the life of john sterling...some portion of his work which the world had already got hold of, and...

THE LIFE OF JOHNSTERLING

Thomas Carlyle

This public-domain text was scanned andproofed by Ron Burkey. The Project Guten-berg edition (“strlg10”) was subsequentlyconverted to LATEX with GutenMark soft-ware and modified (principally to correct for-matting problems). The frontispiece hasalso been restored. Report problems [email protected]. Revision C1 differs fromC0a in that “—-” has everywhere been re-placed by “—”.

Revision: C1Date: 01/29/2008

Contents

PART I. 3CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTORY 3

CHAPTER II.BIRTH AND PARENTAGE 13

CHAPTER III.SCHOOLS: LLANBLETHIAN;PARIS; LONDON 23

CHAPTER IV.UNIVERSITIES: GLASGOW; CAMBRIDGE 49

CHAPTER V.A PROFESSION 61

CHAPTER VI.LITERATURE: THE ATHENÆUM 69

CHAPTER VII.REGENT STREET 73

CHAPTER VIII.COLERIDGE 85

CHAPTER IX.SPANISH EXILES 99

CHAPTER X.TORRIJOS 105

i

ii

CHAPTER XI.MARRIAGE: ILL-HEALTH; WEST-INDIES 117

CHAPTER XII.ISLAND OF ST.VINCENT 123

CHAPTER XIII.A CATASTROPHE 139

CHAPTER XIV.PAUSE 145

CHAPTER XV.BONN; HERSTMONCEUX 151

PART II 161CHAPTER I.

CURATE. 161

CHAPTER II.NOT CURATE 167

CHAPTER III.BAYSWATER 193

CHAPTER V.TO MADEIRA. 211

CHAPTER VI.LITERATURE: THE STERLING CLUB 229

CHAPTER VII.ITALY 239

PART III 279CHAPTER I.

CLIFTON 279

CHAPTER II.TWO WINTERS 303

iii

CHAPTER III.FALMOUTH: POEMS 321

CHAPTER IV.NAPLES: POEMS 347

CHAPTER V.DISASTER ON DISASTER 365

CHAPTER VI.VENTNOR: DEATH 387

CHAPTER VII.CONCLUSION 409

PART I.

1

CHAPTER I.INTRODUCTORY.

Near seven years ago, a short while beforehis death in 1844, John Sterling committedthe care of his literary Character and printedWritings to two friends, Archdeacon Hare andmyself. His estimate of the bequest wasfar from overweening; to few men could thesmall sum-total of his activities in this worldseem more inconsiderable than, in those lastsolemn days, it did to him. He had burntmuch; found much unworthy; looking stead-fastly into the silent continents of Death andEternity, a brave man’s judgments about hisown sorry work in the field of Time are notapt to be too lenient. But, in fine, here wassome portion of his work which the world hadalready got hold of, and which he could notburn. This too, since it was not to be abol-ished and annihilated, but must still for sometime live and act, he wished to be wisely set-tled, as the rest had been. And so it was leftin charge to us, the survivors, to do for it whatwe judged fittest, if indeed doing nothing didnot seem the fittest to us. This message, com-

3

4 THE LIFE OF JOHN STERLING

municated after his decease, was naturally asacred one to Mr. Hare and me.

After some consultation on it, and surveyof the difficulties and delicate considerationsinvolved in it, Archdeacon Hare and I agreedthat the whole task, of selecting what Writ-ings were to be reprinted, and of drawing upa Biography to introduce them, should be leftto him alone; and done without interferenceof mine:—as accordingly it was,1 in a man-ner surely far superior to the common, in ev-ery good quality of editing; and visibly ev-erywhere bearing testimony to the friendli-ness, the piety, perspicacity and other giftsand virtues of that eminent and amiable man.

In one respect, however, if in one only, thearrangement had been unfortunate. Archdea-con Hare, both by natural tendency and byhis position as a Churchman, had been led,in editing a Work not free from ecclesiasticalheresies, and especially in writing a Life veryfull of such, to dwell with preponderating em-phasis on that part of his subject; by no meansextenuating the fact, nor yet passing lightlyover it (which a layman could have done) asneeding no extenuation; but carefully search-ing into it, with the view of excusing and ex-plaining it; dwelling on it, presenting all thedocuments of it, and as it were spreading itover the whole field of his delineation; as if re-ligious heterodoxy had been the grand fact ofSterling’s life, which even to the Archdeacon’s

1John Sterling’s Essays and Tales, with Life byArchdeacon Hare. Parker; London, 1848.

CHAPTER I 5

mind it could by no means seem to be. Hinc il-lae lachrymae. For the Religious Newspapers,and Periodical Heresy-hunters, getting verylively in those years, were prompt to seize thecue; and have prosecuted and perhaps stillprosecute it, in their sad way, to all lengthsand breadths. John Sterling’s character andwritings, which had little business to be spo-ken of in any Church-court, have hereby beencarried thither as if for an exclusive trial; andthe mournfulest set of pleadings, out of whichnothing but a misjudgment can be formed,prevail there ever since. The noble Sterling, aradiant child of the empyrean, clad in brightauroral hues in the memory of all that knewhim,—what is he doing here in inquisitorialsanbenito, with nothing but ghastly spectral-ities prowling round him, and inarticulatelyscreeching and gibbering what they call theirjudgment on him!

“The sin of Hare’s Book,” says one of myCorrespondents in those years, “is easily de-fined, and not very condemnable, but it isnevertheless ruinous to his task as Biogra-pher. He takes up Sterling as a clergymanmerely. Sterling, I find, was a curate for ex-actly eight months; during eight months andno more had he any special relation to theChurch. But he was a man, and had relationto the Universe, for eight-and-thirty years:and it is in this latter character, to which allthe others were but features and transitoryhues, that we wish to know him. His bat-tle with hereditary Church formulas was se-vere; but it was by no means his one bat-


tle with things inherited, nor indeed his chiefbattle; neither, according to my observation ofwhat it was, is it successfully delineated orsummed up in this Book. The truth is, no-body that had known Sterling would recog-nize a feature of him here; you would neverdream that this Book treated of him at all.A pale sickly shadow in torn surplice is pre-sented to us here; weltering bewildered amidheaps of what you call ‘Hebrew Old-clothes;’wrestling, with impotent impetuosity, to freeitself from the baleful imbroglio, as if thathad been its one function in life: who in thismiserable figure would recognize the brilliant,beautiful and cheerful John Sterling, with hisever-flowing wealth of ideas, fancies, imagina-tions; with his frank affections, inexhaustiblehopes, audacities, activities, and general radi-ant vivacity of heart and intelligence, whichmade the presence of him an illumination andinspiration wherever he went? It is too bad.Let a man be honestly forgotten when his lifeends; but let him not be misremembered inthis way. To be hung up as an ecclesiasti-cal scarecrow, as a target for heterodox andorthodox to practice archery upon, is no fatethat can be due to the memory of Sterling.It was not as a ghastly phantasm, chokedin Thirty-nine-article controversies, or mis-erable Semitic, Anti-Semitic street-riots,—inscepticisms, agonized self-seekings, that thisman appeared in life; nor as such, if the worldstill wishes to look at him should you sufferthe world’s memory of him now to be. Once forall, it is unjust; emphatically untrue as an im-

CHAPTER I 7

age of John Sterling: perhaps to few men thatlived along with him could such an interpreta-tion of their existence be more inapplicable.”

Whatever truth there might be in theserather passionate representations, and to my-self there wanted not a painful feeling of theirtruth, it by no means appeared what help orremedy any friend of Sterling’s, and especiallyone so related to the matter as myself, couldattempt in the interim. Perhaps endure in pa-tience till the dust laid itself again, as all dustdoes if you leave it well alone? Much obscu-ration would thus of its own accord fall away;and, in Mr. Hare’s narrative itself, apart fromhis commentary, many features of Sterling’strue character would become decipherable tosuch as sought them. Censure, blame of thisWork of Mr. Hare’s was naturally far frommy thoughts. A work which distinguishes it-self by human piety and candid intelligence;which, in all details, is careful, lucid, exact;and which offers, as we say, to the observantreader that will interpret facts, many traits ofSterling besides his heterodoxy. Censure of it,from me especially, is not the thing due; fromme a far other thing is due!—

On the whole, my private thought was:First, How happy it comparatively is, for aman of any earnestness of life, to have no Bi-ography written of him; but to return silently,with his small, sorely foiled bit of work, tothe Supreme Silences, who alone can judgeof it or him; and not to trouble the review-ers, and greater or lesser public, with at-tempting to judge it! The idea of “fame,” as


they call it, posthumous or other, does not in-spire one with much ecstasy in these points ofview.—Secondly, That Sterling’s performanceand real or seeming importance in this worldwas actually not of a kind to demand an ex-press Biography, even according to the world’susages. His character was not supremely orig-inal; neither was his fate in the world wonder-ful. What he did was inconsiderable enough;and as to what it lay in him to have done,this was but a problem, now beyond possi-bility of settlement. Why had a Biographybeen inflicted on this man; why had not No-biography, and the privilege of all the weary,been his lot?—Thirdly, That such lot, how-ever, could now no longer be my good Ster-ling’s; a tumult having risen around his name,enough to impress some pretended likenessof him (about as like as the Guy-Fauxes are,on Gunpowder-Day) upon the minds of manymen: so that he could not be forgotten, andcould only be misremembered, as matters nowstood.

Whereupon, as practical conclusion to thewhole, arose by degrees this final thought,That, at some calmer season, when the theo-logical dust had well fallen, and both the mat-ter itself, and my feelings on it, were in a suit-abler condition, I ought to give my testimonyabout this friend whom I had known so well,and record clearly what my knowledge of himwas. This has ever since seemed a kind of dutyI had to do in the world before leaving it.

And so, having on my hands some leisureat this time, and being bound to it by evident

CHAPTER I 9

considerations, one of which ought to be es-pecially sacred to me, I decide to fling downon paper some outline of what my recollec-tions and reflections contain in reference tothis most friendly, bright and beautiful hu-man soul; who walked with me for a sea-son in this world, and remains to me verymemorable while I continue in it. Gradu-ally, if facts simple enough in themselves canbe narrated as they came to pass, it will beseen what kind of man this was; to what ex-tent condemnable for imaginary heresy andother crimes, to what extent laudable andlovable for noble manful orthodoxy and othervirtues;—and whether the lesson his life hadto teach us is not much the reverse of what theReligious Newspapers hitherto educe from it.

Certainly it was not as a “sceptic” thatyou could define him, whatever his definitionmight be. Belief, not doubt, attended himat all points of his progress; rather a ten-dency to too hasty and headlong belief. Ofall men he was the least prone to what youcould call scepticism: diseased self-listenings,self-questionings, impotently painful dubita-tions, all this fatal nosology of spiritual mal-adies, so rife in our day, was eminently foreignto him. Quite on the other side lay Sterling’sfaults, such as they were. In fact, you couldobserve, in spite of his sleepless intellectualvivacity, he was not properly a thinker at all;his faculties were of the active, not of the pas-sive or contemplative sort. A brilliant impro-visatore; rapid in thought, in word and in act;everywhere the promptest and least hesitat-


ing of men. I likened him often, in my ban-terings, to sheet-lightning; and reproachfullyprayed that he would concentrate himself intoa bolt, and rive the mountain-barriers for us,instead of merely playing on them and irradi-ating them.

True, he had his “religion” to seek, andpainfully shape together for himself, out ofthe abysses of conflicting disbelief and sham-belief and bedlam delusion, now filling theworld, as all men of reflection have; and inthis respect too,—more especially as his lotin the battle appointed for us all was, if youcan understand it, victory and not defeat,—he is an expressive emblem of his time, andan instruction and possession to his contem-poraries. For, I say, it is by no means as a van-quished doubter that he figures in the mem-ory of those who knew him; but rather as avictorious believer, and under great difficul-ties a victorious doer. An example to us all,not of lamed misery, helpless spiritual bewil-derment and sprawling despair, or any kind ofdrownage in the foul welter of our so-called re-ligious or other controversies and confusions;but of a swift and valiant vanquisher of allthese; a noble asserter of himself, as workerand speaker, in spite of all these. Continu-ally, so far as he went, he was a teacher, byact and word, of hope, clearness, activity, ve-racity, and human courage and nobleness: thepreacher of a good gospel to all men, not of abad to any man. The man, whether in priest’scassock or other costume of men, who is theenemy or hater of John Sterling, may assure

CHAPTER I 11

himself that he does not yet know him,—thatmiserable differences of mere costume and di-alect still divide him, whatsoever is worthy,catholic and perennial in him, from a brothersoul who, more than most in his day, was hisbrother and not his adversary in regard to allthat.

Nor shall the irremediable drawback thatSterling was not current in the Newspapers,that he achieved neither what the world callsgreatness nor what intrinsically is such, alto-gether discourage me. What his natural size,and natural and accidental limits were, willgradually appear, if my sketching be success-ful. And I have remarked that a true delin-eation of the smallest man, and his scene ofpilgrimage through life, is capable of interest-ing the greatest man; that all men are to anunspeakable degree brothers, each man’s lifea strange emblem of every man’s; and thatHuman Portraits, faithfully drawn, are of allpictures the welcomest on human walls. Mo-nitions and moralities enough may lie in thissmall Work, if honestly written and honestlyread;—and, in particular, if any image of JohnSterling and his Pilgrimage through our poorNineteenth Century be one day wanted by theworld, and they can find some shadow of atrue image here, my swift scribbling (whichshall be very swift and immediate) may proveuseful by and by.

CHAPTER II.BIRTH ANDPARENTAGE.

John Sterling was born at Kaimes Castle,a kind of dilapidated baronial residence towhich a small farm was then attached, rentedby his Father, in the Isle of Bute,—on the 20thJuly, 1806. Both his parents were Irish bybirth, Scotch by extraction; and became, as hehimself did, essentially English by long res-idence and habit. Of John himself Scotlandhas little or nothing to claim except the birthand genealogy, for he left it almost before theyears of memory; and in his mature days re-garded it, if with a little more recognition andintelligence, yet without more participation inany of its accents outward or inward, thanothers natives of Middlesex or Surrey, wherethe scene of his chief education lay.

The climate of Bute is rainy, soft of tem-perature; with skies of unusual depth andbrilliancy, while the weather is fair. In thatsoft rainy climate, on that wild-wooded rockycoast, with its gnarled mountains and green

13


silent valleys, with its seething rain-stormsand many-sounding seas, was young Sterlingushered into his first schooling in this world.I remember one little anecdote his Father toldme of those first years: One of the cows hadcalved; young John, still in petticoats, waspermitted to go, holding by his father’s hand,and look at the newly arrived calf; a mys-tery which he surveyed with open intent eyes,and the silent exercise of all the scientific fac-ulties he had;—very strange mystery indeed,this new arrival, and fresh denizen of our Uni-verse: “Wull’t eat a-body?” said John in hisfirst practical Scotch, inquiring into the ten-dencies this mystery might have to fall upona little fellow and consume him as provision:“Will it eat one, Father?”—Poor little open-eyed John: the family long bantered him withthis anecdote; and we, in far other years,laughed heartily on hearing it.—Simple peas-ant laborers, ploughers, house-servants, occa-sional fisher-people too; and the sight of ships,and crops, and Nature’s doings where Art haslittle meddled with her: this was the kind ofschooling our young friend had, first of all; onthis bench of the grand world-school did he sit,for the first four years of his life.

Edward Sterling his Father, a man whosubsequently came to considerable notice inthe world, was originally of Waterford in Mun-ster; son of the Episcopalian Clergyman there;and chief representative of a family of somestanding in those parts. Family founded, itappears, by a Colonel Robert Sterling, calledalso Sir Robert Sterling; a Scottish Gustavus-

CHAPTER II. 15

Adolphus soldier, whom the breaking out ofthe Civil War had recalled from his Germancampaignings, and had before long, thoughnot till after some waverings on his part, at-tached firmly to the Duke of Ormond andto the King’s Party in that quarrel. A lit-tle bit of genealogy, since it lies ready to myhand, gathered long ago out of wider stud-ies, and pleasantly connects things individualand present with the dim universal crowd ofthings past,—may as well be inserted here asthrown away.

This Colonel Robert designates himselfSterling “of Glorat;” I believe, a youngerbranch of the well-known Stirlings of Keir inStirlingshire. It appears he prospered in hissoldiering and other business, in those badOrmond times; being a man of energy, ardorand intelligence,—probably prompt enoughboth with his word and with his stroke. Theresurvives yet, in the Commons Journals,2 dimnotice of his controversies and adventures; es-pecially of one controversy he had got intowith certain victorious Parliamentary officialparties, while his own party lay vanquished,during what was called the Ormond Cessa-tion, or Temporary Peace made by Ormondwith the Parliament in 1646:—in which con-troversy Colonel Robert, after repeated appli-cations, journeyings to London, attendancesupon committees, and such like, finds himself

2Commons Journals, iv. 15 (l0th January, 1644-5);and again v. 307 &c., 498 (18th September, 1647-15thMarch, 1647-8).


worsted, declared to be in the wrong; and sovanishes from the Commons Journals.

