No More Learning

It may be easily imagined that in his position of royal censor
he incurred the enmity of his colleagues whose plays he refused;
and in addition to his pecuniary embarrassments his life was embit-
tered by the attacks of his enemies, among whom Voltaire was not
the least conspicuous. Crébillon, who was a man of fine presence
and strong constitution, died on June 14th, 1762, in his eighty-ninth
year.
Taking the writer's tragedies as they appeared, 'Idoménée,' the
first one, is borrowed from Homer's Iliad. It is the story of Ido-
meneus, King of Crete, who returning from the siege of Troy and
being assailed by a frightful tempest, took a vow of sacrificing to
Neptune the first human creature he should meet on landing. His
own son, Idamantus, was the first person he encountered, and his
father at once sacrificed him. Such is the Greek legend; but it
being too atrocious in its nature to suit modern taste, in Crébillon's
tragedy Idamantus kills himself. We can in a measure understand
the terrible struggle going in the father's breast, obliged by his
vow to kill his own child; but only in a measure, for our modern
ideas will not admit that under such circumstances a parent should
be held to his vow. Nor does it help matters that Idamantus should
kill himself to save his father from committing the atrocious deed:
the subject is repulsive. The speech of Idomeneus in the first act,
recounting the storm scene, is not unfrequently mentioned as a piece
of rhetoric.


## p. 4169 (#547) ###########################################

PROSPER JOYLOT CRÉBILLON
4169
'Atrée et Thyeste' is far superior to 'Idoménée' both in con-
ception and construction. If the object of tragedy be to excite
terror, that condition is certainly fulfilled in 'Atrée et Thyeste. '
The subject, taken from Seneca, is well known. Atreus, King of
Argos, to avenge the wrong done him by his own brother Thyestes,
who had carried off his wife, had the latter's son killed and served
to him at a feast. Crébillon carries this fierce cruelty even farther,
for in his play he makes Atreus offer his brother a cup filled with
the blood of Plisthène, son of Thyestes. On being criticized for this
refinement of cruelty the poet bluntly answered, "I never should
have believed that in a land where there are so many unfortunate
husbands, Atreus would have found so few partisans. " The strongest
scenes are the closing ones. Although the general opinion at the
time was that Crébillon had chosen too horrible a subject, he re-
vealed his power as a tragic poet; and his reputation as such really
dates from the production of 'Atrée et Thyeste. '
Crébillon's Électre' is in the main the same as that of Sopho-
cles, Euripides, and others. Electra, whose father Agamemnon has
been murdered by Ægisthus, induces her brother Orestes to slay
the murderer. The change introduced into the plot by the French
poet is this one: he makes Electra love the son of her father's
slayer, whilst Orestes, who is ignorant of his own birth, loves the
daughter. The admirers of the classic models were up in arms at
these changes, and 'Électre' was attacked on all sides; but if it had
its defects, it had also its merits, and these were finally recognized
as being of high order. The scene between Clytemnestra and Elec-
tra in the first act, the meeting between Electra and Orestes, and
the latter's ravings when he discovers that he has killed his mother,
are among the best.
'Rhadamiste et Zénobie' is generally considered Crébillon's master-
piece: it is the only one of his tragedies that contains the romantic
element. As narrated in Tacitus, the legend upon which this play
is founded runs thus: Rhadamistus, son of Pharasmanes, King of
Iberia, had married his cousin Zenobia, daughter of his uncle Mithri-
dates, King of Armenia. The latter was put to death by order of
Rhadamistus, who took possession of his uncle's provinces. An
insurrection broke out, and Rhadamistus had to flee for his life. He
carried off Zenobia with him, but she, owing to her condition, unable
to bear the fatigues of the flight, begged her husband to put
her to death. After piercing her with his sword and throwing
her into the Araxes, he hurriedly made off for his father's kingdom.
Zenobia, however, was not dead. She was found on the bank of the
river by some shepherds, who carried her to the court of the King
Tiridates, who received her kindly and treated her as a queen.


