right thing. We have a number of isolated right interiors;
we have a few, very few, right exteriors. But in our ideal State,
a
our entire city—our London, the metropolis of our society –
would be as a whole perfect as these fragments. Taste would
not there be merely an indoor thing. It would be written visi-
bly for all to look upon, in our streets, our squares, our gardens.
Could we only mold England to our wishes, the thing to do, I
am persuaded, would be to remove London to some kindlier site,
-
## p. 9631 (#39) ############################################
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
9631
»
(c
that it might there be altogether born anew. I myself would
have it taken to the southwest, and to the sea-coast, where the
waves are blue, and where the air is calm and fine, and there — »
"Ah me! ” sighed Mr. Luke with a lofty sadness, cælum non
animam mutant. "
« Pardon me,” said Mr. Rose: “few paradoxes — and most para-
doxes are false — are, I think, so false as that. This much at
least of sea-like man's mind has: that scarcely anything so dis-
tinctly gives a tone to it as the color of the skies he lives under.
And I was going to say,” he went on, looking out dreamily
towards the evening waves, “that as the imagination is a quick
«
workman, I can at this moment see our metropolis already trans-
planted and rebuilt. I seem to see it now as it were from a
distance, with its palaces, its museums, its churches, its convents,
its gardens, its picture galleries,- a cluster of domed and pillared
marble, sparkling on a gray headland. It is Rome, it is Athens,
it is Florence, arisen and come to life again, in these modern
days. The aloe-tree of beauty again blossoms there, under the
azure stainless sky. ”
“Do you know, Mr. Rose,” said Lady Ambrose in her most
cordial manner, "all this is very beautiful; and certainly no one
can think London as it is more ugly than I do. That's natural
in me, isn't it, being a denizen of poor prosaic South Audley
Street as I am ? But don't you think that your notion is-
it's very beautiful, I quite feel that — but don't you think it is
perhaps a little too dream-like – too unreal, if you know what I
mean? ”
"Such a city,” said Mr. Rose earnestly, is indeed a dream;
but it is a dream which we might make a reality, would circum-
stances only permit of it. We have many amongst us who know
what is beautiful, and who passionately desire it; and would
others only be led by these, it is quite conceivable that we might
some day have a capital, the entire aspect of which should be
the visible embodiment of our finest and most varied culture, our
most sensitive taste, and our deepest æsthetic measure of things.
This is what this capital of our New Republic must be, this
dwelling-place of our ideal society. We shall have houses, gal-
leries, streets, theatres, such as Giulio Romano or Giorgio Vasari
or Giulio Campi would have rejoiced to look at; we shall have
metal-work worthy of the hand of Ghiberti and the praise of
Michel Angelo; we shall rival Domenico Beccafumi with
pavements. As you wander through our thoroughfares and our
our
## p. 9632 (#40) ############################################
9632
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
gardens, your feelings will not be jarred by the presence of
human vulgarity, or the desolating noise of traffic; nor in every
spare space will your eyes be caught by abominable advertise-
ments of excursion trains to Brighton, or of Horniman's cheap
tea. They will rest instead, here on an exquisite fountain, here
on a statue, here on a bust of Zeus or Hermes or Aphrodite,
glimmering in a laureled nook; or on a Mater Dolorosa looking
down on you from her holy shrine; or on the carved marble
gate-posts of our palace gardens, or on their wrought-iron or
wrought-bronze gates; or perhaps on such triumphal arches as
that which Antonio San Gallo constructed in honor of Charles V. ,
and of which you must all remember the description given by
Vasari. Such a city,” said Mr. Rose, would be the externaliza-
tion of the human spirit in the highest state of development that
we can conceive for it. We should there see expressed openly
all our appreciations of all the beauty that we can detect in the
world's whole history. The wind of the spirit that breathed
there would blow to us from all the places of the past, and be
charged with infinite odors. Every frieze on
Every frieze on our walls, every
clustered capital of a marble column, would be a garland or nose-
gay of associations. Indeed, our whole city, as compared with
the London that is now, would be itself a nosegay as compared
with a faggot; and as related to the life that I would see lived
in it, it would be like a shell murmuring with all the world's
memories, and held to the ear of the two twins Life and Love. "
Mr. Rose had got so dreamy by this time that he felt him-
self the necessity of turning a little more matter-of-fact again.