What became of him when Cromwell gotto Ireland, and to Munster, I have not heard:his knighthood, dating from the very year ofCromwell’s Invasion (1649), indicates a manexpected to do his best on the occasion:—as in all probability he did; had not TredahStorm proved ruinous, and the neck of thisIrish War been broken at once. Doubtless theColonel Sir Robert followed or attended hisDuke of Ormond into foreign parts, and gaveup his management of Munster, while it wasyet time: for after the Restoration we find himagain, safe, and as was natural, flourishingwith new splendor; gifted, recompensed withlands;—settled, in short, on fair revenues inthose Munster regions. He appears to havehad no children; but to have left his propertyto William, a younger brother who had fol-lowed him into Ireland. From this William de-scends the family which, in the years we treatof, had Edward Sterling, Father of our John,for its representative. And now enough of ge-nealogy.

Of Edward Sterling, Captain Edward Ster-ling as his title was, who in the latter periodof his life became well known in London polit-ical society, whom indeed all England, with acurious mixture of mockery and respect andeven fear, knew well as “the Thunderer ofthe Times Newspaper,” there were much to besaid, did the present task and its limits per-mit. As perhaps it might, on certain terms?What is indispensable let us not omit to say.

CHAPTER II. 17

The history of a man’s childhood is the de-scription of his parents and environment: thisis his inarticulate but highly important his-tory, in those first times, while of articulatehe has yet none.

Edward Sterling had now just entered onhis thirty-fourth year; and was already a manexperienced in fortunes and changes. A na-tive of Waterford in Munster, as already men-tioned; born in the “Deanery House of Wa-terford, 27th February, 1773,” say the regis-ters. For his Father, as we learn, resided inthe Deanery House, though he was not him-self Dean, but only “Curate of the Cathedral”(whatever that may mean); he was withalrector of two other livings, and the Dean’sfriend,—friend indeed of the Dean’s kinsmenthe Beresfords generally; whose grand houseof Curraghmore, near by Waterford, was a fa-miliar haunt of his and his children’s. Thisreverend gentleman, along with his threelivings and high acquaintanceships, had in-herited political connections;—inherited espe-cially a Government Pension, with survivor-ship for still one life beyond his own; his fa-ther having been Clerk of the Irish House ofCommons at the time of the Union, of whichoffice the lost salary was compensated in thisway. The Pension was of two hundred pounds;and only expired with the life of Edward,John’s Father, in 1847. There were, and stillare, daughters of the family; but Edward wasthe only son;—descended, too, from the Scot-tish hero Wallace, as the old gentleman wouldsometimes admonish him; his own wife, Ed-


ward’s mother, being of that name, and boast-ing herself, as most Scotch Wallaces do, tohave that blood in her veins.

This Edward had picked up, at Waterford,and among the young Beresfords of Curragh-more and elsewhere, a thoroughly Irish formof character: fire and fervor, vitality of allkinds, in genial abundance; but in a muchmore loquacious, ostentatious, much louderstyle than is freely patronized on this sideof the Channel. Of Irish accent in speechhe had entirely divested himself, so as not tobe traced by any vestige in that respect; buthis Irish accent of character, in all manner ofother more important respects, was very rec-ognizable. An impetuous man, full of real en-ergy, and immensely conscious of the same;who transacted everything not with the min-imum of fuss and noise, but with the maxi-mum: a very Captain Whirlwind, as one wastempted to call him.

In youth, he had studied at Trinity College,Dublin; visited the Inns of Court here, andtrained himself for the Irish Bar. To the Barhe had been duly called, and was waiting forthe results,—when, in his twenty-fifth year,the Irish Rebellion broke out; whereupon theIrish Barristers decided to raise a corps ofloyal Volunteers, and a complete change in-troduced itself into Edward Sterling’s way oflife. For, naturally, he had joined the ar-ray of Volunteers;—fought, I have heard, “inthree actions with the rebels” (Vinegar Hill,for one); and doubtless fought well: but inthe mess-rooms, among the young military

CHAPTER II. 19

and civil officials, with all of whom he was afavorite, he had acquired a taste for soldierlife, and perhaps high hopes of succeeding init: at all events, having a commission in theLancashire Militia offered him, he acceptedthat; altogether quitted the Bar, and becameCaptain Sterling thenceforth. From the Mili-tia, it appears, he had volunteered with hisCompany into the Line; and, under some dis-appointments, and official delays of expectedpromotion, was continuing to serve as Cap-tain there, “Captain of the Eighth Battal-ion of Reserve,” say the Military Almanacs of1803,—in which year the quarters happenedto be Derry, where new events awaited him.At a ball in Derry he met with Miss HesterConingham, the queen of the scene, and ofthe fair world in Derry at that time. The ac-quaintance, in spite of some Opposition, grewwith vigor, and rapidly ripened: and “at FehanChurch, Diocese of Derry,” where the Bride’sfather had a country-house, “on Thursday 5thApril, 1804, Hester Coningham, only daugh-ter of John Coningham, Esquire, Merchant inDerry, and of Elizabeth Campbell his wife,”was wedded to Captain Sterling; she happi-est to him happiest,—as by Nature’s kind lawit is arranged.

Mrs. Sterling, even in her later days, hadstill traces of the old beauty: then and alwaysshe was a woman of delicate, pious, affection-ate character; exemplary as a wife, a motherand a friend. A refined female nature; some-thing tremulous in it, timid, and with a cer-tain rural freshness still unweakened by long


converse with the world. The tall slim fig-ure, always of a kind of quaker neatness; theinnocent anxious face, anxious bright hazeleyes; the timid, yet gracefully cordial ways,the natural intelligence, instinctive sense andworth, were very characteristic. Her voicetoo; with its something of soft querulousness,easily adapting itself to a light thin-flowingstyle of mirth on occasion, was characteris-tic: she had retained her Ulster intonations,and was withal somewhat copious in speech.A fine tremulously sensitive nature, strongchiefly on the side of the affections, and thegraceful insights and activities that dependon these:—truly a beautiful, much-suffering,much-loving house-mother. From her chiefly,as one could discern, John Sterling had de-rived the delicate aroma of his nature, itspiety, clearness, sincerity; as from his Fa-ther, the ready practical gifts, the impetuosi-ties and the audacities, were also (though instrange new form) visibly inherited. A manwas lucky to have such a Mother; to have suchParents as both his were.

Meanwhile the new Wife appears to havehad, for the present, no marriage-portion; nei-ther was Edward Sterling rich,—according tohis own ideas and aims, far from it. Of coursehe soon found that the fluctuating barrack-life, especially with no outlooks of speedy pro-motion, was little suited to his new circum-stances: but how change it? His father wasnow dead; from whom he had inherited theSpeaker Pension of two hundred pounds; butof available probably little or nothing more.

CHAPTER II. 21

The rents of the small family estate, I sup-pose, and other property, had gone to portionsisters. Two hundred pounds, and the pay ofa marching captain: within the limits of thatrevenue all plans of his had to restrict them-selves at present.

He continued for some time longer in theArmy; his wife undivided from him by thehardships, of that way of life. Their firstson Anthony (Captain Anthony Sterling, theonly child who now survives) was born tothem in this position, while lying at Dundalk,in January, 1805. Two months later, someeleven months after their marriage, the reg-iment was broken; and Captain Sterling, de-clining to serve elsewhere on the terms of-fered, and willingly accepting such decisionof his doubts, was reduced to half-pay. Thiswas the end of his soldiering: some five or sixyears in all; from which he had derived for life,among other things, a decided military bear-ing, whereof he was rather proud; an incapac-ity for practicing law;—and considerable un-certainty as to what his next course of life wasnow to be.

For the present, his views lay towardsfarming: to establish himself, if not as countrygentleman, which was an unattainable ambi-tion, then at least as some kind of gentleman-farmer which had a flattering resemblance tothat. Kaimes Castle with a reasonable extentof land, which, in his inquiries after farms,had turned up, was his first place of settle-ment in this new capacity; and here, for somefew months, he had established himself when


John his second child was born. This was Cap-tain Sterling’s first attempt towards a fixedcourse of life; not a very wise one, I haveunderstood:—yet on the whole, who, then andthere, could have pointed out to him a wiser?

A fixed course of life and activity he couldnever attain, or not till very late; and thisdoubtless was among the important points ofhis destiny, and acted both on his own charac-ter and that of those who had to attend himon his wayfarings.

CHAPTER III.SCHOOLS:LLANBLETHIAN;PARIS; LONDON.

Edward Sterling never shone in farming; in-deed I believe he never took heartily to it, ortried it except in fits. His Bute farm was,at best, a kind of apology for some far dif-ferent ideal of a country establishment whichcould not be realized; practically a temporarylanding-place from which he could make sal-lies and excursions in search of some moregenerous field of enterprise. Stormy briefefforts at energetic husbandry, at agricul-tural improvement and rapid field-labor, al-ternated with sudden flights to Dublin, toLondon, whithersoever any flush of brightoutlook which he could denominate practical,or any gleam of hope which his impatient en-nui could represent as such, allured him. Thislatter was often enough the case. In wet hay-times and harvest-times, the dripping outdoorworld, and lounging indoor one, in the ab-

23


sence of the master, offered far from a satis-factory appearance! Here was, in fact, a manmuch imprisoned; haunted, I doubt not, bydemons enough; though ever brisk and bravewithal,—iracund, but cheerfully vigorous, op-ulent in wise or unwise hope. A fiery energeticsoul consciously and unconsciously stormingfor deliverance into better arenas; and this ina restless, rapid, impetuous, rather than in astrong, silent and deliberate way.

In rainy Bute and the dilapidated KaimesCastle, it was evident, there lay no Goshenfor such a man. The lease, originally but forsome three years and a half, drawing now toa close, he resolved to quit Bute; had heard, Iknow not where, of an eligible cottage withoutfarm attached, in the pleasant little village ofLlanblethian close by Cowbridge in Glamor-ganshire; of this he took a lease, and thitherwith his family he moved in search of newfortunes. Glamorganshire was at least a bet-ter climate than Bute; no groups of idle or ofbusy reapers could here stand waiting on theguidance of a master, for there was no farmhere;—and among its other and probably itschief though secret advantages, Llanblethianwas much more convenient both for Dublinand London than Kaimes Castle had been.

The removal thither took place in the au-tumn of 1809. Chief part of the journey (per-haps from Greenock to Swansea or Bristol)was by sea: John, just turned of three years,could in after-times remember nothing of thisvoyage; Anthony, some eighteen months older,has still a vivid recollection of the gray splash-

CHAPTER III 25

ing tumult, and dim sorrow, uncertainty, re-gret and distress he underwent: to him a“dissolving-view” which not only left its effecton the plate (as all views and dissolving-viewsdoubtless do on that kind of “plate”), but re-mained consciously present there. John, inthe close of his twenty-first year, professes notto remember anything whatever of Bute; hiswhole existence, in that earliest scene of it,had faded away from him: Bute also, withits shaggy mountains, moaning woods, andsummer and winter seas, had been wholly adissolving-view for him, and had left no con-scious impression, but only, like this voyage,an effect.

Llanblethian hangs pleasantly, with itswhite cottages, and orchard and other trees,on the western slope of a green hill lookingfar and wide over green meadows and little orbigger hills, in the pleasant plain of Glamor-gan; a short mile to the south of Cowbridge, towhich smart little town it is properly a kind ofsuburb. Plain of Glamorgan, some ten mileswide and thirty or forty long, which they callthe Vale of Glamorgan;—though properly it isnot quite a Vale, there being only one rangeof mountains to it, if even one: certainly thecentral Mountains of Wales do gradually rise,in a miscellaneous manner, on the north sideof it; but on the south are no mountains, noteven land, only the Bristol Channel, and faroff, the Hills of Devonshire, for boundary,—the “English Hills,” as the natives call them,visible from every eminence in those parts.On such wide terms is it called Vale of Glamor-


gan. But called by whatever name, it is a mostpleasant fruitful region: kind to the native, in-teresting to the visitor. A waving grassy re-gion; cut with innumerable ragged lanes; dot-ted with sleepy unswept human hamlets, oldruinous castles with their ivy and their daws,gray sleepy churches with their ditto ditto: forivy everywhere abounds; and generally a rankfragrant vegetation clothes all things; hang-ing, in rude many-colored festoons and fringedodoriferous tapestries, on your right and onyour left, in every lane. A country kinder tothe sluggard husbandman than any I haveever seen. For it lies all on limestone, needsno draining; the soil, everywhere of handsomedepth and finest quality, will grow good cropsfor you with the most imperfect tilling. At asafe distance of a day’s riding lie the tartareancopper-forges of Swansea, the tartarean iron-forges of Merthyr; their sooty battle far away,and not, at such safe distance, a defilement tothe face of the earth and sky, but rather anencouragement to the earth at least; encour-aging the husbandman to plough better, if heonly would.

The peasantry seem indolent and stag-nant, but peaceable and well-provided; muchgiven to Methodism when they have anycharacter;—for the rest, an innocent good-humored people, who all drink home-brewedbeer, and have brown loaves of the most excel-lent home-baked bread. The native peasantvillage is not generally beautiful, though itmight be, were it swept and trimmed; it givesone rather the idea of sluttish stagnancy,—

CHAPTER III 27

an interesting peep into the Welsh Paradiseof Sleepy Hollow. Stones, old kettles, navesof wheels, all kinds of broken litter, with livepigs and etceteras, lie about the street: for, asa rule, no rubbish is removed, but waits pa-tiently the action of mere natural chemistryand accident; if even a house is burnt or falls,you will find it there after half a century, onlycloaked by the ever-ready ivy. Sluggish manseems never to have struck a pick into it; hisnew hut is built close by on ground not encum-bered, and the old stones are still left lying.

This is the ordinary Welsh village; butthere are exceptions, where people of morecultivated tastes have been led to settle, andLlanblethian is one of the more signal ofthese. A decidedly cheerful group of humanhomes, the greater part of them indeed be-longing to persons of refined habits; trim-ness, shady shelter, whitewash, neither con-veniency nor decoration has been neglectedhere. Its effect from the distance on the east-ward is very pretty: you see it like a littlesleeping cataract of white houses, with treesovershadowing and fringing it; and there thecataract hangs, and does not rush away fromyou.

John Sterling spent his next five years inthis locality. He did not again see it for aquarter of a century; but retained, all his life,a lively remembrance of it; and, just in theend of his twenty-first year, among his earli-est printed pieces, we find an elaborate anddiffuse description of it and its relations tohim,—part of which piece, in spite of its oth-


erwise insignificant quality, may find placehere:—

“The fields on which I firstlooked, and the sands which weremarked by my earliest footsteps,are completely lost to my memory;and of those ancient walls amongwhich I began to breathe, I retainno recollection more clear than theoutlines of a cloud in a moonlesssky. But of L——, the village whereI afterwards lived, I persuade my-self that every line and hue is moredeeply and accurately fixed thanthose of any spot I have since be-held, even though borne in uponthe heart by the association of thestrongest feelings.

“My home was built upon theslope of a hill, with a little orchardstretching down before it, and agarden rising behind. At a con-siderable distance beyond and be-neath the orchard, a rivulet flowedthrough meadows and turned amill; while, above the garden, thesummit of the hill was crowned bya few gray rocks, from which ayew-tree grew, solitary and bare.Extending at each side of the or-chard, toward the brook, two scat-tered patches of cottages lay nes-tled among their gardens; and be-yond this streamlet and the lit-

CHAPTER III 29

tle mill and bridge, another slighteminence arose, divided into greenfields, tufted and bordered withcopsewood, and crested by a ru-ined castle, contemporary, as wassaid, with the Conquest. I knownot whether these things in truthmade up a prospect of much beauty.Since I was eight years old, I havenever seen them; but I well knowthat no landscape I have since be-held, no picture of Claude or Sal-vator, gave me half the impressionof living, heartfelt, perfect beautywhich fills my mind when I thinkof that green valley, that sparklingrivulet, that broken fortress of darkantiquity, and that hill with itsaged yew and breezy summit, fromwhich I have so often looked overthe broad stretch of verdure be-neath it, and the country-town, andchurch-tower, silent and white be-yond.