## p. 4170 (#548) ###########################################

4170
PROSPER JOLYOT CRÉBILLON
In his tragedy Crébillon makes the husband and wife meet
again at the court of Pharasmanes; and Zenobia, believing herself to
be a widow, shows her love for Prince Arsames, own brother to
Rhadamistus. This invention is certainly no more improbable than
the whole story itself. The interview between Pharasmanes and his
son in the second act, and the meeting between Rhadamistus and
Zenobia in the third, are both remarkable, the first for its grandeur,
the second for its pathos and passion.
'Xerxès is an inferior tragedy. The strongest character in the
play is that of the prime minister Artaban, who sows discord between
the two sons of Xerxès, intending to seize the throne of Persia for
himself. Inferior also is Sémiramis. ' The famous queen is in love
with Agénor, who proves to be her own son Ninias; but even after
this discovery, Sémiramis perseveres in her passion. Such a subject
can be tolerated on the stage only on condition that the spectator be
made to feel the victim's struggle and remorse, as in Racine's
'Phèdre. '
'Pyrrhus' differs from Crébillon's previous tragedies in this one
point: no blood is spilled upon the stage; the poet does not rely
upon his usual method of striking terror to gain success. For the
first time his characters are heroic and express noble sentiments.
Pyrrhus, King of Epirus, has been brought up by his guardian
Glaucias under the name of Helenus, and believes himself to be his
son. It is only when the usurper Neoptolemes demands of Glaucias
the surrender of Pyrrhus, that the latter discovers the truth. The
courage and magnanimity of Glaucias in refusing to give up his
trust; of his son Illyrus in taking the place of Pyrrhus; of Pyrrhus
in revealing his true name and offering himself to the usurper, and
lastly of Neoptolemes in showing clemency, are worthy of admi-
ration.
Twenty-two years intervene between 'Pyrrhus' and 'Catilina'
(1748). As might be expected in a tragedy having for its principal
characters Cicero and Cato, political speeches are plentiful. The
scene between Catiline, Cato, and Cicero, in the fourth act, is per-
haps the strongest. Another interval of six years, and Crébillon
wrote his last tragedy 'Le Triumvirat' or 'Le Mort de Cicéron,'
which may be termed a rehabilitation of Cicero, who, the critics
said, should not have been made a subordinate character to that of
Catiline in Crébillon's previous tragedy. Although written in his
eightieth year, it cannot be said that this composition shows any
sign of mental decay.
With two such masters as Corneille and Racine towering with
their mighty height over all other French dramatic poets, it is often
difficult to be just towards the latter. They must always suffer by


## p. 4171 (#549) ###########################################

PROSPER JOLYOT CRÉBILLON
4171
comparison; yet all they wrote did not deserve almost entire oblivion.
In the case of Crébillon, the only tragedy by which he is now re-
membered is that of Rhadamiste et Zénobie,' and that principally
because it is the only one that has in it an element of romance.
But his others contain also qualities of their own: grandeur of con-
ception, great force and energy, together with a severe and sober
language. As to his defects, they consist in too great a predilection.
for the horrible, and in a style which at times is inflated. Voltaire,
who could brook no superiority or even equality in any line of litera-
ture, did not spare Crébillon his sarcasms. The best outcome of this
rivalry between the two poets was the emulation it stimulated in
Voltaire, causing him to write over five of Crébillon's tragedies-
'Sémiramis, Électre,' 'Catilina,' 'Le Triumvirat,' 'Atrée et Thy-
este,' — under the respective names of 'Sémiramis,' 'Oreste,' 'Rome
Sauvée,' 'Le Triumvirat,' 'Les Pélopides. '
(
Robert Lanterny
Now in this cup, the pledge of brotherhood,
Behold the sacred earnest of our peace!
How timely has it come, to still the fears
That bid thee doubt a brother's bounteous love!
If dark distrust of Atreus linger still
Within thy heart-give me the sacred cup.
That shame may fill Thyestes, to withhold
His share in this fraternal festival:
That brothers' hearts, whom love hath set at twain,
Love's holy bonds may reunite again:
Give me the cup! that I, in drinking first,
May drown thy doubts. - Eurysthenes, the cup!
[He takes the cup from the hand of Eurysthenes, his confidant. ]
Thyestes-
A
TREUS
THE BLOODY BANQUET
From Atreus and Thyestes'
-
Have I not said, my lord, thou takest ill
My groundless doubts and coward quavering fears?
What henceforth could thy hate deprive me of,
Since son, and provinces, have been restored?
Whate'er the cause and meaning of this wrath,