« You will see what I mean, plainly enough,” he said, “if you
will just think of our architecture, and consider how that natur-
ally will be
“Yes,” said Mr. Luke, "I should be glad to hear about our
architecture. ”
« — how that naturally will be,” Mr. Rose went on, "of no
style in particular. ”
The deuce it won't! ” exclaimed Mr. Luke.
“No,” continued Mr. Rose unmoved; “no style in particular,
but a renaissance of all styles. It will matter nothing to us
whether they be pagan or Catholic, classical or mediæval. We
shall be quite without prejudice or bigotry. To the eye of true
taste, an Aquinas in his cell before a crucifix, or a Narcissus
gazing at himself in a still fountain, are — in their own ways,
you know - equally beautiful. ”
(
>
## p. 9633 (#41) ############################################
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
9633
«Well, really,” said Miss Merton, “I can not fancy St. Thomas
being a very taking object to people who don't believe in him
either as a saint or a philosopher. I always think that except
from a Christian point of view, a saint can be hardly better de-
scribed than by Newman's lines, as-
(A bundle of bones, whose breath
Infects the world before his death. ) »*
"I remember the lines well,” said Mr. Rose calmly, “and the
writer you mention puts them in the mouth of a yelping devil.
But devils, as far as I know, are not generally — except perhaps
Milton's - conspicuous for taste; indeed, if we may trust Goethe,
the very touch of a flower is torture to them. ”
“Dante's biggest devil,” cried Mr. Saunders, to everyone's
amazement, "chewed Judas Iscariot like a quid of tobacco, to all
eternity. He, at any rate, knew what he liked. ”
Mr. Rose started, and visited Mr. Saunders with a rapid
frown. He then proceeded, turning again to Miss Merton as if
nothing had happened.
"Let me rather,” he said, “read a nice sonnet to you, which
I had sent to me this morning, and which was in my mind
just now. These lines ” (Mr. Rose here produced a paper from
his pocket) “were written by a boy of eighteen,-a youth of
extraordinary promise, I think,— whose education I may myself
claim to have had some share in directing Listen,” he said,
laying the verses before him on a clean plate.
»
« Three visions in the watches of one night
Made sweet my sleep - almost too sweet to tell.
One was Narcissus by a woodside well,
And on the moss his limbs and feet were white;
And one, Queen Venus, blown for my delight
Across the blue sea in a rosy shell;
And one, a lean Aquinas in his cell,
Kneeling, his pen in hand, with aching sight
Strained towards a carven Christ: and of these three
I knew not which was fairest. First I turned
Towards that soft boy, who laughed and fled from me;
Towards Venus then, and she smiled once, and she
Fled also. Then with teeming heart I yearned,
O Angel of the Schools, towards Christ with thee! »
* Vide J. H. Newman's Dream of Gerontius. )
XVII-603
## p. 9634 (#42) ############################################
9634
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
(
(
c
(
“Yes," murmured Mr. Rose to himself, folding up the paper,
“they are dear lines. Now there,” he said, we have a true and
tender expression of the really catholic spirit of modern æstheti-
cism, which holds nothing common or unclean. It is in this
spirit, I say, that the architects of our State will set to work.
And thus for our houses, for our picture galleries, for our
churches, -I trust we shall have many churches, - they will
,
select and combine - »
"Do you seriously mean,” broke in Allen a little impatiently,
" that it is a thing to wish for and to look forward to, that we
should abandon all attempts at original architecture, and content
ourselves with simply sponging on the past ? ”
"I do,” replied Mr. Rose suavely; "and for this reason, if
;
for no other, - that the world can now successfully do nothing
else. Nor indeed is it to be expected, or even wished, that it
should. ”
“You say we have no good architecture now! ” exclaimed
Lady Ambrose; “but, Mr. Rose, have you forgotten our modern
churches ? Don't you think them beautiful ? Perhaps you never
go to All Saints'? »
"I every now and then," said Mr. Rose, “when I am in the
weary mood for it, attend the services of our English Ritualists,
and I admire their churches very much indeed. In some places
the whole thing is really managed with surprising skill. The
dim religious twilight, fragrant with the smoke of incense; the
tangled roofs that the music seems to cling to; the tapers, the
high altar, and the strange intonation of the priests,- all produce
a curious old-world effect, and seem to unite one with things that
have been long dead. Indeed, it all seems to me far more a
part of the past than the services of the Catholics. "
Lady Ambrose did not express her approbation of the last
part of this sentiment, out of regard for Miss Merton; but she
gave a smile and a nod of pleased intelligence to Mr. Rose.