“In that little town there was,and I believe is, a school wherethe elements of human knowl-edge were communicated to me,for some hours of every day, dur-ing a considerable time. The pathto it lay across the rivulet andpast the mill; from which pointwe could either journey throughthe fields below the old castle, andthe wood which surrounded it, or


along a road at the other side ofthe ruin, close to the gateway ofwhich it passed. The former trackled through two or three beauti-ful fields, the sylvan domain of thekeep on one hand, and the brookon the other; while an oak or two,like giant warders advanced fromthe wood, broke the sunshine ofthe green with a soft and grace-ful shadow. How often, on myway to school, have I stopped be-neath the tree to collect the fallenacorns; how often run down to thestream to pluck a branch of thehawthorn which hung over the wa-ter! The road which passed the cas-tle joined, beyond these fields, thepath which traversed them. It took,I well remember, a certain solemnand mysterious interest from theruin. The shadow of the archway,the discolorizations of time on allthe walls, the dimness of the lit-tle thicket which encircled it, thetraditions of its immeasurable age,made St. Quentin’s Castle a won-derful and awful fabric in the imag-ination of a child; and long afterI last saw its mouldering rough-ness, I never read of fortresses, orheights, or spectres, or banditti,without connecting them with theone ruin of my childhood.

“It was close to this spot that

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one of the few adventures oc-curred which marked, in my mind,my boyish days with importance.When loitering beyond the castle,on the way to school, with a brothersomewhat older than myself, whowas uniformly my champion andprotector, we espied a round sloehigh up in the hedge-row. We de-termined to obtain it; and I donot remember whether both of us,or only my brother, climbed thetree. However, when the prizewas all but reached,—and no al-chemist ever looked more eagerlyfor the moment of projection whichwas to give him immortality andomnipotence,—a gruff voice star-tled us with an oath, and an or-der to desist; and I well recollectlooking back, for long after, withterror to the vision of an old andill-tempered farmer, armed with abill-hook, and vowing our decapi-tation; nor did I subsequently re-member without triumph the elo-quence whereby alone, in my firmbelief, my brother and myself hadbeen rescued from instant death.

“At the entrance of the littletown stood an old gateway, with apointed arch and decaying battle-ments. It gave admittance to thestreet which contained the church,and which terminated in another


street, the principal one in thetown of C——. In this was situatedthe school to which I daily wended.I cannot now recall to mind the faceof its good conductor, nor of any ofhis scholars; but I have before mea strong general image of the in-terior of his establishment. I re-member the reverence with which Iwas wont to carry to his seat a well-thumbed duodecimo, the History ofGreece by Oliver Goldsmith. I re-member the mental agonies I en-dured in attempting to master theart and mystery of penmanship; acraft in which, alas, I remained tooshort a time under Mr. R—— tobecome as great a proficient as hemade his other scholars, and whichmy awkwardness has preventedme from attaining in any consid-erable perfection under my vari-ous subsequent pedagogues. Butthat which has left behind it a bril-liant trait of light was the exhibi-tion of what are called ‘Christmaspieces;’ things unknown in aristo-cratic seminaries, but constantlyused at the comparatively humbleacademy which supplied the bestknowledge of reading, writing, andarithmetic to be attained in that re-mote neighborhood.

“The long desks covered fromend to end with those painted

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masterpieces, the Life of Robin-son Crusoe, the Hunting of Chevy-Chase, the History of Jack theGiant-Killer, and all the little ea-ger faces and trembling hands bentover these, and filling them up withsome choice quotation, sacred orprofane;—no, the galleries of art,the theatrical exhibitions, the re-views and processions,—which areonly not childish because they arepracticed and admired by men in-stead of children,—all the pompsand vanities of great cities, haveshown me no revelation of glorysuch as did that crowded school-room the week before the Christ-mas holidays. But these were thesplendors of life. The truest andthe strongest feelings do not con-nect themselves with any scenes ofgorgeous and gaudy magnificence;they are bound up in the remem-brances of home.

“The narrow orchard, with itsgrove of old apple-trees against oneof which I used to lean, and whileI brandished a beanstalk, roar outwith Fitzjames,—

‘Come one, come all; this rock shall flyFrom its firm base as soon as I!’—

while I was ready to squall at thesight of a cur, and run valorouslyaway from a casually approaching


cow; the field close beside it, whereI rolled about in summer amongthe hay; the brook in which, despiteof maid and mother, I waded bythe hour; the garden where I sowedflower-seeds, and then turned upthe ground again and planted pota-toes, and then rooted out the pota-toes to insert acorns and apple-pips, and at last, as may be sup-posed, reaped neither roses, norpotatoes, nor oak-trees, nor apples;the grass-plots on which I playedamong those with whom I nevercan play nor work again: all theseare places and employments,—and,alas, playmates,—such as, if itwere worth while to weep at all, itwould be worth weeping that I en-joy no longer.

“I remember the house where Ifirst grew familiar with peacocks;and the mill-stream into which Ionce fell; and the religious awewherewith I heard, in the warmtwilight, the psalm-singing aroundthe house of the Methodist miller;and the door-post against which Idischarged my brazen artillery; Iremember the window by which Isat while my mother taught meFrench; and the patch of gardenwhich I dug for— But her nameis best left blank; it was indeedwrit in water. These recollections

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are to me like the wealth of a de-parted friend, a mournful treasure.But the public has heard enough ofthem; to it they are worthless: theyare a coin which only circulates atits true value between the differentperiods of an individual’s existence,and good for nothing but to keep upa commerce between boyhood andmanhood. I have for years lookedforward to the possibility of visit-ing L——; but I am told that it isa changed village; and not only hasman been at work, but the old yewon the hill has fallen, and scarcelya low stump remains of the treewhich I delighted in childhood tothink might have furnished bowsfor the Norman archers.”3

In Cowbridge is some kind of free school, orgrammar-school, of a certain distinction; andthis to Captain Sterling was probably a mo-tive for settling in the neighborhood of it withhis children. Of this however, as it turned out,there was no use made: the Sterling family,during its continuance in those parts, did notneed more than a primary school. The worthymaster who presided over these Christmasgalas, and had the honor to teach John Ster-ling his reading and writing, was an elderlyMr. Reece of Cowbridge, who still (in 1851)

3Literary Chronicle, New Series; London, Saturday,21 June, 1828, Art. II.


survives, or lately did; and is still remem-bered by his old pupils as a worthy, ingeniousand kindly man, “who wore drab breeches andwhite stockings.” Beyond the Reece sphere oftuition John Sterling did not go in this local-ity.

In fact the Sterling household was stillfluctuating; the problem of a task for EdwardSterling’s powers, and of anchorage for his af-fairs in any sense, was restlessly struggling tosolve itself, but was still a good way from be-ing solved. Anthony, in revisiting these sceneswith John in 1839, mentions going to the spot“where we used to stand with our Father, look-ing out for the arrival of the London mail:” alittle chink through which is disclosed to usa big restless section of a human life. TheHill of Welsh Llanblethian, then, is like themythic Caucasus in its degree (as indeed allhills and habitations where men sojourn are);and here too, on a small scale, is a PrometheusChained! Edward Sterling, I can well under-stand, was a man to tug at the chains thatheld him idle in those the prime of his years;and to ask restlessly, yet not in anger and re-morse, so much as in hope, locomotive specu-lation, and ever-new adventure and attempt,Is there no task nearer my own natural size,then? So he looks out from the Hill-side “forthe arrival of the London mail;” thence hur-ries into Cowbridge to the Post-office; and hasa wide web, of threads and gossamers, uponhis loom, and many shuttles flying, in thisworld.

By the Marquis of Bute’s appointment he

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had, very shortly after his arrival in thatregion, become Adjutant of the Glamorgan-shire Militia, “Local Militia,” I suppose; andwas, in this way, turning his military capabil-ities to some use. The office involved prettyfrequent absences, in Cardiff and elsewhere.This doubtless was a welcome outlet, thougha small one. He had also begun to try writing,especially on public subjects; a much more co-pious outlet,—which indeed, gradually widen-ing itself, became the final solution for him.Of the year 1811 we have a Pamphlet of his,entitled Military Reform; this is the secondedition, “dedicated to the Duke of Kent;” thefirst appears to have come out the year be-fore, and had thus attained a certain notice,which of course was encouraging. He now fur-thermore opened a correspondence with theTimes Newspaper; wrote to it, in 1812, a se-ries of Letters under the signature Vetus: vol-untary Letters I suppose, without payment orpre-engagement, one successful Letter callingout another; till Vetus and his doctrines cameto be a distinguishable entity, and the busi-ness amounted to something. Out of my ownearliest Newspaper reading, I can rememberthe name Vetus, as a kind of editorial hack-log on which able-editors were wont to chopstraw now and then. Nay the Letters were col-lected and reprinted; both this first series, of1812, and then a second of next year: two verythin, very dim-colored cheap octavos; straycopies of which still exist, and may one day be-come distillable into a drop of History (shouldsuch be wanted of our poor “Scavenger Age”


in time coming), though the reading of themhas long ceased in this generation.4 The firstseries, we perceive, had even gone to a sec-ond edition. The tone, wherever one timidlyglances into this extinct cockpit, is trenchantand emphatic: the name of Vetus, strenuouslyfighting there, had become considerable in thetalking political world; and, no doubt, wasespecially of mark, as that of a writer whomight otherwise be important, with the pro-prietors of the Times. The connection contin-ued: widened and deepened itself,—in a slowtentative manner; passing naturally from vol-untary into remunerated: and indeed provingmore and more to be the true ultimate arena,and battle-field and seed-field, for the exuber-ant impetuosities and faculties of this man.

What the Letters of Vetus treated ofI do not know; doubtless they ran uponNapoleon, Catholic Emancipation, true meth-ods of national defence, of effective foreignAnti-gallicism, and of domestic ditto; whichformed the staple of editorial speculation atthat time. I have heard in general that Cap-tain Sterling, then and afterwards, advocated“the Marquis of Wellesley’s policy;” but thatalso, what it was, I have forgotten, and theworld has been willing to forget. Enough, theheads of the Times establishment, perhaps al-ready the Marquis of Wellesley and other im-portant persons, had their eye on this writer;

4“The Letters of Vetus from March 10th to May 10th,1812” (second edition, London, 1812): Ditto, “Part iii.,with a Preface and Notes” (ibid. 1814).

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and it began to be surmised by him that hereat last was the career he had been seeking.

Accordingly, in 1814, when victoriousPeace unexpectedly arrived; and the gates ofthe Continent after five-and-twenty years offierce closure were suddenly thrown open; andthe hearts of all English and European menawoke staggering as if from a nightmare sud-denly removed, and ran hither and thither,—Edward Sterling also determined on a new ad-venture, that of crossing to Paris, and tryingwhat might lie in store for him. For curios-ity, in its idler sense, there was evidently pab-ulum enough. But he had hopes moreoverof learning much that might perhaps availhim afterwards;—hopes withal, I have under-stood, of getting to be Foreign Correspondentof the Times Newspaper, and so adding tohis income in the mean while. He left Llan-blethian in May; dates from Dieppe the 27thof that month. He lived in occasional con-tact with Parisian notabilities (all of themexcept Madame de Stael forgotten now), allsummer, diligently surveying his ground;—returned for his family, who were still inWales but ready to move, in the beginning ofAugust; took them immediately across withhim; a house in the neighborhood of Paris, inthe pleasant village of Passy at once town andcountry, being now ready; and so, under for-eign skies, again set up his household there.

Here was a strange new “school” for ourfriend John now in his eighth year! Out ofwhich the little Anthony and he drank doubt-less at all pores, vigorously as they had done


in no school before. A change total and im-mediate. Somniferous green Llanblethian hassuddenly been blotted out; presto, here arewakeful Passy and the noises of paved Parisinstead. Innocent ingenious Mr. Reece in drabbreeches and white stockings, he with hismild Christmas galas and peaceable rules ofDilworth and Butterworth, has given place tosuch a saturnalia of panoramic, symbolic andother teachers and monitors, addressing allthe five senses at once. Who John’s express tu-tors were, at Passy, I never heard; nor indeed,especially in his case, was it much worth in-quiring. To him and to all of us, the expresslyappointed schoolmasters and schoolings weget are as nothing, compared with the unap-pointed incidental and continual ones, whoseschool-hours are all the days and nights of ourexistence, and whose lessons, noticed or un-noticed, stream in upon us with every breathwe draw. Anthony says they attended aFrench school, though only for about threemonths; and he well remembers the last sceneof it, “the boys shouting Vive l’Empereur whenNapoleon came back.”

Of John Sterling’s express schooling, per-haps the most important feature, and by nomeans a favorable one to him, was the exces-sive fluctuation that prevailed in it. Changeof scene, change of teacher, both express andimplied, was incessant with him; and gavehis young life a nomadic character,—whichsurely, of all the adventitious tendencies thatcould have been impressed upon him, sovolatile, swift and airy a being as him, was the

CHAPTER III 41

one he needed least. His gentle pious-heartedMother, ever watching over him in all out-ward changes, and assiduously keeping hu-man pieties and good affections alive in him,was probably the best counteracting elementin his lot. And on the whole, have we not allto run our chance in that respect; and take,the most victoriously we can, such schoolingas pleases to be attainable in our year andplace? Not very victoriously, the most of us!A wise well-calculated breeding of a young ge-nial soul in this world, or alas of any youngsoul in it, lies fatally over the horizon in theseepochs!—This French scene of things, a grandschool of its sort, and also a perpetual banquetfor the young soul, naturally captivated JohnSterling; he said afterwards, “New things andexperiences here were poured upon his mindand sense, not in streams, but in a Niagaracataract.” This too, however, was but a scene;lasted only some six or seven months; andin the spring of the next year terminated asabruptly as any of the rest could do.

For in the spring of the next year, Napoleonabruptly emerged from Elba; and set all thepopulations of the world in motion, in astrange manner;—set the Sterling householdafloat, in particular; the big European tiderushing into all smallest creeks, at Passy andelsewhere. In brief, on the 20th of March,1815, the family had to shift, almost to fly,towards home and the sea-coast; and for aday or two were under apprehension of beingdetained and not reaching home. Mrs. Ster-ling, with her children and effects, all in one


big carriage with two horses, made the jour-ney to Dieppe; in perfect safety, though incontinual tremor: here they were joined byCaptain Sterling, who had stayed behind atParis to see the actual advent of Napoleon,and to report what the aspect of affairs was,“Downcast looks of citizens, with fierce satur-nalian acclaim of soldiery:” after which theyproceeded together to London without fartherapprehension;—there to witness, in due time,the tar-barrels of Waterloo, and other phe-nomena that followed.

Captain Sterling never quitted London asa residence any more; and indeed was neverabsent from it, except on autumnal or otherexcursions of a few weeks, till the end of hislife. Nevertheless his course there was asyet by no means clear; nor had his relationswith the heads of the Times, or with otherhigh heads, assumed a form which could becalled definite, but were hanging as a cloudymaze of possibilities, firm substance not yetdivided from shadow. It continued so for someyears. The Sterling household shifted twiceor thrice to new streets or localities,—RussellSquare or Queen Square, Blackfriars Road,and longest at the Grove, Blackheath,— be-fore the vapors of Wellesley promotions andsuch like slowly sank as useless precipitate,and the firm rock, which was definite employ-ment, ending in lucrative co-proprietorshipand more and more important connectionwith the Times Newspaper, slowly discloseditself.

These changes of place naturally brought

CHAPTER III 43

changes in John Sterling’s schoolmasters: norwere domestic tragedies wanting, still moreimportant to him. New brothers and sistershad been born; two little brothers more, threelittle sisters he had in all; some of whomcame to their eleventh year beside him, somepassed away in their second or fourth: butfrom his ninth to his sixteenth year they alldied; and in 1821 only Anthony and John wereleft.5 How many tears, and passionate pangs,and soft infinite regrets; such as are appointedto all mortals! In one year, I find, indeed inone half-year, he lost three little playmates,two of them within one month. His own agewas not yet quite twelve. For one of thesethree, for little Edward, his next younger, whodied now at the age of nine, Mr. Hare recordsthat John copied out, in large school-hand, aHistory of Valentine and Orson, to beguile thepoor child’s sickness, which ended in deathsoon, leaving a sad cloud on John.

5Here, in a Note, is the tragic little Register, withwhat indications for us may lie in it:—

1. Robert Sterling died, 4th June, 1815, at QueenSquare, in his fourth year (John being now nine).

2. Elizabeth died, 12th March, 1818, at BlackfriarsRoad, in her second year.

3. Edward, 30th March, 1818 (same place, samemonth and year), in his ninth.

4. Hester, 21st July, 1818 (three months later), atBlackheath, in her eleventh.

5. Catherine Hester Elizabeth, 16th January, 1821,in Seymour Street.


Of his grammar and other schools, which,as I said, are hardly worth enumerating incomparison, the most important seems tohave been a Dr. Burney’s at Greenwich; alarge day-schoo] and boarding-school, whereAnthony and John gave their attendance for ayear or two (1818-19) from Blackheath. “Johnfrequently did themes for the boys,” says An-thony, “and for myself when I was aground.”His progress in all school learning was cer-tain to be rapid, if he even moderately took toit. A lean, tallish, loose-made boy of twelve;strange alacrity, rapidity and joyous eager-ness looking out of his eyes, and of all his waysand movements. I have a Picture of him atthis stage; a little portrait, which carries itsverification with it. In manhood too, the chiefexpression of his eyes and physiognomy waswhat I might call alacrity, cheerful rapidity.You could see, here looked forth a soul whichwas winged; which dwelt in hope and action,not in hesitation or fear. Anthony says, hewas “an affectionate and gallant kind of boy,adventurous and generous, daring to a singu-lar degree.” Apt enough withal to be “petu-lant now and then;” on the whole, “very self-willed;” doubtless not a little discursive in histhoughts and ways, and “difficult to manage.”