## p. 4172 (#550) ###########################################

4172
PROSPER JOLYOT CRÉBILLON
Have I deserved that thou shouldst crown my days,
My wretched days, with kindness such as this?
Nay; first, Eurysthenes, give me the cup.
Let me be first to pledge all gratitude,
And drown my heart's misgivings, that have lain
Like bitter lees within the cup I drain.
[He takes the cup from the hand of Atreus, saying:—]
Yet why delays my son?
Atreus [addressing his guards] –
Has he not yet returned?
Give answer, guards!
[Addressing Thyestes]- Be not uneasy.
You soon shall see him, soon to him be joined;
More near and close your union than you dream;
Most sacred pledge, he, of our solemn bond.
Thyestes-
-
Atreus
Be thou the voucher, then, of Atreus's faith,
And of Thyestes's safety from his hate,—
Cup of our ancestors! And you, ye gods,
Whom I to witness call! may you strike dead
With swift avenging thunderbolt of wrath
Him who first breaks this pact of peace. — And thou,
Brother as dear as daughter or as son,
Receive this proof of firmest faith.
-
[Turning to Atreus] —
What do I see? Great gods, 'tis blood, blood, blood!
Ah, horror! Blood! - mine own runs cold within
My frozen heart, my heart with horror chilled.
The sun grows dim around me; and the cup,
Dyed with such dreadful crimson, seems to shrink
From touch of this my trembling hand. -I die!
'Tis death I feel upon me. O my son!
What has become of thee?
[He drains the cup, and recoils.
Ah, wretch!
My son is dead!
My son is dead, thou cruel one! who offerest
False promises of peace to me bereavèd
In the same instant which has snatched him from me.
And lest this frightful blow should leave me living,
Monster! 'tis wine of blood thy hand is giving!
O Earth! canst thou support us at this moment?
My dream, my ghastly dream returned upon me!
Was it thy blood, my son! they gave thy father?
And canst thou recognize this blood?
-


## p. 4173 (#551) ###########################################

PROSPER JOLYOT CRÉBILLON
4173
Thyestes-
Atreus
Thyestes
Atreus-
Thyestes-
Thyestes-
Atreus
My brother
I re
recognize.
Thou shouldst have recognized him
And known his nature, in the past, nor wronged him,
And forced him, ingrate! thus to hurl his vengeance!
O mighty gods! what crimes are ye avenging?
Thou fiend spewed forth by hell to blight the earth,
More fully spend the rage that fills thy breast
Send an unhappy father to his son!
Give this new victim to his bloody manes,
Nor stop half-way in thy vile path of crime.
How canst thou spare me, barbarous wretch! to mourn
Within a world whence thou hast driven away
The gods, and even the wholesome light of day?
Nay; I should wish thee back again to life,
Which I can stuff so bravely with disasters. 、
I know thy grief, I hear it in thy moans,
I see thy sorrows wound thee as I wished;
And in thy tears I find fulfilled the hope
That fast was fading in my heart,- revenge!
Thou callest on death, and I have left thee life,
'Tis my revenge.
Theodamia, daughter of Thyestes-
Ah, heaven!
Ah, vain and flattering hope!
Thyestes's hand can rob thee of that joy!
[He kills himself.
Be thou comforted, my daughter;
Hence, and leave justice to the most high gods,
Whose hearts your tears will move. Hence! and await
His punishment, whose perjuries turned pale
The very gods themselves: they promise it;
'Tis pledged me in this bloody cup, and now-
Just gods! I die!
And I accept the omen;
For thy self-slaying hand hath crowned my wishes,
And I enjoy at last my crimes' fell fruitage!