“Yes,” Mr. Rose went on, “there is a regretful insincerity
about it all, that is very nice, and that at once appeals to me,
Gleich einer alten halbverklungnen Sage. )* The priests are
(
only half in earnest; the congregations even -
Then I am quite sure,” interrupted Lady Ambrose with
vigor, "that you can never have heard Mr. Cope preach. ”
>
*«Like some old half-forgotten legend. ”
## p. 9635 (#43) ############################################
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
9635
»
-
“I don't know," said Mr. Rose languidly. "I never inquired,
nor have I ever heard any one so much as mention, the names
of any of them. Now all that, Lady Ambrose, were life really
in the state it should be, you would be able to keep. ”
“Do you seriously, and in sober earnest, mean," Allen again
broke in, “that you think it a good thing that all our art and
architecture should be borrowed and insincere, and that our very
religion should be nothing but a dilettante memory? ”
« The opinion,” said Mr. Rose, - "which by the way you
slightly misrepresent, — is not mine only, but that of all those
of our own day who are really devoting themselves to art for
its own sake. I will try to explain the reason of this. In the
world's life, just as in the life of a man, there are certain peri-
ods of eager and all-absorbing action, and these are followed by
periods of memory and reflection. We then look back upon
our past and become for the first time conscious of what we
are, and of what we have done. We then see the dignity of
toil, and the grand results of it; the beauty and the strength
of faith, and the fervent power of patriotism: which whilst we
labored, and believed, and loved, we were quite blind to. Upon
such a reflective period has the world now entered. It has acted
and believed already: its task now is to learn to value action
and belief, to feel and to be thrilled at the beauty of them. And
the chief means by which it can learn this is art; the art of a
renaissance. For by the power of such art, all that was beauti-
ful, strong, heroic, or tender in the past, — all the actions, pas-
sions, faiths, aspirations of the world, that lie so many fathom
deep in the years,- float upward to the tranquil surface of the
present, and make our lives like what seems to me one of the
loveliest things in nature, the iridescent film on the face of a
stagnant water. Yes; the past is not dead unless we choose that
it shall be so. Christianity itself is not dead. There is nothing
of it that doth fade,' but turns into something rich and strange,'
for us to give a new tone to our lives with. And believe me,”
Mr. Rose went on, gathering earnestness, that the happiness
possible in such conscious periods is the only true happiness.
Indeed, the active periods of the world were not really happy at
all. We only fancy them to have been so by a pathetic fallacy.
Is the hero happy during his heroism ? No, but after it, when
he sees what his heroism was, and reads the glory of it in the
eyes of youth or maiden. ”
## p. 9636 (#44) ############################################
9636
WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK
>
>
(
"All this is very poor stuff very poor stuff,” murmured Dr.
Jenkinson, whose face had become gradually the very picture of
crossness,
"Do you mean, Mr. Rose,” said Miss Merton, with a half
humorous, half incredulous smile, that we never value religion
till we have come to think it nonsense ? »
« Not nonsense - no,” exclaimed Mr. Rose in gentle horror;
"I only mean that it never lights our lives so beautifully as
when it is leaving them like the evening sun. It is in such
periods of the world's life that art springs into being in its
greatest splendor. Your Raphael, Miss Merton, who painted you
your dear Madonnas,' was a luminous cloud in the sunset sky
of the Renaissance,- a cloud that took its fire from a faith that
was sunk or sinking. ”
“I'm afraid that the faith is not quite sunk yet,” said Miss
Merton, with a slight sudden Aush in her cheeks, and with just
the faintest touch of suppressed anger.
Mr. Saunders, Mr.