I rather think Anthony, as the steadier,more substantial boy, was the Mother’s fa-vorite; and that John, though the quickerand cleverer, perhaps cost her many anxi-eties. Among the Papers given me, is an oldbrowned half-sheet in stiff school hand, un-punctuated, occasionally ill spelt,—John Ster-

CHAPTER III 45

ling’s earliest remaining Letter,—which givesrecord of a crowning escapade of his, the firstand the last of its kind; and so may be insertedhere. A very headlong adventure on the boy’spart; so hasty and so futile, at once audaciousand impracticable; emblematic of much thatbefell in the history of the man!

To Mrs. Sterling,Blackheath.

“21ST SEPTEMBER, 1818.“DEAR MAMMA,—

I am now at Dover, where Iarrived this morning about seveno’clock. When you thought I wasgoing to church, I went down theKent Road, and walked on till Icame to Gravesend, which is up-wards of twenty miles from Black-heath; at about seven o’clock in theevening, without having eat any-thing the whole time. I applied toan inkeeper (sic) there, pretendingthat I had served a haberdasherin London, who left of (sic) busi-ness, and turned me away. He be-lieved me; and got me a passagein the coach here, for I said that Ihad an Uncle here, and that my Fa-ther and Mother were dead;—whenI wandered about the quays forsome time, till I met Captain Keys,whom I asked to give me a passageto Boulogne; which he promised todo, and took me home to break-


fast with him: but Mrs. Keys ques-tioned me a good deal; when I notbeing able to make my story good,I was obliged to confess to her thatI had run away from you. CaptainKeys says that he will keep me athis house till you answer my letter.

“J. STERLING.”

Anthony remembers the business well; butcan assign no origin to it,—some penalty, in-dignity or cross put suddenly on John, whichthe hasty John considered unbearable. HisMother’s inconsolable weeping, and then hisown astonishment at such a culprit’s beingforgiven, are all that remain with Anthony.The steady historical style of the young run-away of twelve, narrating merely, not in theleast apologizing, is also noticeable.

This was some six months after his littlebrother Edward’s death; three months afterthat of Hester, his little sister next in thefamily series to him: troubled days for thepoor Mother in that small household on Black-heath, as there are for mothers in so manyhouseholds in this world! I have heard thatMrs. Sterling passed much of her time alone,at this period. Her husband’s pursuits, withhis Wellesleys and the like, often carrying himinto Town and detaining him late there, shewould sit among her sleeping children, suchof them as death had still spared, perhapsthriftily plying her needle, full of mournful af-fectionate night-thoughts,—apprehensive too,in her tremulous heart, that the head of the

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house might have fallen among robbers in hisway homeward.

CHAPTER IV.UNIVERSITIES:GLASGOW;CAMBRIDGE.

At a later stage, John had some instructionfrom a Dr. Waite at Blackheath; and lastly, thefamily having now removed into Town, to Sey-mour Street in the fashionable region there,he “read for a while with Dr. Trollope, Masterof Christ’s Hospital;” which ended his schoolhistory.

In this his ever-changing course, fromReece at Cowbridge to Trollope in Christ’s,which was passed so nomadically, under feru-las of various color, the boy had, on the whole,snatched successfully a fair share of what wasgoing. Competent skill in construing Latin, Ithink also an elementary knowledge of Greek;add ciphering to a small extent, Euclid per-haps in a rather imaginary condition; a swiftbut not very legible or handsome penman-ship, and the copious prompt habit of em-ploying it in all manner of unconscious En-

49


glish prose composition, or even occasionallyin verse itself: this, or something like this, hehad gained from his grammar-schools: this isthe most of what they offer to the poor youngsoul in general, in these indigent times. Theexpress schoolmaster is not equal to much atpresent,—while the unexpress, for good or forevil, is so busy with a poor little fellow! Otherdepartments of schooling had been infinitelymore productive, for our young friend, thanthe gerund-grinding one. A voracious reader Ibelieve he all along was,—had “read the wholeEdinburgh Review” in these boyish years, andout of the circulating libraries one knows notwhat cartloads; wading like Ulysses towardshis palace “through infinite dung.” A vora-cious observer and participator in all thingshe likewise all along was; and had had hissights, and reflections, and sorrows and ad-ventures, from Kaimes Castle onward,—andhad gone at least to Dover on his own score.Puer bonae spei, as the school-albums say; aboy of whom much may be hoped? Surely, inmany senses, yes. A frank veracity is in him,truth and courage, as the basis of all; andof wild gifts and graces there is abundance.I figure him a brilliant, swift, voluble, affec-tionate and pleasant creature; out of whom, ifit were not that symptoms of delicate healthalready show themselves, great things mightbe made. Promotions at least, especially inthis country and epoch of parliaments and elo-quent palavers, are surely very possible forsuch a one!

Being now turned of sixteen, and the fam-

CHAPTER IV. 51

ily economics getting yearly more propitiousand flourishing, he, as his brother had al-ready been, was sent to Glasgow University,in which city their Mother had connections.His brother and he were now all that re-mained of the young family; much attachedto one another in their College years as af-terwards. Glasgow, however, was not properlytheir College scene: here, except that they hadsome tuition from Mr. Jacobson, then a seniorfellow-student, now (1851) the learned editorof St. Basil, and Regius Professor of Divinityin Oxford, who continued ever afterwards avalued intimate of John’s, I find nothing spe-cial recorded of them. The Glasgow curricu-lum, for John especially, lasted but one year;who, after some farther tutorage from Mr. Ja-cobson or Dr. Trollope, was appointed for amore ambitious sphere of education.

In the beginning of his nineteenth year,“in the autumn of 1824,” he went to Trin-ity College, Cambridge. His brother Anthony,who had already been there a year, had justquitted this Establishment, and entered ona military life under good omens; I think, atDublin under the Lord Lieutenant’s patron-age, to whose service he was, in some capac-ity, attached. The two brothers, ever in com-pany hitherto, parted roads at this point; and,except on holiday visits and by frequent cor-respondence, did not again live together; butthey continued in a true fraternal attachmentwhile life lasted, and I believe never had anyeven temporary estrangement, or on eitherside a cause for such. The family, as I said,


was now, for the last three years, reduced tothese two; the rest of the young ones, withtheir laughter and their sorrows, all gone.The parents otherwise were prosperous inoutward circumstances; the Father’s positionmore and more developing itself into affluentsecurity, an agreeable circle of acquaintance,and a certain real influence, though of a pecu-liar sort, according to his gifts for work in thisworld.

Sterling’s Tutor at Trinity College wasJulius Hare, now the distinguished Archdea-con of Lewes:—who soon conceived a greatesteem for him, and continued ever after-wards, in looser or closer connection, his lovedand loving friend. As the Biographical andEditorial work above alluded to abundantlyevinces. Mr. Hare celebrates the wonder-ful and beautiful gifts, the sparkling ingenu-ity, ready logic, eloquent utterance, and noblegenerosities and pieties of his pupil;—recordsin particular how once, on a sudden alarm offire in some neighboring College edifice whilehis lecture was proceeding, all hands rushedout to help; how the undergraduates instantlyformed themselves in lines from the fire to theriver, and in swift continuance kept passingbuckets as was needful, till the enemy wasvisibly fast yielding,—when Mr. Hare, goingalong the line, was astonished to find Sterling,at the river-end of it, standing up to his waistin water, deftly dealing with the buckets asthey came and went. You in the river, Ster-ling; you with your coughs, and dangeroustendencies of health!—“Somebody must be in

CHAPTER IV. 53

it,” answered Sterling; “why not I, as well asanother?” Sterling’s friends may remembermany traits of that kind. The swiftest in allthings, he was apt to be found at the head ofthe column, whithersoever the march mightbe; if towards any brunt of danger, there washe surest to be at the head; and of himself andhis peculiar risks or impediments he was neg-ligent at all times, even to an excessive andplainly unreasonable degree.

Mr. Hare justly refuses him the charac-ter of an exact scholar, or technical profi-cient at any time in either of the ancient lit-eratures. But he freely read in Greek andLatin, as in various modern languages; andin all fields, in the classical as well, his livelyfaculty of recognition and assimilation hadgiven him large booty in proportion to his la-bor. One cannot under any circumstances con-ceive of Sterling as a steady dictionary philo-logue, historian, or archaeologist; nor did hehere, nor could he well, attempt that course.At the same time, Greek and the Greeksbeing here before him, he could not fail togather somewhat from it, to take some hueand shape from it. Accordingly there is, to asingular extent, especially in his early writ-ings, a certain tinge of Grecism and Heathenclassicality traceable in him;—Classicality, in-deed, which does not satisfy one’s sense asreal or truly living, but which glitters witha certain genial, if perhaps almost meretri-cious half-japannish splendor,—greatly dis-tinguishable from mere gerund-grinding, anddeath in longs and shorts. If Classicality


mean the practical conception, or attempt toconceive, what human life was in the epochcalled classical,—perhaps few or none of Ster-ling’s contemporaries in that Cambridge es-tablishment carried away more of availableClassicality than even he.

But here, as in his former schools, hisstudies and inquiries, diligently prosecutedI believe, were of the most discursive wide-flowing character; not steadily advancingalong beaten roads towards College honors,but pulsing out with impetuous irregularitynow on this tract, now on that, towards what-ever spiritual Delphi might promise to un-fold the mystery of this world, and announceto him what was, in our new day, the au-thentic message of the gods. His specula-tions, readings, inferences, glances and con-clusions were doubtless sufficiently encyclope-dic; his grand tutors the multifarious set ofBooks he devoured. And perhaps,—as is thesingular case in most schools and educationalestablishments of this unexampled epoch,—itwas not the express set of arrangements inthis or any extant University that could es-sentially forward him, but only the impliedand silent ones; less in the prescribed “courseof study,” which seems to tend no-whither,than—if you will consider it—in the gener-ous (not ungenerous) rebellion against saidprescribed course, and the voluntary spiritof endeavor and adventure excited thereby,does help lie for a brave youth in such places.Curious to consider. The fagging, the il-licit boating, and the things forbidden by

CHAPTER IV. 55

the schoolmaster,—these, I often notice in myEton acquaintances, are the things that havedone them good; these, and not their inconsid-erable or considerable knowledge of the Greekaccidence almost at all! What is Greek ac-cidence, compared to Spartan discipline, if itcan be had? That latter is a real and grandattainment. Certainly, if rebellion is unfortu-nately needful, and you can rebel in a gener-ous manner, several things may be acquiredin that operation,—rigorous mutual fidelity,reticence, steadfastness, mild stoicism, andother virtues far transcending your Greek ac-cidence. Nor can the unwisest “prescribedcourse of study” be considered quite useless,if it have incited you to try nobly on all sidesfor a course of your own. A singular condi-tion of Schools and High-schools, which havecome down, in their strange old clothes and“courses of study,” from the monkish ages intothis highly unmonkish one;—tragical condi-tion, at which the intelligent observer makesdeep pause!

One benefit, not to be dissevered from themost obsolete University still frequented byyoung ingenuous living souls, is that of man-ifold collision and communication with thesaid young souls; which, to every one of thesecoevals, is undoubtedly the most importantbranch of breeding for him. In this point, asthe learned Huber has insisted,6 the two En-glish Universities,—their studies otherwise

6History of the English Universities. (Translatedfrom the German.)


being granted to be nearly useless, and evenill done of their kind,—far excel all other Uni-versities: so valuable are the rules of humanbehavior which from of old have tacitly estab-lished themselves there; so manful, with allits sad drawbacks, is the style of English char-acter, “frank, simple, rugged and yet courte-ous,” which has tacitly but imperatively gotitself sanctioned and prescribed there. Such,in full sight of Continental and other Univer-sities, is Huber’s opinion. Alas, the questionof University Reform goes deep at present;deep as the world;—and the real Universityof these new epochs is yet a great way fromus! Another judge in whom I have confidencedeclares further, That of these two Universi-ties, Cambridge is decidedly the more catholic(not Roman catholic, but Human catholic) inits tendencies and habitudes; and that in fact,of all the miserable Schools and High-schoolsin the England of these years, he, if reduced tochoose from them, would choose Cambridge asa place of culture for the young idea. So that,in these bad circumstances, Sterling had per-haps rather made a hit than otherwise?

Sterling at Cambridge had undoubtedly awide and rather genial circle of comrades; andcould not fail to be regarded and beloved bymany of them. Their life seems to have beenan ardently speculating and talking one; by nomeans excessively restrained within limits;and, in the more adventurous heads like Ster-ling’s, decidedly tending towards the latitudi-narian in most things. They had among thema Debating Society called The Union; where

CHAPTER IV. 57

on stated evenings was much logic, and otherspiritual fencing and ingenuous collision,—probably of a really superior quality in thatkind; for not a few of the then disputants havesince proved themselves men of parts, and at-tained distinction in the intellectual walks oflife. Frederic Maurice, Richard Trench, JohnKemble, Spedding, Venables, Charles Buller,Richard Milnes and others:—I have heardthat in speaking and arguing, Sterling wasthe acknowledged chief in this Union Club;and that “none even came near him, exceptthe late Charles Buller,” whose distinction inthis and higher respects was also already no-table.

The questions agitated seem occasionallyto have touched on the political department,and even on the ecclesiastical. I have heardone trait of Sterling’s eloquence, which sur-vived on the wings of grinning rumor, and hadevidently borne upon Church Conservatismin some form: “Have they not,”—or perhapsit was, Has she (the Church) not,—“a blackdragoon in every parish, on good pay and ra-tions, horse-meat and man’s-meat, to patroland battle for these things?” The “black dra-goon,” which naturally at the moment ruffledthe general young imagination into stormylaughter, points towards important conclu-sions in respect to Sterling at this time. Iconclude he had, with his usual alacrity andimpetuous daring, frankly adopted the anti-superstitious side of things; and stood scorn-fully prepared to repel all aggressions or pre-tensions from the opposite quarter. In short,


that he was already, what afterwards there isno doubt about his being, at all points a Rad-ical, as the name or nickname then went. Inother words, a young ardent soul looking withhope and joy into a world which was infinitelybeautiful to him, though overhung with fal-sities and foul cobwebs as world never wasbefore; overloaded, overclouded, to the zenithand the nadir of it, by incredible uncreditedtraditions, solemnly sordid hypocrisies, andbeggarly deliriums old and new; which lat-ter class of objects it was clearly the part ofevery noble heart to expend all its lightningsand energies in burning up without delay, andsweeping into their native Chaos out of sucha Cosmos as this. Which process, it did notthen seem to him could be very difficult; or at-tended with much other than heroic joy, andenthusiasm of victory or of battle, to the gal-lant operator, in his part of it. This was,with modifications such as might be, the hu-mor and creed of College Radicalism five-and-twenty years ago. Rather horrible at thattime; seen to be not so horrible now, at leastto have grown very universal, and to need noconcealment now. The natural humor and at-titude, we may well regret to say,—and honor-able not dishonorable, for a brave young soulsuch as Sterling’s, in those years in those lo-calities!

I do not find that Sterling had, at thatstage, adopted the then prevalent Utilitariantheory of human things. But neither, appar-ently, had he rejected it; still less did he yetat all denounce it with the damnatory vehe-

CHAPTER IV. 59

mence we were used to in him at a later pe-riod. Probably he, so much occupied with thenegative side of things, had not yet thoughtseriously of any positive basis for his world;or asked himself, too earnestly, What, then,is the noble rule of living for a man? Inthis world so eclipsed and scandalously over-hung with fable and hypocrisy, what is theeternal fact, on which a man may front theDestinies and the Immensities? The day forsuch questions, sure enough to come in hiscase, was still but coming. Sufficient for thisday be the work thereof; that of blasting intomerited annihilation the innumerable and im-measurable recognized deliriums, and extir-pating or coercing to the due pitch those le-gions of “black dragoons,” of all varieties andpurposes, who patrol, with horse-meat andman’s-meat, this afflicted earth, so hugely tothe detriment of it.

Sterling, it appears, after above a year ofTrinity College, followed his friend Mauriceinto Trinity Hall, with the intention of takinga degree in Law; which intention, like manyothers with him, came to nothing; and in 1827he left Trinity Hall and Cambridge altogether;here ending, after two years, his brief Univer-sity life.