## p. 4174 (#552) ###########################################

4174
PROSPER JOLYOT CRÉBILLON
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER
From Electra ›
C
LYTEMNESTRA -So! far from answering a mother's kindness.
Thou heap'st defiance on that sacred name!
And when my pity seeks her happiness,
Electra scorns me still. Ay, ay, defy me,
Proud princess, unrelenting! but accuse
None save thyself, that Fate so frowns on thee!
From a great monarch, jealous of his power,
I won a hero-husband for my daughter;
And hasty Hope had shown to me the sceptre
Within our house once more, bought by that union;
Yet she, ungrateful, only seeks our ruin!
But one word more: thou hold'st the heart of Itys,
And this same day shall see your lots united.
Refuse him at thy peril! for Ægisthus
Is weary of the slave within his palace,
Whose tears move men and gods to pity.
Electra-
Pity!
Against so proud a tyrant, O ye heavens,
What weapon? Can he fear my harmless tears,
Who thus defies remorse? Ah, madam,-mother!
Is it for thee to add to my misfortunes?
I, I Ægisthus's slave—alack, how comes it ?
Ah, hapless daughter! who such slave has made me?
And say, of whom was this Electra born?
And is it fitting thou shouldst so reproach me?
Mother! if still that holy name can move thee,-
And if indeed my shame be known to all
Within this palace,-show compassion on me,
And on the griefs thy hand hath heaped upon me;
Speed, speed my death! but think not to unite me
To him, the son of that foul murderer!
That wretch whose fury robbed me of a father,
And still pursues him in his son and daughter,
Usurping even the disposal of my hand!
Canst speak of such a marriage, and not shudder?
Mother! that lovedst me once,-how have I lost it,
Thy tender love? Alas! I cannot hate thee;
Despite the sorrows that have hedged me round,
The bitter tears I shed within this place,
'Tis only for the tyrant I invoke
The high gods' wrath. Ah, if I must forget


## p. 4175 (#553) ###########################################

PROSPER JOLYOT CRÉBILLON
4175
Clytemnestra-
Electra-
Ο
That I have lost a father-help me, madam,
To still remember that I have a mother!
Electra-
What can I do? how act? Naught save thy marriage
Will satisfy the King. I pray thee, yield.
Repine no longer at thy destined lot,
And cease bewailing o'er a dead barbarian
Who-had he found another Ilion-
Thyself full quickly would have made an offering
Upon the altar of his own ambition.
Thus did he dare-oh dark and cruel heart! -
Before mine eyes to sacrifice my daughter!
Cruel-ay, madam; yet was he thy husband.
If thus he purchased for him punishment,
What gods or men appointed thee avenger?
If Heaven in extremity of harshness
Compelled him, hapless hero! to outpour
His own blood-answer! was it not for Heaven
He spilled it? But thou, most unnatural mother
Of sorrow-scourged Electra and Orestes,
Thou too wouldst spill the last drops of that blood;
Not for high Heaven, jealous of its altars,
But for the vilest mortal. Ah, behold him!
He comes, inhuman wretch! and at the sight
Fierce passions stir within my seething soul.
RESTES
THE MATRICIDE
From Electra >
Strike, ye gods!
Ye gods all-powerful, summoned by my fury;
Avenging gods! if there be such, then strike!
Since still I live. My crime, my hideous crime,
Is yours alone to reckon, yours to judge.
Has Heaven only gentle torments for me?
Alas! I see what stays your righteous vengeance:
You know not how to punish crime so foul,
Ye horror-stricken gods!
Ah, brother, brother!
Calm this blind frenzy; cure thee of this madness;
Have I not weight enough of grief to bear?
Wouldst thou, Orestes, slay me as I stand?