CHAPTER V. APROFESSION.

Here, then, is a young soul, brought to theyears of legal majority, furnished from histraining-schools with such and such shin-ing capabilities, and ushered on the scene ofthings to inquire practically, What he will dothere? Piety is in the man, noble humanvalor, bright intelligence, ardent proud ve-racity; light and fire, in none of their manysenses, wanting for him, but abundantly be-stowed: a kingly kind of man;—whose “king-dom,” however, in this bewildered place andepoch of the world will probably be difficult tofind and conquer!

For, alas, the world, as we said, alreadystands convicted to this young soul of beingan untrue, unblessed world; its high digni-taries many of them phantasms and players’-masks; its worthships and worships unwor-shipful: from Dan to Beersheba, a mad world,my masters. And surely we may say, and nonewill now gainsay, this his idea of the world atthat epoch was nearer to the fact than at mostother epochs it has been. Truly, in all times

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and places, the young ardent soul that enterson this world with heroic purpose, with vera-cious insight, and the yet unclouded “inspira-tion of the Almighty” which has given us ourintelligence, will find this world a very madone: why else is he, with his little outfit ofheroisms and inspirations, come hither intoit, except to make it diligently a little saner?Of him there would have been no need, had itbeen quite sane. This is true; this will, in allcenturies and countries, be true.

And yet perhaps of no time or country, forthe last two thousand years, was it so trueas here in this waste-weltering epoch of Ster-ling’s and ours. A world all rocking and plung-ing, like that old Roman one when the mea-sure of its iniquities was full; the abysses, andsubterranean and supernal deluges, plainlybroken loose; in the wild dim-lighted chaos allstars of Heaven gone out. No star of Heavenvisible, hardly now to any man; the pestifer-ous fogs, and foul exhalations grown contin-ual, have, except on the highest mountain-tops, blotted out all stars: will-o’-wisps, of var-ious course and color, take the place of stars.Over the wild-surging chaos, in the leaden air,are only sudden glares of revolutionary light-ning; then mere darkness, with philanthropis-tic phosphorescences, empty meteoric lights;here and there an ecclesiastical luminary stillhovering, hanging on to its old quaking fix-tures, pretending still to be a Moon or Sun,—though visibly it is but a Chinese lanternmade of paper mainly, with candle-end foullydying in the heart of it. Surely as mad a world

CHAPTER V 63

as you could wish!If you want to make sudden fortunes in

it, and achieve the temporary hallelujah offlunkies for yourself, renouncing the peren-nial esteem of wise men; if you can believethat the chief end of man is to collect abouthim a bigger heap of gold than ever before, ina shorter time than ever before, you will findit a most handy and every way furthersome,blessed and felicitous world. But for any otherhuman aim, I think you will find it not fur-thersome. If you in any way ask practically,How a noble life is to be led in it? you willbe luckier than Sterling or I if you get anycredible answer, or find any made road what-ever. Alas, it is even so. Your heart’s question,if it be of that sort, most things and personswill answer with a “Nonsense! Noble life is inDrury Lane, and wears yellow boots. You fool,compose yourself to your pudding!”—Surely,in these times, if ever in any, the young heroicsoul entering on life, so opulent, full of sunnyhope, of noble valor and divine intention, istragical as well as beautiful to us.

Of the three learned Professions none of-fered any likelihood for Sterling. From theChurch his notions of the “black dragoon,” hadthere been no other obstacle, were sufficient toexclude him. Law he had just renounced, hisown Radical philosophies disheartening him,in face of the ponderous impediments, con-tinual up-hill struggles and formidable toilsinherent in such a pursuit: with Medicinehe had never been in any contiguity, that heshould dream of it as a course for him. Clearly


enough the professions were unsuitable; theyto him, he to them. Professions, built solargely on speciosity instead of performance;clogged, in this bad epoch, and defaced un-der such suspicions of fatal imposture, werehateful not lovable to the young radical soul,scornful of gross profit, and intent on ide-als and human noblenesses. Again, the pro-fessions, were they never so perfect and ve-racious, will require slow steady pulling, towhich this individual young radical, with hisswift, far-darting brilliancies, and nomadicdesultory ways, is of all men the most averseand unfitted. No profession could, in any case,have well gained the early love of Sterling.And perhaps withal the most tragic element ofhis life is even this, That there now was noneto which he could fitly, by those wiser thanhimself, have been bound and constrained,that he might learn to love it. So swift, light-limbed and fiery an Arab courser ought, forall manner of reasons, to have been trainedto saddle and harness. Roaming at full gal-lop over the heaths,—especially when yourheath was London, and English and Euro-pean life, in the nineteenth century,—he suf-fered much, and did comparatively little. Ihave known few creatures whom it was morewasteful to send forth with the bridle thrownup, and to set to steeple-hunting instead ofrunning on highways! But it is the lot of manysuch, in this dislocated time,—Heaven mendit! In a better time there will be other “profes-sions” than those three extremely cramp, con-fused and indeed almost obsolete ones: profes-

CHAPTER V 65

sions, if possible, that are true, and do not re-quire you at the threshold to constitute your-self an impostor. Human association,—whichwill mean discipline, vigorous wise subordi-nation and co-ordination,—is so unspeakablyimportant. Professions, “regimented humanpursuits,” how many of honorable and manfulmight be possible for men; and which shouldnot, in their results to society, need to stum-ble along, in such an unwieldy futile man-ner, with legs swollen into such enormous ele-phantiasis and no go at all in them! Men willone day think of the force they squander inevery generation, and the fatal damage theyencounter, by this neglect.

The career likeliest for Sterling, in his andthe world’s circumstances, would have beenwhat is called public life: some secretarial,diplomatic or other official training, to issueif possible in Parliament as the true field forhim. And here, beyond question, had thegross material conditions been allowed, hisspiritual capabilities were first-rate. In anyarena where eloquence and argument wasthe point, this man was calculated to haveborne the bell from all competitors. In lu-cid ingenious talk and logic, in all manner ofbrilliant utterance and tongue-fence, I havehardly known his fellow. So ready lay his storeof knowledge round him, so perfect was hisready utterance of the same,—in coruscatingwit, in jocund drollery, in compact articulatedclearness or high poignant emphasis, as thecase required,—he was a match for any manin argument before a crowd of men. One of


the most supple-wristed, dexterous, gracefuland successful fencers in that kind. A man, asMr. Hare has said, “able to argue with four orfive at once;” could do the parrying all round,in a succession swift as light, and plant hishits wherever a chance offered. In Parlia-ment, such a soul put into a body of the duetoughness might have carried it far. If ours isto be called, as I hear some call it, the TalkingEra, Sterling of all men had the talent to excelin it.

Probably it was with some vague view to-wards chances in this direction that Sterling’sfirst engagement was entered upon; a briefconnection as Secretary to some Club or Asso-ciation into which certain public men, of thereforming sort, Mr. Crawford (the OrientalDiplomatist and Writer), Mr. Kirkman Finlay(then Member for Glasgow), and other politi-cal notabilities had now formed themselves,—with what specific objects I do not know, norwith what result if any. I have heard vaguely,it was “to open the trade to India.” Of coursethey intended to stir up the public mind intoco-operation, whatever their goal or objectwas: Mr. Crawford, an intimate in the Ster-ling household, recognized the fine literarygift of John; and might think it a lucky hitthat he had caught such a Secretary for threehundred pounds a year. That was the salaryagreed upon; and for some months actuallyworked for and paid; Sterling becoming forthe time an intimate and almost an inmatein Mr. Crawford’s circle, doubtless not with-out results to himself beyond the secretarial

CHAPTER V 67

work and pounds sterling: so much is certain.But neither the Secretaryship nor the Asso-ciation itself had any continuance; nor canI now learn accurately more of it than whatis here stated;—in which vague state it mustvanish from Sterling’s history again, as it ingreat measure did from his life. From him-self in after-years I never heard mention ofit; nor were his pursuits connected afterwardswith those of Mr. Crawford, though the mu-tual good-will continued unbroken.

In fact, however splendid and indubitableSterling’s qualifications for a parliamentarylife, there was that in him withal which flatlyput a negative on any such project. He hadnot the slow steady-pulling diligence whichis indispensable in that, as in all impor-tant pursuits and strenuous human competi-tions whatsoever. In every sense, his momen-tum depended on velocity of stroke, ratherthan on weight of metal; “beautifulest sheet-lightning,” as I often said, “not to be con-densed into thunder-bolts.” Add to this,—what indeed is perhaps but the same phe-nomenon in another form,—his bodily framewas thin, excitable, already manifesting pul-monary symptoms; a body which the tear andwear of Parliament would infallibly in fewmonths have wrecked and ended. By thispath there was clearly no mounting. The far-darting, restlessly coruscating soul, equips be-yond all others to shine in the Talking Era,and lead National Palavers with their spoliaopima captive, is imprisoned in a fragile hec-tic body which quite forbids the adventure.


“Es ist dafur gesorgt,” says Goethe, “Provi-sion has been made that the trees do not growinto the sky;”—means are always there to stopthem short of the sky.

CHAPTER VI.LITERATURE:THE ATHENÆUM.

Of all forms of public life, in the TalkingEra, it was clear that only one completelysuited Sterling,—the anarchic, nomadic, en-tirely aerial and unconditional one, called Lit-erature. To this all his tendencies, and finegifts positive and negative, were evidentlypointing; and here, after such brief attempt-ing or thoughts to attempt at other posts, healready in this same year arrives. As many do,and ever more must do, in these our years andtimes. This is the chaotic haven of so manyfrustrate activities; where all manner of goodgifts go up in far-seen smoke or conflagration;and whole fleets, that might have been war-fleets to conquer kingdoms, are consumed (tootruly, often), amid “fame” enough, and the ad-miring shouts of the vulgar, which is alwaysfond to see fire going on. The true Canaanand Mount Zion of a Talking Era must everbe Literature: the extraneous, miscellaneous,self-elected, indescribable Parliamentum, or

69


Talking Apparatus, which talks by books andprinted papers.

A literary Newspaper called TheAthenæum, the same which still subsists,had been founded in those years by Mr.Buckingham; James Silk Buckingham, whohas since continued notable under variousfigures. Mr. Buckingham’s Athenæum hadnot as yet got into a flourishing condition;and he was willing to sell the copyright of itfor a consideration. Perhaps Sterling and oldCambridge friends of his had been alreadywriting for it. At all events, Sterling, whohad already privately begun writing a Novel,and was clearly looking towards Literature,perceived that his gifted Cambridge friend,Frederic Maurice, was now also at largein a somewhat similar situation; and thathere was an opening for both of them, andfor other gifted friends. The copyright waspurchased for I know not what sum, norwith whose money, but guess it may havebeen Sterling’s, and no great sum;—and so,under free auspices, themselves their owncaptains, Maurice and he spread sail for thisnew voyage of adventure into all the world.It was about the end of 1828 that readers ofperiodical literature, and quidnuncs in thosedepartments, began to report the appearance,in a Paper called the Athenæum, of writingsshowing a superior brilliancy, and height ofaim; one or perhaps two slight specimensof which came into my own hands, in myremote corner, about that time, and were dulyrecognized by me, while the authors were still

CHAPTER VI 71

far off and hidden behind deep veils.Some of Sterling’s best Papers from the

Athenæum have been published by Archdea-con Hare: first-fruits by a young man oftwenty-two; crude, imperfect, yet singularlybeautiful and attractive; which will still tes-tify what high literary promise lay in him.The ruddiest glow of young enthusiasm, ofnoble incipient spiritual manhood reigns overthem; once more a divine Universe unveilingitself in gloom and splendor, in auroral fire-light and many-tinted shadow, full of hope andfull of awe, to a young melodious pious heartjust arrived upon it. Often enough the delin-eation has a certain flowing completeness, notto be expected from so young an artist; hereand there is a decided felicity of insight; every-where the point of view adopted is a high andnoble one, and the result worked out a resultto be sympathized with, and accepted so faras it will go. Good reading still, those Papers,for the less-furnished mind,—thrice-excellentreading compared with what is usually going.For the rest, a grand melancholy is the pre-vailing impression they leave;—partly as if,while the surface was so blooming and opu-lent, the heart of them was still vacant, sadand cold. Here is a beautiful mirage, in thedry wilderness; but you cannot quench yourthirst there! The writer’s heart is indeed stilltoo vacant, except of beautiful shadows andreflexes and resonances; and is far from joy-ful, though it wears commonly a smile.

In some of the Greek delineations (TheLycian Painter, for example), we have al-


ready noticed a strange opulence of splen-dor, characterizable as half-legitimate, half-meretricious,—a splendor hovering betweenthe raffaelesque and the japannish. Whatother things Sterling wrote there, I neverknew; nor would he in any mood, in thoselater days, have told you, had you asked. Thisperiod of his life he always rather accounted,as the Arabs do the idolatrous times beforeMahomet’s advent, the “period of darkness.”

CHAPTER VII.REGENT STREET.

0n the commercial side the Athenæum stilllacked success; nor was like to find it underthe highly uncommercial management it hadnow got into. This, by and by, began to be a se-rious consideration. For money is the sinewsof Periodical Literature almost as much as ofwar itself; without money, and under a con-stant drain of loss, Periodical Literature is oneof the things that cannot be carried on. Inno long time Sterling began to be practicallysensible of this truth, and that an unpleas-ant resolution in accordance with it would benecessary. By him also, after a while, theAthenæum was transferred to other hands,better fitted in that respect; and under theseit did take vigorous root, and still bears fruitaccording to its kind.

For the present, it brought him into thethick of London Literature, especially ofyoung London Literature and speculation; inwhich turbid exciting element he swam andrevelled, nothing loath, for certain monthslonger,—a period short of two years in all.

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He had lodgings in Regent Street: his Fa-ther’s house, now a flourishing and stirringestablishment, in South Place, Knightsbridge,where, under the warmth of increasing rev-enue and success, miscellaneous cheerful so-cialities and abundant speculations, chieflypolitical (and not John’s kind, but that of theTimes Newspaper and the Clubs), were rife,he could visit daily, and yet be master of hisown studies and pursuits. Maurice, Trench,John Mill, Charles Buller: these, and somefew others, among a wide circle of a transi-tory phantasmal character, whom he speedilyforgot and cared not to remember, were muchabout him; with these he in all ways employedand disported himself: a first favorite withthem all.

No pleasanter companion, I suppose, hadany of them. So frank, open, guileless, fear-less, a brother to all worthy souls whatso-ever. Come when you might, here is he open-hearted, rich in cheerful fancies, in gravelogic, in all kinds of bright activity. If per-ceptibly or imperceptibly there is a touch ofostentation in him, blame it not; it is so in-nocent, so good and childlike. He is stillfonder of jingling publicly, and spreading onthe table, your big purse of opulences thanhis own. Abrupt too he is, cares little forbig-wigs and garnitures; perhaps laughs morethan the real fun he has would order; but ofarrogance there is no vestige, of insincerityor of ill-nature none. These must have beenpleasant evenings in Regent Street, when thecircle chanced to be well adjusted there. At

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other times, Philistines would enter, what wecall bores, dullards, Children of Darkness;and then,—except in a hunt of dullards, anda bore-baiting, which might be permissible,—the evening was dark. Sterling, of course, hadinnumerable cares withal; and was toiling likea slave; his very recreations almost a kind ofwork. An enormous activity was in the man;—sufficient, in a body that could have held itwithout breaking, to have gone far, even un-der the unstable guidance it was like to have!

Thus, too, an extensive, very variegatedcircle of connections was forming round him.Besides his Athenæum work, and evenings inRegent Street and elsewhere, he makes vis-its to country-houses, the Bullers’ and others;converses with established gentlemen, withhonorable women not a few; is gay and wel-come with the young of his own age; knowsalso religious, witty, and other distinguishedladies, and is admiringly known by them. Onthe whole, he is already locomotive; visitshither and thither in a very rapid flying man-ner. Thus I find he had made one flying visitto the Cumberland Lake-region in 1828, andgot sight of Wordsworth; and in the same yearanother flying one to Paris, and seen with noundue enthusiasm the Saint-Simonian Por-tent just beginning to preach for itself, andFrance in general simmering under a scumof impieties, levities, Saint-Simonisms, andfrothy fantasticalities of all kinds, towards theboiling-over which soon made the Three Daysof July famous. But by far the most impor-tant foreign home he visited was that of Co-


leridge on the Hill of Highgate,—if it were notrather a foreign shrine and Dodona-Oracle, ashe then reckoned,—to which (onwards from1828, as would appear) he was already anassiduous pilgrim. Concerning whom, andSterling’s all-important connection with him,there will be much to say anon.

Here, from this period, is a Letter of Ster-ling’s, which the glimpses it affords of brightscenes and figures now sunk, so many ofthem, sorrowfully to the realm of shadows,will render interesting to some of my readers.To me on the mere Letter, not on its contentsalone, there is accidentally a kind of fatefulstamp. A few months after Charles Buller’sdeath, while his loss was mourned by manyhearts, and to his poor Mother all light exceptwhat hung upon his memory had gone outin the world, a certain delicate and friendlyhand, hoping to give the poor bereaved lady agood moment, sought out this Letter of Ster-ling’s, one morning, and called, with intentto read it to her:—alas, the poor lady hadherself fallen suddenly into the languors ofdeath, help of another grander sort now closeat hand; and to her this Letter was neverread!

On “Fanny Kemble,” it appears, there isan Essay by Sterling in the Athenæum of thisyear: “16th December, 1829.” Very laudatory,I conclude. He much admired her genius, naywas thought at one time to be vaguely on theedge of still more chivalrous feelings. As theLetter itself may perhaps indicate.

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To Anthony Sterling, Esq.,24th Regiment, Dublin.

“KNIGHTSBRIDGE,“10TH NOV., 1829.

“MY DEAR ANTHONY,—Here in the Capital of England

and of Europe, there is less, so faras I hear, of movement and varietythan in your provincial Dublin, oramong the Wicklow Mountains. Wehave the old prospect of bricks andsmoke, the old crowd of busy stupidfaces, the old occupations, the oldsleepy amusements; and the lat-est news that reaches us daily hasan air of tiresome, doting antiquity.The world has nothing for it butto exclaim with Faust, “Give memy youth again.” And as for me,my month of Cornish amusementis over; and I must tie myself to myold employments. I have not muchto tell you about these; but perhapsyou may like to hear of my expedi-tion to the West.

“I wrote to Polvellan (Mr.Buller’s) to announce the day onwhich I intended to be there, soshortly before setting out, thatthere was no time to receivean answer; and when I reachedDevonport, which is fifteen orsixteen miles from my place of


destination, I found a letter fromMrs. Buller, saying that she wascoming in two days to a Ball atPlymouth, and if I chose to stayin the mean while and look aboutme, she would take me back withher. She added an introductionto a relation of her husband’s,a certain Captain Buller of theRifles, who was with the Depotthere,—a pleasant person, who Ibelieve had been acquainted withCharlotte,7 or at least had seenher. Under his superintendence—...

“On leaving Devonport withMrs. Buller, I went some of the wayby water, up the harbor and river;and the prospects are certainlyvery beautiful; to say nothing ofthe large ships, which I admire al-most as much as you, though with-out knowing so much about them.There is a great deal of fine sceneryall along the road to Looe; and theHouse itself, a very unpretendingGothic cottage, stands beautifullyamong trees, hills and water, withthe sea at the distance of a quarterof a mile.

“And here, among pleasant,good-natured, well-informed and

7Mrs. Anthony Sterling, very lately Miss CharlotteBaird.

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clever people, I spent an idlemonth. I dined at one or twoCorporation dinners; spent a fewdays at the old Mansion of Mr.Buller of Morval, the patron ofWest Looe; and during the rest ofthe time, read, wrote, played chess,lounged, and ate red mullet (hewho has not done this has not be-gun to live); talked of cookery to thephilosophers, and of metaphysicsto Mrs. Buller; and altogether culti-vated indolence, and developed thefaculty of nonsense with consider-able pleasure and unexampled suc-cess. Charles Buller you know:he has just come to town, but Ihave not yet seen him. Arthur,his younger brother, I take to beone of the handsomest men in Eng-land; and he too has considerabletalent. Mr. Buller the father israther a clever man of sense, andparticularly good-natured and gen-tlemanly; and his wife, who wasa renowned beauty and queen ofCalcutta, has still many strikingand delicate traces of what she was.Her conversation is more brilliantand pleasant than that of any oneI know; and, at all events, I ambound to admire her for the kind-ness with which she patronizes me.I hope that, some day or other, youmay be acquainted with her.


“I believe I have seen no onein London about whom you wouldcare to hear,—unless the fameof Fanny Kemble has passed theChannel, and astonished the IrishBarbarians in the midst of theirbloody-minded politics. YoungKemble, whom you have seen, isin Germany: but I have the happi-ness of being also acquainted withhis sister, the divine Fanny; and Ihave seen her twice on the stage,and three or four times in private,since my return from Cornwall. Ihad seen some beautiful verses ofhers, long before she was an ac-tress; and her conversation is fullof spirit and talent. She never wastaught to act at all; and thoughthere are many faults in her per-formance of Juliet, there is morepower than in any female playingI ever saw, except Pasta’s Medea.She is not handsome, rather short,and by no means delicately formed;but her face is marked, and theeyes are brilliant, dark, and full ofcharacter. She has far more abil-ity than she ever can display on thestage; but I have no doubt that, bypractice and self-culture, she willbe a far finer actress at least thanany one since Mrs. Siddons. I wasat Charles Kemble’s a few eveningsago, when a drawing of Miss Kem-

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ble, by Sir Thomas Lawrence, wasbrought in; and I have no doubtthat you will shortly see, even inDublin, an engraving of her fromit, very unlike the caricatures thathave hitherto appeared. I hatethe stage; and but for her, shouldvery likely never have gone to atheatre again. Even as it is, theannoyance is much more than thepleasure; but I suppose I must goto see her in every character inwhich she acts. If Charlotte caresfor plays, let me know, and I willwrite in more detail about this newMelpomene. I fear there are veryfew subjects on which I can sayanything that will in the least in-terest her.

“Ever affectionately yours,“J. STERLING.”

Sterling and his circle, as their ardent spec-ulation and activity fermented along, were inall things clear for progress, liberalism; theirpolitics, and view of the Universe, decisivelyof the Radical sort. As indeed that of Eng-land then was, more than ever; the crust of oldhide-bound Toryism being now openly crack-ing towards some incurable disruption, whichaccordingly ensued as the Reform Bill beforelong. The Reform Bill already hung in thewind. Old hide-bound Toryism, long recog-nized by all the world, and now at last obligedto recognize its very self, for an overgrown Im-


posture, supporting itself not by human rea-son, but by flunky blustering and brazen ly-ing, superadded to mere brute force, could beno creed for young Sterling and his friends.In all things he and they were liberals, and,as was natural at this stage, democrats; con-templating root-and-branch innovation by aidof the hustings and ballot-box. Hustings andballot-box had speedily to vanish out of Ster-ling’s thoughts: but the character of root-and-branch innovator, essentially of “Radical Re-former,” was indelible with him, and under allforms could be traced as his character throughlife.

For the present, his and those young peo-ple’s aim was: By democracy, or what meansthere are, be all impostures put down. Speedyend to Superstition,—a gentle one if you cancontrive it, but an end. What can it profitany mortal to adopt locutions and imagina-tions which do not correspond to fact; whichno sane mortal can deliberately adopt in hissoul as true; which the most orthodox of mor-tals can only, and this after infinite essentiallyimpious effort to put out the eyes of his mind,persuade himself to “believe that he believes”?Away with it; in the name of God, come out ofit, all true men!

Piety of heart, a certain reality of religiousfaith, was always Sterling’s, the gift of na-ture to him which he would not and could notthrow away; but I find at this time his reli-gion is as good as altogether Ethnic, Greek-ish, what Goethe calls the Heathen form ofreligion. The Church, with her articles, is

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without relation to him. And along with ob-solete spiritualisms, he sees all manner of ob-solete thrones and big-wigged temporalities;and for them also can prophesy, and wish,only a speedy doom. Doom inevitable, regis-tered in Heaven’s Chancery from the begin-ning of days, doom unalterable as the pillarsof the world; the gods are angry, and all na-ture groans, till this doom of eternal justice befulfilled.

With gay audacity, with enthusiasm tem-pered by mockery, as is the manner of younggifted men, this faith, grounded for thepresent on democracy and hustings opera-tions, and giving to all life the aspect ofa chivalrous battle-field, or almost of a gaythough perilous tournament, and bout of “Ahundred knights against all comers,”—wasmaintained by Sterling and his friends. Andin fine, after whatever loud remonstrances,and solemn considerations, and such shakingof our wigs as is undoubtedly natural in thecase, let us be just to it and him. We shall haveto admit, nay it will behoove us to see andpractically know, for ourselves and him andothers, that the essence of this creed, in timeslike ours, was right and not wrong. That, how-ever the ground and form of it might change,essentially it was the monition of his natal ge-nius to this as it is to every brave man; thebehest of all his clear insight into this Uni-verse, the message of Heaven through him,which he could not suppress, but was inspiredand compelled to utter in this world by suchmethods as he had. There for him lay the


first commandment; this is what it would havebeen the unforgivable sin to swerve from anddesert: the treason of treasons for him, it werethere; compared with which all other sins arevenial!

The message did not cease at all, as weshall see; the message was ardently, if fitfully,continued to the end: but the methods, thetone and dialect and all outer conditions of ut-tering it, underwent most important modifica-tions!

CHAPTER VIII.COLERIDGE.

Coleridge sat on the brow of Highgate Hill,in those years, looking down on London andits smoke-tumult, like a sage escaped fromthe inanity of life’s battle; attracting towardshim the thoughts of innumerable brave soulsstill engaged there. His express contributionsto poetry, philosophy, or any specific provinceof human literature or enlightenment, hadbeen small and sadly intermittent; but hehad, especially among young inquiring men,a higher than literary, a kind of propheticor magician character. He was thought tohold, he alone in England, the key of Germanand other Transcendentalisms; knew the sub-lime secret of believing by “the reason” what“the understanding” had been obliged to flingout as incredible; and could still, after Humeand Voltaire had done their best and worstwith him, profess himself an orthodox Chris-tian, and say and print to the Church of Eng-land, with its singular old rubrics and sur-plices at Allhallowtide, Esto perpetua. A sub-lime man; who, alone in those dark days, had

85


saved his crown of spiritual manhood; escap-ing from the black materialisms, and revolu-tionary deluges, with “God, Freedom, Immor-tality” still his: a king of men. The practi-cal intellects of the world did not much heedhim, or carelessly reckoned him a metaphys-ical dreamer: but to the rising spirits of theyoung generation he had this dusky sublimecharacter; and sat there as a kind of Magus,girt in mystery and enigma; his Dodona oak-grove (Mr. Gilman’s house at Highgate) whis-pering strange things, uncertain whether ora-cles or jargon.

The Gilmans did not encourage much com-pany, or excitation of any sort, round theirsage; nevertheless access to him, if a youth didreverently wish it, was not difficult. He wouldstroll about the pleasant garden with you, sitin the pleasant rooms of the place,—perhapstake you to his own peculiar room, high up,with a rearward view, which was the chiefview of all. A really charming outlook, in fineweather. Close at hand, wide sweep of floweryleafy gardens, their few houses mostly hid-den, the very chimney-pots veiled under blos-somy umbrage, flowed gloriously down hill;gloriously issuing in wide-tufted undulatingplain-country, rich in all charms of field andtown. Waving blooming country of the bright-est green; dotted all over with handsome vil-las, handsome groves; crossed by roads andhuman traffic, here inaudible or heard onlyas a musical hum: and behind all swam, un-der olive-tinted haze, the illimitable limitaryocean of London, with its domes and steeples

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definite in the sun, big Paul’s and the manymemories attached to it hanging high over all.Nowhere, of its kind, could you see a granderprospect on a bright summer day, with theset of the air going southward,—southward,and so draping with the city-smoke not youbut the city. Here for hours would Coleridgetalk, concerning all conceivable or inconceiv-able things; and liked nothing better than tohave an intelligent, or failing that, even asilent and patient human listener. He distin-guished himself to all that ever heard him asat least the most surprising talker extant inthis world,—and to some small minority, byno means to all, as the most excellent.

The good man, he was now getting old, to-wards sixty perhaps; and gave you the ideaof a life that had been full of sufferings; alife heavy-laden, half-vanquished, still swim-ming painfully in seas of manifold physicaland other bewilderment. Brow and head wereround, and of massive weight, but the facewas flabby and irresolute. The deep eyes, ofa light hazel, were as full of sorrow as of in-spiration; confused pain looked mildly fromthem, as in a kind of mild astonishment. Thewhole figure and air, good and amiable oth-erwise, might be called flabby and irresolute;expressive of weakness under possibility ofstrength. He hung loosely on his limbs, withknees bent, and stooping attitude; in walking,he rather shuffled than decisively steps; and alady once remarked, he never could fix whichside of the garden walk would suit him best,but continually shifted, in corkscrew fashion,


and kept trying both. A heavy-laden, high-aspiring and surely much-suffering man. Hisvoice, naturally soft and good, had contracteditself into a plaintive snuffle and singsong; hespoke as if preaching,—you would have said,preaching earnestly and also hopelessly theweightiest things. I still recollect his “object”and “subject,” terms of continual recurrence inthe Kantean province; and how he sang andsnuffled them into “om-m-mject” and “sum-m-mject,” with a kind of solemn shake or quaver,as he rolled along. No talk, in his century orin any other, could be more surprising.

Sterling, who assiduously attended him,with profound reverence, and was often withhim by himself, for a good many months, givesa record of their first colloquy.8 Their collo-quies were numerous, and he had taken noteof many; but they are all gone to the fire, ex-cept this first, which Mr. Hare has printed,—unluckily without date. It contains a num-ber of ingenious, true and half-true observa-tions, and is of course a faithful epitome ofthe things said; but it gives small idea ofColeridge’s way of talking;—this one featureis perhaps the most recognizable, “Our inter-view lasted for three hours, during which hetalked two hours and three quarters.” Noth-ing could be more copious than his talk; andfurthermore it was always, virtually or lit-erally, of the nature of a monologue; suffer-ing no interruption, however reverent; hastilyputting aside all foreign additions, annota-

8Biography, by Hare, pp. xvi-xxvi.

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tions, or most ingenuous desires for elucida-tion, as well-meant superfluities which wouldnever do. Besides, it was talk not flowingany-whither like a river, but spreading every-whither in inextricable currents and regurgi-tations like a lake or sea; terribly deficient indefinite goal or aim, nay often in logical intel-ligibility; what you were to believe or do, onany earthly or heavenly thing, obstinately re-fusing to appear from it. So that, most times,you felt logically lost; swamped near to drown-ing in this tide of ingenious vocables, spread-ing out boundless as if to submerge the world.

To sit as a passive bucket and be pumpedinto, whether you consent or not, can in thelong-run be exhilarating to no creature; howeloquent soever the flood of utterance thatis descending. But if it be withal a con-fused unintelligible flood of utterance, threat-ening to submerge all known landmarks ofthought, and drown the world and you!—Ihave heard Coleridge talk, with eager musi-cal energy, two stricken hours, his face radi-ant and moist, and communicate no meaningwhatsoever to any individual of his hearers,—certain of whom, I for one, still kept eagerlylistening in hope; the most had long beforegiven up, and formed (if the room were largeenough) secondary humming groups of theirown. He began anywhere: you put some ques-tion to him, made some suggestive observa-tion: instead of answering this, or decidedlysetting out towards answer of it, he would ac-cumulate formidable apparatus, logical swim-bladders, transcendental life-preservers and


other precautionary and vehiculatory gear, forsetting out; perhaps did at last get underway,—but was swiftly solicited, turned asideby the glance of some radiant new game onthis hand or that, into new courses; and everinto new; and before long into all the Uni-verse, where it was uncertain what game youwould catch, or whether any.

His talk, alas, was distinguished, like him-self, by irresolution: it disliked to he trou-bled with conditions, abstinences, definitefulfilments;—loved to wander at its own sweetwill, and make its auditor and his claims andhumble wishes a mere passive bucket for it-self! He had knowledge about many thingsand topics, much curious reading; but gener-ally all topics led him, after a pass or two,into the high seas of theosophic philosophy,the hazy infinitude of Kantean transcenden-talism, with its “sum-m-mjects” and “om-m-mjects.” Sad enough; for with such indolentimpatience of the claims and ignorances ofothers, he had not the least talent for explain-ing this or anything unknown to them; andyou swam and fluttered in the mistiest wideunintelligible deluge of things, for most partin a rather profitless uncomfortable manner.