## p. 4176 (#554) ###########################################

4176
PROSPER JOLYOT CRÉBILLON
Orestes-
Hush! utter it no more, that name abhorred.
And thou who shudderest at my odious presence -
Nature! so oft, so deeply outraged here
I have avenged thee of my murdered father;
But who my murdered mother shall avenge?
Speak, Justice! thine arm have lost its power,—
Filled with the fury of a just despair,
Behold, myself will aid it to strike home!
If man's remorse can move divinity,
Gods! turn ye to the tears, the blood I spill-
Ha! seest thou, mother?
[He tries to kill himself, but is disarmed by his guardian
Palamedes. ]
O my lord!
Palamedes
Orestes-
Leave, leave me!
From thee I will have nothing, wretch inhuman!
Nor from Electra.
Was it not your hearts,
Thirsting for blood and victims, that compelled me
To stain my hands with guilt unspeakable?
But how now? whence this mist that darkens round me?
Thanks be to heaven, the way to hell is opened.
Let us to hell! there's nothing that affrights me,-
And in the horror of eternal night
Hide and enwrap ourselves! - But what pale light
Shines on me now? who to this dark abode
***
Dares to bring daylight back? What do I see?
The dead of hell look shuddering upon me!
Oh hear the moans, the painful cries -
Who calls me in this horrible retreat?
"Orestes! "
It is Ægisthus! oh, too much, too much!
And in my wrath but soft: what sight is here?
What holds he in his hands? My mother's head!
Ah, what a gaze! Where shall Orestes flee!
Atrocious monster! what a spectacle
Thou venturest to show me! Stay thy fury!
Behold my sufferings; and that awful head —
Hide, hide it from these terror-smitten eyes!
Ah, mother, spare me; spare thy unhappy son!
Ye shades of Agamemnon, hear my cries;
Shades of mine honored father, give thine aid;
Come, shield thy son from the pursuing anger
Of Clytemnestra! ah, show pity on me!
What! even into thy protecting arms
―


## p. 4177 (#555) ###########################################

PROSPER JOLYOT CRÉBILLON
4177
ENOBIA
She, furious, still pursues me. All is over!
I yield me to the life-consuming torture.
My guiltless heart, that bore nor part nor share
In the black crime committed by my hand,
Is torn with torments. O ye gods! what culprit
Of deepest guilt could bear worse punishment?
-
Z Whom Fate has fastened to a tyrant's yoke,—
Dare she appeal, disgraced in chains of bondage,
To Romans, masters of the universe?
Zenobia
Zenobia
Than to relieve my great misfortunes? Heaven,
That to their august laws subjected all-
Rhadamistus —
-
THE RECONCILIATION
From Rhadamistus and Zenobia >
How comes it that your soul,
My gracious lord, so stirs at sight of me?
Rhadamistus —
Had not my hand deprived of life —
Ah! yet indeed what better part to play,
For these same masters of the universe,
Zenobia-
My lord, a hapless woman
What do I see? Ah, wretched man! Those features
That voice- Just gods! what sight do ye present
Before mine eyes?
Rhadamistus —
I see and hear in turn? Sad recollection!
I tremble, shudder! where and what am I?
My strength fast leaves me. Ah, my lord, dispel
My terror and confusion. All my blood
Runs cold to my heart's core.
What is it
Ah me! the passion
That fills my being, leaves no further doubt.
Hast thou, my hand, achieved but half thy crime?
Victim of man's conspiring cruelty,
Sad object of a jealous desperate love
Swept on by rage to fiercest violence,-
After such storm of madness, frenzy, fury-
Zenobia, is it thou?
VII-262
Zenobia!
Ah, gods! O Rhadamistus, thou my husband,
Cruel but yet beloved-after trials
So many and so bitter, is it thou?


## p. 4178 (#556) ###########################################

4178
PROSPER JOLYOT CRÉBILLON
Rhadamistus-
Zenobia-
Can it be possible thine eyes refuse
To recognize him? Yes, I am that monster,
That heart inhuman; yes! I am that traitor,
That murderous husband! Would to highest Heaven
That when to-day he stood unknown before thee,
Forgetting him, thou hadst forgot his crimes!
O gods! who to my mortal grief restore her,
Why could ye not return to her a husband
Worthy herself? What happy fate befalls me,
That Heaven, touched to pity by my torments
Of sharp regret, hath granted me to gaze
Once more upon such charms? But yet -alas!
Can it be, too, that at my father's court
I find a wife so dear weighed down with chains?
Gods! have I not bewailed my crimes enow,
That ye afflict my vision with this sight?
O all too gentle victim of despair
Like mine! How all I see but fills afresh
The measure of thy husband's guilt! - How now:
Thou weepest!
Wherefore, thou unhappy being,
Should I not weep, in such a fateful hour?
Ah, cruel one! would Heaven, thy hand of hatred
Had only sought to snatch Zenobia's life!
Then would my heart, unstirred to depths of anger
At sight of thee, beat quickly on beholding
My husband; then would love, to honor lifted
By rage of jealousy, replace thy wife
Within thine arms, fresh filled with happiness.
Yet think not that I feel for thee no pity,
Or turn from thee with loathing.
Rhadamistus
Ye great gods!
Far from reproaches such as should o'erwhelm me,
It is Zenobia who fears to hate me,
-
And justifies herself! Ah, punish me,
Rather than this; for in such fatal kindness,
Such free forgiveness, I am made to taste
Of mine own cruelty! Spare not my blood,
Dear object of my love! be just; deprive me
Of such a bliss as seeing thee again!
[He falls at her feet.
Must I, to urge thee, clasp thy very knees?
Remember what the price, and whose the blood,