Glorious islets, too, I have seen rise out ofthe haze; but they were few, and soon swal-lowed in the general element again. Balmysunny islets, islets of the blest and theintelligible:—on which occasions those sec-ondary humming groups would all cease hum-ming, and hang breathless upon the eloquentwords; till once your islet got wrapt in the mist

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again, and they could recommence humming.Eloquent artistically expressive words you al-ways had; piercing radiances of a most subtleinsight came at intervals; tones of noble pi-ous sympathy, recognizable as pious thoughstrangely colored, were never wanting long:but in general you could not call this aim-less, cloud-capt, cloud-based, lawlessly me-andering human discourse of reason by thename of “excellent talk,” but only of “surpris-ing;” and were reminded bitterly of Hazlitt’saccount of it: “Excellent talker, very,—if youlet him start from no premises and come to noconclusion.” Coleridge was not without whattalkers call wit, and there were touches ofprickly sarcasm in him, contemptuous enoughof the world and its idols and popular dig-nitaries; he had traits even of poetic humor:but in general he seemed deficient in laugh-ter; or indeed in sympathy for concrete humanthings either on the sunny or on the stormyside. One right peal of concrete laughter atsome convicted flesh-and-blood absurdity, oneburst of noble indignation at some injusticeor depravity, rubbing elbows with us on thissolid Earth, how strange would it have been inthat Kantean haze-world, and how infinitelycheering amid its vacant air-castles and dim-melting ghosts and shadows! None such evercame. His life had been an abstract think-ing and dreaming, idealistic, passed amid theghosts of defunct bodies and of unborn ones.The moaning singsong of that theosophico-metaphysical monotony left on you, at last, avery dreary feeling.


In close colloquy, flowing within narrowerbanks, I suppose he was more definite andapprehensible; Sterling in after-times did notcomplain of his unintelligibility, or imputed itonly to the abtruse high nature of the top-ics handled. Let us hope so, let us try to be-lieve so! There is no doubt but Coleridge couldspeak plain words on things plain: his obser-vations and responses on the trivial mattersthat occurred were as simple as the common-est man’s, or were even distinguished by su-perior simplicity as well as pertinency. “Ah,your tea is too cold, Mr. Coleridge!” mournedthe good Mrs. Gilman once, in her kind, rev-erential and yet protective manner, handinghim a very tolerable though belated cup.—“It’s better than I deserve!” snuffled he, in alow hoarse murmur, partly courteous, chieflypious, the tone of which still abides with me:“It’s better than I deserve!”

But indeed, to the young ardent mind, in-stinct with pious nobleness, yet driven to thegrim deserts of Radicalism for a faith, hisspeculations had a charm much more than lit-erary, a charm almost religious and prophetic.The constant gist of his discourse was lamen-tation over the sunk condition of the world;which he recognized to be given up to Athe-ism and Materialism, full of mere sordid mis-beliefs, mispursuits and misresults. All Sci-ence had become mechanical; the science notof men, but of a kind of human beavers.Churches themselves had died away into agodless mechanical condition; and stood thereas mere Cases of Articles, mere Forms of

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Churches; like the dried carcasses of onceswift camels, which you find left witheringin the thirst of the universal desert,—ghastlyportents for the present, beneficent ships ofthe desert no more. Men’s souls were blinded,hebetated; and sunk under the influence ofAtheism and Materialism, and Hume andVoltaire: the world for the present was asan extinct world, deserted of God, and inca-pable of well-doing till it changed its heartand spirit. This, expressed I think withless of indignation and with more of long-drawn querulousness, was always recogniz-able as the ground-tone:—in which truly a pi-ous young heart, driven into Radicalism andthe opposition party, could not but recognizea too sorrowful truth; and ask of the Oracle,with all earnestness, What remedy, then?

The remedy, though Coleridge himself pro-fessed to see it as in sunbeams, could not,except by processes unspeakably difficult, bedescribed to you at all. On the whole, thosedead Churches, this dead English Church es-pecially, must be brought to life again. Whynot? It was not dead; the soul of it, inthis parched-up body, was tragically asleeponly. Atheistic Philosophy was true on itsside, and Hume and Voltaire could on theirown ground speak irrefragably for themselvesagainst any Church: but lift the Church andthem into a higher sphere. Of argument,they died into inanition, the Church revivi-fied itself into pristine florid vigor,—becameonce more a living ship of the desert, and in-vincibly bore you over stock and stone. But


how, but how! By attending to the “reason” ofman, said Coleridge, and duly chaining up the“understanding” of man: the Vernunft (Rea-son) and Verstand (Understanding) of the Ger-mans, it all turned upon these, if you couldwell understand them,—which you couldn’t.For the rest, Mr. Coleridge had on the anvilvarious Books, especially was about to writeone grand Book On the Logos, which wouldhelp to bridge the chasm for us. So muchappeared, however: Churches, though provedfalse (as you had imagined), were still true (asyou were to imagine): here was an Artist whocould burn you up an old Church, root andbranch; and then as the Alchemists professedto do with organic substances in general, dis-til you an “Astral Spirit” from the ashes, whichwas the very image of the old burnt article, itsair-drawn counterpart,—this you still had, ormight get, and draw uses from, if you could.Wait till the Book on the Logos were done;—alas, till your own terrene eyes, blind withconceit and the dust of logic, were purged,subtilized and spiritualized into the sharp-ness of vision requisite for discerning suchan “om-m-mject.”—The ingenuous young En-glish head, of those days, stood strangely puz-zled by such revelations; uncertain whetherit were getting inspired, or getting infatuatedinto flat imbecility; and strange effulgence, ofnew day or else of deeper meteoric night, col-ored the horizon of the future for it.

Let me not be unjust to this memorableman. Surely there was here, in his pious,ever-laboring, subtle mind, a precious truth,

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or prefigurement of truth; and yet a fatal delu-sion withal. Prefigurement that, in spite ofbeaver sciences and temporary spiritual hebe-tude and cecity, man and his Universe wereeternally divine; and that no past nobleness,or revelation of the divine, could or would everbe lost to him. Most true, surely, and wor-thy of all acceptance. Good also to do whatyou can with old Churches and practical Sym-bols of the Noble: nay quit not the burnt ru-ins of them while you find there is still goldto be dug there. But, on the whole, do notthink you can, by logical alchemy, distil astralspirits from them; or if you could, that saidastral spirits, or defunct logical phantasms,could serve you in anything. What the lightof your mind, which is the direct inspirationof the Almighty, pronounces incredible,—that,in God’s name, leave uncredited; at your perildo not try believing that. No subtlest hocus-pocus of “reason” versus “understanding” willavail for that feat;—and it is terribly perilousto try it in these provinces!

The truth is, I now see, Coleridge’s talkand speculation was the emblem of himself:in it as in him, a ray of heavenly inspira-tion struggled, in a tragically ineffectual de-gree, with the weakness of flesh and blood. Hesays once, he “had skirted the howling desertsof Infidelity;” this was evident enough: buthe had not had the courage, in defiance ofpain and terror, to press resolutely across saiddeserts to the new firm lands of Faith beyond;he preferred to create logical fata-morganasfor himself on this hither side, and laboriously


solace himself with these.To the man himself Nature had given, in

high measure, the seeds of a noble endow-ment; and to unfold it had been forbiddenhim. A subtle lynx-eyed intellect, tremulouspious sensibility to all good and all beauti-ful; truly a ray of empyrean light;—but em-bedded in such weak laxity of character, insuch indolences and esuriences as had madestrange work with it. Once more, the tragicstory of a high endowment with an insuffi-cient will. An eye to discern the divinenessof the Heaven’s spendors and lightnings, theinsatiable wish to revel in their godlike ra-diances and brilliances; but no heart to frontthe scathing terrors of them, which is the firstcondition of your conquering an abiding placethere. The courage necessary for him, aboveall things, had been denied this man. Hislife, with such ray of the empyrean in it, wasgreat and terrible to him; and he had notvaliantly grappled with it, he had fled fromit; sought refuge in vague daydreams, hollowcompromises, in opium, in theosophic meta-physics. Harsh pain, danger, necessity, slav-ish harnessed toil, were of all things abhor-rent to him. And so the empyrean element,lying smothered under the terrene, and yetinextinguishable there, made sad writhings.For pain, danger, difficulty, steady slaving toil,and other highly disagreeable behests of des-tiny, shall in nowise be shirked by any bright-est mortal that will approve himself loyal tohis mission in this world; nay precisely thehigher he is, the deeper will be the disagree-

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ableness, and the detestability to flesh andblood, of the tasks laid on him; and the heav-ier too, and more tragic, his penalties if he ne-glect them.

For the old Eternal Powers do live for-ever; nor do their laws know any change, how-ever we in our poor wigs and church-tippetsmay attempt to read their laws. To steal intoHeaven,—by the modern method, of stickingostrich-like your head into fallacies on Earth,equally as by the ancient and by all conceiv-able methods,—is forever forbidden. High-treason is the name of that attempt; and itcontinues to be punished as such. Strangeenough: here once more was a kind of Heaven-scaling Ixion; and to him, as to the old one,the just gods were very stern! The ever-revolving, never-advancing Wheel (of a kind)was his, through life; and from his Cloud-Juno did not he too procreate strange Cen-taurs, spectral Puseyisms, monstrous illusoryHybrids, and ecclesiastical Chimeras,—whichnow roam the earth in a very lamentable man-ner!

CHAPTER IX.SPANISH EXILES.

This magical ingredient thrown into the wildcaldron of such a mind, which we have seenoccupied hitherto with mere Ethnicism, Radi-calism and revolutionary tumult, but hunger-ing all along for something higher and better,was sure to be eagerly welcomed and imbibed,and could not fail to produce important fer-mentations there. Fermentations; importantnew directions, and withal important new per-versions, in the spiritual life of this man, asit has since done in the lives of so many.Here then is the new celestial manna we wereall in quest of? This thrice-refined pabulumof transcendental moonshine? Whoso eateththereof,—yes, what, on the whole, will heprobably grow to?

Sterling never spoke much to me of his in-tercourse with Coleridge; and when we didcompare notes about him, it was usuallyrather in the way of controversial discussionthan of narrative. So that, from my own re-sources, I can give no details of the business,nor specify anything in it, except the general

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fact of an ardent attendance at Highgate con-tinued for many months, which was impres-sively known to all Sterling’s friends; and amunable to assign even the limitary dates, Ster-ling’s own papers on the subject having allbeen destroyed by him. Inferences point tothe end of 1828 as the beginning of this inter-course; perhaps in 1829 it was at the highestpoint; and already in 1830, when the inter-course itself was about to terminate, we haveproof of the influences it was producing,—in the Novel of Arthur Coningsby, then onhand, the first and only Book that Sterlingever wrote. His writings hitherto had beensketches, criticisms, brief essays; he was nowtrying it on a wider scale; but not yet with sat-isfactory results, and it proved to be his onlytrial in that form.

He had already, as was intimated, given uphis brief proprietorship of the Athenæum; thecommercial indications, and state of sales andof costs, peremptorily ordering him to do so;the copyright went by sale or gift, I know notat what precise date, into other fitter hands;and with the copyright all connection on thepart of Sterling. To Athenæum Sketches hadnow (in 1829-30) succeeded Arthur Coningsby,a Novel in three volumes; indicating (whenit came to light, a year or two afterwards)equally hasty and much more ambitious aimsin Literature;—giving strong evidence, too, ofinternal spiritual revulsions going painfullyforward, and in particular of the impressionColeridge was producing on him. Without andwithin, it was a wild tide of things this ardent

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light young soul was afloat upon, at present;and his outlooks into the future, whether forhis spiritual or economic fortunes, were con-fused enough.

Among his familiars in this period, I mighthave mentioned one Charles Barton, formerlyhis fellow-student at Cambridge, now an ami-able, cheerful, rather idle young fellow aboutTown; who led the way into certain newexperiences, and lighter fields, for Sterling.His Father, Lieutenant-General Barton of theLife-guards, an Irish landlord, I think in Fer-managh County, and a man of connectionsabout Court, lived in a certain figure here inTown; had a wife of fashionable habits, withother sons, and also daughters, bred in thissphere. These, all of them, were amiable, el-egant and pleasant people;—such was espe-cially an eldest daughter, Susannah Barton,a stately blooming black-eyed young woman,attractive enough in form and character; fullof gay softness, of indolent sense and enthu-siasm; about Sterling’s own age, if not a lit-tle older. In this house, which opened to him,more decisively than his Father’s, a new stra-tum of society, and where his reception forCharles’s sake and his own was of the kind-est, he liked very well to be; and spent, I sup-pose, many of his vacant half-hours, lightlychatting with the elders or the youngsters,—doubtless with the young lady too, thoughas yet without particular intentions on eitherside.

Nor, with all the Coleridge fermentation,was democratic Radicalism by any means


given up;—though how it was to live if the Co-leridgean moonshine took effect, might havebeen an abtruse question. Hitherto, whilesaid moonshine was but taking effect, and col-oring the outer surface of things without quitepenetrating into the heart, democratic Lib-eralism, revolt against superstition and op-pression, and help to whosoever would revolt,was still the grand element in Sterling’s creed;and practically he stood, not ready only, butfull of alacrity to fulfil all its behests. Weheard long since of the “black dragoons,”—whom doubtless the new moonshine had con-siderably silvered-over into new hues, by thistime;—but here now, while Radicalism is tot-tering for him and threatening to crumble,comes suddenly the grand consummation andexplosion of Radicalism in his life; whereby,all at once, Radicalism exhausted and endeditself, and appeared no more there.

In those years a visible section of the Lon-don population, and conspicuous out of all pro-portion to its size or value, was a small knot ofSpaniards, who had sought shelter here as Po-litical Refugees. “Political Refugees:” a tragicsuccession of that class is one of the posses-sions of England in our time. Six-and-twentyyears ago, when I first saw London, I remem-ber those unfortunate Spaniards among thenew phenomena. Daily in the cold spring air,under skies so unlike their own, you could seea group of fifty or a hundred stately tragicfigures, in proud threadbare cloaks; peram-bulating, mostly with closed lips, the broadpavements of Euston Square and the regions

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about St. Pancras new Church. Their lodgingwas chiefly in Somers Town, as I understood:and those open pavements about St. PancrasChurch were the general place of rendezvous.They spoke little or no English; knew nobody,could employ themselves on nothing, in thisnew scene. Old steel-gray heads, many ofthem; the shaggy, thick, blue-black hair ofothers struck you; their brown complexion,dusky look of suppressed fire, in general theirtragic condition as of caged Numidian lions.

That particular Flight of Unfortunates haslong since fled again, and vanished; and newhave come and fled. In this convulsed rev-olutionary epoch, which already lasts abovesixty years, what tragic flights of such havewe not seen arrive on the one safe coast whichis open to them, as they get successively van-quished, and chased into exile to avoid worse!Swarm after swarm, of ever-new complexion,from Spain as from other countries, is thrownoff, in those ever-recurring paroxysms; andwill continue to be thrown off. As there couldbe (suggests Linnaeus) a “flower-clock,” mea-suring the hours of the day, and the monthsof the year, by the kinds of flowers that goto sleep and awaken, that blow into beautyand fade into dust: so in the great Revolu-tionary Horologe, one might mark the yearsand epochs by the successive kinds of exilesthat walk London streets, and, in grim silentmanner, demand pity from us and reflectionsfrom us.—This then extant group of Span-ish Exiles was the Trocadero swarm, thrownoff in 1823, in the Riego and Quirogas quar-


rel. These were they whom Charles Tenthhad, by sheer force, driven from their consti-tutionalisms and their Trocadero fortresses,—Charles Tenth, who himself was soon drivenout, manifoldly by sheer force; and had tohead his own swarm of fugitives; and has nowhimself quite vanished, and given place toothers. For there is no end of them; propellingand propelled!—

Of these poor Spanish Exiles, now vegetat-ing about Somers Town, and painfully beat-ing the pavement in Euston Square, the ac-knowledged chief was General Torrijos, a manof high qualities and fortunes, still in the vigorof his years, and in these desperate circum-stances refusing to despair; with whom Ster-ling had, at this time, become intimate.

CHAPTER X.TORRIJOS.

Torrijos, who had now in 1829 been here somefour or five years, having come over in 1824,had from the first enjoyed a superior receptionin England. Possessing not only a language tospeak, which few of the others did, but mani-fold experiences courtly, military, diplomatic,with fine natural faculties, and high Span-ish manners tempered into cosmopolitan, hehad been welcomed in various circles of so-ciety; and found, perhaps he alone of thoseSpaniards, a certain human companionshipamong persons of some standing in this coun-try. With the elder Sterlings, among others,he had made acquaintance; became familiarin the social circle at South Place, and wasmuch esteemed there. With Madam Torrijos,who also was a person of amiable and dis-tinguished qualities, an affectionate friend-ship grew up on the part of Mrs. Sterling,which ended only with the death of these twoladies. John Sterling, on arriving in Lon-don from his University work, naturally in-herited what he liked to take up of this rela-

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tion: and in the lodgings in Regent Street, andthe democratico-literary element there, Torri-jos became a very prominent, and at lengthalmost the central object.

The man himself, it is well known, was avaliant, gallant man; of lively intellect, of no-ble chivalrous character: fine talents, fine ac-complishments, all grounding themselves ona certain rugged veracity, recommended himto the discerning. He had begun youth in theCourt of Ferdinand; had gone on in Welling-ton and other arduous, victorious and unvic-torious, soldierings; familiar in camps andcouncil-rooms, in presence-chambers and inprisons. He knew romantic Spain;—he washimself, standing withal in the vanguard ofFreedom’s fight, a kind of living romance. In-finitely interesting to John Sterling, for one.