## p. 4179 (#557) ###########################################

PROSPER JOLYOT CRÉBILLON
4179
Zenobia
That sealed me as thy spouse! All, even my love,
Demands that I should perish. To leave crime
Unpunished, is to share the culprit's guilt.
Strike! but remember-in my wildest fury
Never wast thou cast down from thy high place
Within my heart; remember, if repentance
Could stand for innocence, I need no longer
Rouse thee to hatred, move thee to revenge.
Ay! and remember too, despite the rage
Which well I know must swell within thy soul,
My greatest passion was my love for thee.
Zenobia
Arise! it is too much. Since I forgive thee,
What profit in regrets? The gods, believe me,
Deny to us the power of wreaking vengeance
On enemies so dear. But name the land
Where thou wouldst dwell, and I will follow thee
Whithersoe'er thou wilt. Speak! I am ready
To follow, from this moment forth, forever,
Assured that such remorse as fills thy heart
Springs from thy virtues, more than thy misfortunes;
And happy, if Zenobia's love for thee
Could some day serve as pattern to Armenia,
Make her like me thy willing, loyal subject,
And teach her, if no more, to know her duty!
Rhadamistus —
-
Great Heaven! can it be that lawful bonds
Unite such virtues to so many crimes?
That Hymen to a madman's lot should link
The fairest, the most perfect of all creatures
To whom the gods gave life? Canst look upon me,
After a father's death? My outrages,
My brother's love - that prince so great and generous-
Can they not make thee hate a hapless husband?
And I may tell myself, since thou disdainest
The proffered vows of virtuous Arsames,
Thou to his passion turn'st a heart of ice?
What words are these? too happy might I live
To-day, if duty in that noble heart
Might take for me the place of love!
Ah, quiet
Within thy soul the groundless doubts that fill it;
Or hide at least thy unworthy jealousy!
Remember that a heart that can forgive thee


## p. 4180 (#558) ###########################################

4180
PROSPER JOLYOT CRÉBILLON
Is not a heart to doubt,
Not without crime!
Rhadamistus —
-
-
- no, Rhadamistus,
O thou dear wife, forgive me
My fatal love; forgive me those suspicions
Which my whole heart abhors. The more unworthy
Thy inhuman spouse, the less should thy displeasure
Visit his unjust fears. O dear Zenobia!
Give me thy heart and hand again, and deign
To follow me this day to fair Armenia.
Cæsar hath o'er that province made me monarch;
Come! and behold me henceforth blot my crimes
From thy remembrance with a list of virtues.
Come, here is Hiero, a faithful subject,
Whose zeal we trust to cover o'er our flight.
Soon as the night has veiled the staring sky,
Assured that thou shalt see my face again,
Come and await me in this place. Farewell!
Let us not linger till a barbarous foe,
When Heaven has reunited us, shall part us
Again forever. O ye gods, who gave her
Back to my arms in answer to my longings,
Deign, deign to give to me a heart deserving
Your goodness!


## p. 4181 (#559) ###########################################

4181
S. R. CROCKETT
(1862-)
HAT Samuel Rutherford Crockett was born in Little Duchrae,
Galloway, Scotland, in 1862, of a long line of tenant farm-
ers; that, a small white-haired boy, beginning at three and
a half years of age, he did his daily work on the farm and walked
three miles to the parish school, where, under a master who was "a
dungeon of learning," he wrestled with Latin as far as "Omnis
Gallia" and through the Greek alphabet till he was fifteen; that he
then entered Edinburgh University, where he added to his sparse
resources by tutoring and journalistic work;
and that after severe theological training
he was in 1884 ordained to the ministry of
the Free Church of Scotland,- reads like a
familiar story which with a few changes,
such as dates and identities, might have
been told of a host of his distinguished
countrymen.

Between the covers of his books one
may learn all that is essential and char-
acteristic of Mr. Crockett, the most impor-
tant fact in his literary life being an
honorable loyalty to his own home and
people and faith. It is his good fortune
that that home is in a region of romance
and legend and daring adventure; that his people are of an austere
race, whose shrewd humor underlies a solemn gravity, whose keen-
est joy is intellectual controversy, and whose highest ambition is that
at least one representative of the whitewashed farm-house shall "wag
his head in a pulpit. " And fundamentally, for his art's sake, it is his
good fortune that his faith is their faith, a stern conviction of a stern
creed whose tenderest traditions are fostered by the sight of the
Martyrs' Monument on Auchenreoch Muir, and the kirk-yards of Bal-
weary and Nether Dullarg, where under the trees the heroes of Scot-
land lie as thick as gowans on the lea.
Nor should the influence of the scenery of Galloway be ignored
on Mr. Crockett's work. Its trackless moors and lairy coverts, the
green woodlands of Earlston and the gray Duchrae craigs, the sleep-
ing pools guarded by dark firs standing bravely like men-at-arms
S. R. CROCKETT


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4182
S. R. CROCKETT
―
on every rocky knoll, the river Ken flowing silver clear, and the
great Kells range, ridge behind ridge of hills "whose very names
make a storm of music, ". this is the background of wild deeds and
wilder passions, in whose recounting in The Raiders' and 'The
Men of the Moss-Hags' we have as yet the highest exhibition of his
genius.
Construction is not perhaps his strong point, but in these stirring
scenes and dramatic situations, chronicled by the hero who creates
an atmosphere of fond credulity in his adventures and personality,
the author is kept to his work by the stress of hard times. The
action is swift, for in The Raiders' the hill outlaws come down
like the blast of a terrible trumpet; and in The Men of the Moss-
Hags' Lauderdale and Claverhouse are hunting the Covenanters into
the caves of the earth, so that in the rush of events both he who
tells the tale and he who listens are hurried along. The feature of
these fine romances, especially The Raiders,' is their Homeric spirit
of generous simplicity and bellicose cheerfulness. Mr. Crockett is a
fighter for his loves, his fireside, and his Shorter Catechism. And
though there are pathetic passages, the robustness of the men and
the heroism of the women remove them from our pity to our proud
enthusiasm. Were one to seek the source of Mr. Crockett's inspira-
tion, he would probably find it in the Old Testament.
In this class of novels are included the short, sombre story 'Mad
Sir Uchtred' and 'The Gray Man. ' Nor are these works lacking in
the characteristics of his other manner yet to be spoken of. The
long hours in which we ride with John Faa, Lord of Little Egypt,
and with Willie Gordon of Earlston, are enlivened with shrewd
comment and brilliant narration. Humanity in its least complex
aspect, and robust faith in God, transport us to the other and sturdier
age in which they dwelt.
The other field in which Mr. Crockett has made a reputation, his
earlier field, is his presentment of contemporary Scotch peasant life.
Robert Fraser and Janet Balchrystie, in The Stickit Minister,' are
the descendants of John Faa and May Mischief and of Willie Gor-
don and Maisie Lenox. They dwell in the same sweet holms and
by the levels of the same lochs, bonny and broad, and their faith is
nurtured on the rugged Caledonian doctrine for which these, their
literary forbears, fought and died. As the shepherd knows his sheep
that to us who are not shepherds show so little unlikeness, so Mr.
Crockett knows the lines and lineaments of his characters. The
pathos of their brave lives is kept in shadow with the fine reserve
of one who will not suffer a stranger to intermeddle, but it is felt
as we feel that there are dark depths to the sea whose surface waves
sparkle in the sun.


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S. R. CROCKETT
4183
In this earlier manner A Galloway Herd,' 'The Play-Actress,'
and the delicate fantasy The Lilac Sunbonnet,' are written. If in
'Cleg Kelly,' the story of an Edinburgh waif, there is a touch of the
melodramatic, much may be forgiven an author who with the mastery
of subtle peculiarities of individual types combines the power to
make a novel vibrate with dramatic action.
ENSAMPLES TO THE FLOCK
From The Stickit Minister': the Macmillan Company, Publishers
THE
HE family of the late Tyke M'Lurg consisted of three loons
and a lassie. Tyke had never done anything for his child-
ren except share with a short-lived and shadowy mother
the responsibility of bringing them into the world. The time
that he could spare from his profession of poacher he had sys-
tematically devoted to neglecting them. Tyke had solved suc-
cessfully for many years the problem of how to live by the least
possible expenditure of labor. Kind ladies had taken him in
hand time and again. They had provided clothes for his child-
ren, which Tyke had primarily converted into coin of the realm,
and indirectly into liquid refreshment, at Lucky Morgan's rag
store in Cairn Edward. Work had been found for Tyke, and he
had done many half-days of labor in various gardens. Unfor-
tunately, however, before the hour of noon it was Tyke's hard
case to be taken with a "grooin' in his inside" of such a nature
that he became rapidly incapacitated for further work.
"No, mem, I canna tak' it. It's mony a year since I saw
the evil o't. Ye'll hae to excuse me, but I really couldna. Oh,
thae pains! O sirce, my inside! Weel, gin ye insist, I'll juist
hae to try a toothfu' to obleege ye, like. ”
But Tyke's toothfu's were over for this world, and his short-
comings were lying under four feet of red mold. Half a dozen
kindly folk who pitied his "three loons and a lassie" gathered a
few pounds and gave him a decent burial,-not for his own sake,
but in order that the four little scarecrows might have a decent
start in life. It is the most fatal and indestructible of reproaches
in the south of Scotland to have a father buried by the parish.
The lassie was the eldest of the children. She was thirteen,
and she hardly remembered what it was to have a mother or a
new frock. But ever since she was eleven she had never had a
dirty one. The smith's wife had shown her how to wash, and


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4184
S. R. CROCKETT
she had learned from the teacher how to mend. "Leeb" had
appeared on the books of the school as Elizabeth M'Lurg, and
she had attended as often as she could — that is, as often as her
father could not prevent her; for Tyke, being an independent
man, was down on the compulsory clause of the Education Act,
and had more than once got thirty days for assaulting the School
Board officer.
When he found out that Leeb was attending school at the
village he lay in wait for her on her return, with a stick, and
after administering chastisement on general principles he went
on to specify his daughter's iniquities:-
"Ye upsettin' blastie, wad ye be for gangin' to their schule,
learnin' to look doon on yer ain faither that has been at sic
pains to rear ye? "— (a pause for further correction, to which poor
Leeb vocalized an accompaniment). "Let me see gin ye can
read! Hae, read that! " he said, flinging a tattered lesson-book,
which the teacher had given her, to his daughter. Leeb opened
the book, and punctuating the lesson with her sobs, she read in
the high and level shriek of a locomotive engine, "And so brave
Bobby, hav-ing sa-ved the tr-r-r-em-bling child, re-turn-ed with
the res-cu-ed one in his mouth to the shore. "
"Davert! but ye can read! " said her father, snatching the
book and tearing it up before her eyes. "Noo, listen; I'll hae
nane o' my bairns teached to despise their faither by no Schule
Boards. Look you here, Leeb M'Lurg, gin ever I catch you
within a mile o' the schule, I'll skin ye! "
But for all this tremendous threat, or maybe all the more
because of it, and also because she so much desired to be able
to do a whitè seam, Leeb so arranged it that there were few
days when she did not manage to come along the mile and half
of lochside road which separated her from the little one-roomed,
whitewashed schoolhouse on the face of the brae. She even
brought one of the "loons" with her pretty often; but as Jock,
Rab, and Benny (otherwise known as Rag, Tag, and Bobtail)
got a little older, they more easily accommodated themselves to
the wishes of their parent; and in spite of Leeb's blandishments
they went into "hidie holes" till the School Board officer had
passed by.
M'Lurg's Mill where the children lived was a tumble-down
erection, beautiful for situation, set on the side of the long loch
of Kenick. The house had once been a little farm-house, its


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