It was to Torrijos that the poor Spaniardsof Somers Town looked mainly, in their help-lessness, for every species of help. Torrijos,it was hoped, would yet lead them into Spainand glorious victory there; meanwhile herein England, under defeat, he was their cap-tain and sovereign in another painfully in-verse sense. To whom, in extremity, every-body might apply. When all present resourcesfailed, and the exchequer was quite out, therestill remained Torrijos. Torrijos has to findnew resources for his destitute patriots, findloans, find Spanish lessons for them amonghis English friends: in all which charitableoperations, it need not be said, John Sterlingwas his foremost man; zealous to empty hisown purse for the object; impetuous in rush-

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ing hither or thither to enlist the aid of oth-ers, and find lessons or something that woulddo. His friends, of course, had to assist; theBartons, among others, were wont to assist;—and I have heard that the fair Susan, stir-ring up her indolent enthusiasm into practi-cality, was very successful in finding Span-ish lessons, and the like, for these distressedmen. Sterling and his friends were yet new inthis business; but Torrijos and the others weregetting old in it?—and doubtless weary andalmost desperate of it. They had now beenseven years in it, many of them; and were ask-ing, When will the end be?

Torrijos is described as a man of excellentdiscernment: who knows how long he had re-pressed the unreasonable schemes of his fol-lowers, and turned a deaf ear to the temptingsof fallacious hope? But there comes at lengtha sum-total of oppressive burdens which isintolerable, which tempts the wisest towardsfallacies for relief. These weary groups, pac-ing the Euston-Square pavements, had oftensaid in their despair, “Were not death in battlebetter? Here are we slowly mouldering intonothingness; there we might reach it rapidly,in flaming splendor. Flame, either of victoryto Spain and us, or of a patriot death, thesure harbinger of victory to Spain. Flamefit to kindle a fire which no Ferdinand, withall his Inquisitions and Charles Tenths, couldput out.” Enough, in the end of 1829, Torri-jos himself had yielded to this pressure; andhoping against hope, persuaded himself thatif he could but land in the South of Spain with


a small patriot band well armed and well re-solved, a band carrying fire in its heart,—thenSpain, all inflammable as touchwood, andgroaning indignantly under its brutal tyrant,might blaze wholly into flame round him, andincalculable victory be won. Such was his con-clusion; not sudden, yet surely not deliber-ate either,—desperate rather, and forced onby circumstances. He thought with himselfthat, considering Somers Town and consid-ering Spain, the terrible chance was worthtrying; that this big game of Fate, go how itmight, was one which the omens credibly de-clared he and these poor Spaniards ought toplay.

His whole industries and energies werethereupon bent towards starting the saidgame; and his thought and continual speechand song now was, That if he had a few thou-sand pounds to buy arms, to freight a ship andmake the other preparations, he and thesepoor gentlemen, and Spain and the world,were made men and a saved Spain and world.What talks and consultations in the apart-ment in Regent Street, during those winterdays of 1829-30; setting into open conflagra-tion the young democracy that was wont toassemble there! Of which there is now leftnext to no remembrance. For Sterling neverspoke a word of this affair in after-days, norwas any of the actors much tempted to speak.We can understand too well that here wereyoung fervid hearts in an explosive condition;young rash heads, sanctioned by a man’s ex-perienced head. Here at last shall enthu-

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siasm and theory become practice and fact;fiery dreams are at last permitted to realizethemselves; and now is the time or never!—How the Coleridge moonshine comported it-self amid these hot telluric flames, or whetherit had not yet begun to play there (which Irather doubt), must be left to conjecture.

Mr. Hare speaks of Sterling “sailing overto St. Valery in an open boat along with oth-ers,” upon one occasion, in this enterprise;—inthe final English scene of it, I suppose. Whichis very possible. Unquestionably there wasadventure enough of other kinds for it, andrunning to and fro with all his speed on be-half of it, during these months of his history!Money was subscribed, collected: the youngCambridge democrats were all ablaze to as-sist Torrijos; nay certain of them decided to gowith him,—and went. Only, as yet, the fundswere rather incomplete. And here, as I learnfrom a good hand, is the secret history of theirbecoming complete. Which, as we are uponthe subject, I had better give. But for the fol-lowing circumstance, they had perhaps neverbeen completed; nor had the rash enterprise,or its catastrophe, so influential on the rest ofSterling’s life, taken place at all.

A certain Lieutenant Robert Boyd, of theIndian Army, an Ulster Irishman, a cousin ofSterling’s, had received some affront, or other-wise taken some disgust in that service; hadthrown up his commission in consequence;and returned home, about this time, withintent to seek another course of life. Hav-ing only, for outfit, these impatient ardors,


some experience in Indian drill exercise, andfive thousand pounds of inheritance, he foundthe enterprise attended with difficulties; andwas somewhat at a loss how to dispose ofhimself. Some young Ulster comrade, in apartly similar situation, had pointed out tohim that there lay in a certain neighboringcreek of the Irish coast, a worn-out royal gun-brig condemned to sale, to be had dog-cheap:this he proposed that they two, or in factBoyd with his five thousand pounds, shouldbuy; that they should refit and arm and manit;—and sail a-privateering “to the EasternArchipelago,” Philippine Isles, or I know notwhere; and so conquer the golden fleece.

Boyd naturally paused a little at thisgreat proposal; did not quite reject it; cameacross, with it and other fine projects andimpatiences fermenting in his head, to Lon-don, there to see and consider. It was inthe months when the Torrijos enterprise wasin the birth-throes; crying wildly for capi-tal, of all things. Boyd naturally spoke ofhis projects to Sterling,—of his gun-brig ly-ing in the Irish creek, among others. Ster-ling naturally said, “If you want an adven-ture of the Sea-king sort, and propose to layyour money and your life into such a game,here is Torrijos and Spain at his back; hereis a golden fleece to conquer, worth twentyEastern Archipelagoes.”—Boyd and Torrijosquickly met; quickly bargained. Boyd’s moneywas to go in purchasing, and storing with acertain stock of arms and etceteras, a smallship in the Thames, which should carry Boyd

CHAPTER X 111

with Torrijos and the adventurers to the southcoast of Spain; and there, the game onceplayed and won, Boyd was to have promotionenough,—“the colonelcy of a Spanish cavalryregiment,” for one express thing. What ex-act share Sterling had in this negotiation, orwhether he did not even take the prudent sideand caution Boyd to be wary I know not; but itwas he that brought the parties together; andall his friends knew, in silence, that to the endof his life he painfully remembered that fact.

And so a ship was hired, or purchased, inthe Thames; due furnishings began to be ex-ecuted in it; arms and stores were graduallygot on board; Torrijos with his Fifty pickedSpaniards, in the mean while, getting ready.This was in the spring of 1830. Boyd’s 5000pounds was the grand nucleus of finance; butvigorous subscription was carried on likewisein Sterling’s young democratic circle, or wher-ever a member of it could find access; notwithout considerable result, and with a zealthat may be imagined. Nay, as above hinted,certain of these young men decided, not togive their money only, but themselves alongwith it, as democratic volunteers and soldiersof progress; among whom, it need not be said,Sterling intended to be foremost. Busy weekswith him, those spring ones of the year 1830!Through this small Note, accidentally pre-served to us, addressed to his friend Barton,we obtain a curious glance into the subter-ranean workshop:—


To Charles Barton, Esq.,Dorset Sq., Regent’s Park.

[No date; apparentlyMarch or February, 1830.]

“MY DEAR CHARLES,—I have wanted to see you to talk

to you about my Foreign affairs. Ifyou are going to be in London fora few days, I believe you can bevery useful to me, at a considerableexpense and trouble to yourself, inthe way of buying accoutrements;inter alia, a sword and a saddle,—not, you will understand, for myown use.

“Things are going on very well,but are very, even frightfully near;only be quiet! Pray would you, incase of necessity, take a free pas-sage to Holland, next week or theweek after; stay two or three days,and come back, all expenses paid?If you write to B—— at Cambridge,tell him above all things to hold histongue. If you are near Palace Yardto-morrow before two, pray cometo see me. Do not come on pur-pose; especially as I may perhapsbe away, and at all events shall notbe there until eleven, nor perhapstill rather later.

“I fear I shall have alarmedyour Mother by my irruption. For-give me for that and all my exac-

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tions from you. If the next monthwere over, I should not have totrouble any one.

“Yours affectionately,“J. STERLING.”

Busy weeks indeed; and a glowing smithy-light coming through the chinks!—The ro-mance of Arthur Coningsby lay written, orhalf-written, in his desk; and here, in hisheart and among his hands, was an actedromance and unknown catastrophes keepingpace with that.

Doubts from the doctors, for his healthwas getting ominous, threw some shade overthe adventure. Reproachful reminiscences ofColeridge and Theosophy were natural too;then fond regrets for Literature and its glo-ries: if you act your romance, how can youalso write it? Regrets, and reproachful rem-iniscences, from Art and Theosophy; perhapssome tenderer regrets withal. A crisis in lifehad come; when, of innumerable possibilitiesone possibility was to be elected king, and toswallow all the rest, the rest of course madenoise enough, and swelled themselves to theirbiggest.

Meanwhile the ship was fast getting ready:on a certain day, it was to drop quietly downthe Thames; then touch at Deal, and takeon board Torrijos and his adventurers, whowere to be in waiting and on the outlook forthem there. Let every man lay in his accou-trements, then; let every man make his pack-ages, his arrangements and farewells. Ster-


ling went to take leave of Miss Barton. “Youare going, then; to Spain? To rough it amidthe storms of war and perilous insurrection;and with that weak health of yours; and—weshall never see you more, then!” Miss Barton,all her gayety gone, the dimpling softness be-come liquid sorrow, and the musical ringingvoice one wail of woe, “burst into tears,”—soI have it on authority:—here was one possi-bility about to be strangled that made unex-pected noise! Sterling’s interview ended in theoffer of his hand, and the acceptance of it;—any sacrifice to get rid of this horrid Span-ish business, and save the health and life ofa gifted young man so precious to the worldand to another!

“Ill-health,” as often afterwards in Ster-ling’s life, when the excuse was real enoughbut not the chief excuse; “ill-health, and in-superable obstacles and engagements,” had tobear the chief brunt in apologizing: and, asSterling’s actual presence, or that of any En-glishman except Boyd and his money, was notin the least vital to the adventure, his ex-cuse was at once accepted. The English con-nections and subscriptions are a given fact,to be presided over by what English volun-teers there are: and as for Englishmen, thefewer Englishmen that go, the larger will bethe share of influence for each. The other ad-venturers, Torrijos among them in due readi-ness, moved silently one by one down to Deal;Sterling, superintending the naval hands, onboard their ship in the Thames, was to see thelast finish given to everything in that depart-

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ment; then, on the set evening, to drop downquietly to Deal, and there say Andad con Dios,and return.

Behold! Just before the set evening came,the Spanish Envoy at this Court has got no-tice of what is going on; the Spanish En-voy, and of course the British Foreign Secre-tary, and of course also the Thames Police.Armed men spring suddenly on board, oneday, while Sterling is there; declare the shipseized and embargoed in the King’s name; no-body on board to stir till he has given some ac-count of himself in due time and place! Hugeconsternation, naturally, from stem to stern.Sterling, whose presence of mind seldom for-sook him, casts his eye over the River andits craft; sees a wherry, privately signals it,drops rapidly on board of it: “Stop!” fiercely in-terjects the marine policeman from the ship’sdeck.—“Why stop? What use have you for me,or I for you?” and the oars begin playing.—“Stop, or I’ll shoot you!” cries the marine po-liceman, drawing a pistol.—“No, you won’t.”—“I will!”—“If you do you’ll be hanged at thenext Maidstone assizes, then; that’s all,”—andSterling’s wherry shot rapidly ashore; and outof this perilous adventure.

That same night he posted down to Deal;disclosed to the Torrijos party what catastro-phe had come. No passage Spainward fromthe Thames; well if arrestment do not sud-denly come from the Thames! It was onthis occasion, I suppose, that the passage inthe open boat to St. Valery occurred;—speedyflight in what boat or boats, open or shut,


could be got at Deal on the sudden. Ster-ling himself, according to Hare’s authority, ac-tually went with them so far. Enough, theygot shipping, as private passengers in onecraft or the other; and, by degrees or at once,arrived all at Gibraltar,—Boyd, one or twoyoung democrats of Regent Street, the fiftypicked Spaniards, and Torrijos,—safe, thoughwithout arms; still in the early part of theyear.

CHAPTER XI.MARRIAGE:ILL-HEALTH;WEST-INDIES.

Sterling’s outlooks and occupations, now thathis Spanish friends were gone, must havebeen of a rather miscellaneous confused de-scription. He had the enterprise of a mar-ried life close before him; and as yet no pro-fession, no fixed pursuit whatever. His healthwas already very threatening; often such asto disable him from present activity, and oc-casion the gravest apprehensions; practicallyblocking up all important courses whatsoever,and rendering the future, if even life werelengthened and he had any future, an insol-ubility for him. Parliament was shut, publiclife was shut: Literature,—if, alas, any solidfruit could lie in literature!

Or perhaps one’s health would mend, af-ter all; and many things be better than washoped! Sterling was not of a despondent tem-per, or given in any measure to lie down and

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indolently moan: I fancy he walked brisklyenough into this tempestuous-looking future;not heeding too much its thunderous aspects;doing swiftly, for the day, what his hand foundto do. Arthur Coningsby, I suppose, lay on theanvil at present; visits to Coleridge were nowagain more possible; grand news from Torri-jos might be looked for, though only small yetcame:—nay here, in the hot July, is France,at least, all thrown into volcano again! Hereare the miraculous Three Days; heralding, inthunder, great things to Torrijos and others;filling with babblement and vaticination themouths and hearts of all democratic men.

So rolled along, in tumult of chaotic re-membrance and uncertain hope, in manifoldemotion, and the confused struggle (for Ster-ling as for the world) to extricate the Newfrom the falling ruins of the Old, the summerand autumn of 1830. From Gibraltar and Tor-rijos the tidings were vague, unimportant anddiscouraging: attempt on Cadiz, attempt onthe lines of St. Roch, those attempts, or ratherresolutions to attempt, had died in the birth,or almost before it. Men blamed Torrijos, littleknowing his impediments. Boyd was still pa-tient at his post: others of the young English(on the strength of the subscribed moneys)were said to be thinking of tours,—perhaps inthe Sierra Morena and neighboring Quixoteregions. From that Torrijos enterprise it didnot seem that anything considerable wouldcome.

On the edge of winter, here at home, Ster-ling was married: “at Christchurch, Maryle-

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bone, 2d November, 1830,” say the records.His blooming, kindly and true-hearted Wifehad not much money, nor had he as yet any:but friends on both sides were bountiful andhopeful; had made up, for the young couple,the foundations of a modestly effective house-hold; and in the future there lay more sub-stantial prospects. On the finance side Ster-ling never had anything to suffer. His Wife,though somewhat languid, and of indolenthumor, was a graceful, pious-minded, honor-able and affectionate woman; she could notmuch support him in the ever-shifting strug-gles of his life, but she faithfully attendedhim in them, and loyally marched by his sidethrough the changes and nomadic pilgrim-ings, of which many were appointed him in hisshort course.

Unhappily a few weeks after his mar-riage, and before any household was yet setup, he fell dangerously ill; worse in healththan he had ever yet been: so many agita-tions crowded into the last few months hadbeen too much for him. He fell into dan-gerous pulmonary illness, sank ever deeper;lay for many weeks in his Father’s house ut-terly prostrate, his young Wife and his Motherwatching over him; friends, sparingly admit-ted, long despairing of his life. All prospectsin this world were now apparently shut uponhim.

After a while, came hope again, andkindlier symptoms: but the doctors intimatedthat there lay consumption in the question,and that perfect recovery was not to be looked


for. For weeks he had been confined to bed; itwas several months before he could leave hissick-room, where the visits of a few friendshad much cheered him. And now when de-livered, readmitted to the air of day again,—weak as he was, and with such a liability stilllurking in him,—what his young partner andhe were to do, or whitherward to turn for agood course of life, was by no means too ap-parent.

One of his Mother Mrs. Edward Sterling’sUncles, a Coningham from Derry, had, in thecourse of his industrious and adventurous life,realized large property in the West Indies,—a valuable Sugar-estate, with its equipments,in the Island of St. Vincent;—from which Mrs.Sterling and her family were now, and hadbeen for some years before her Uncle’s de-cease, deriving important benefits. I haveheard, it was then worth some ten thousandpounds a year to the parties interested. An-thony Sterling, John, and another a cousin oftheirs were ultimately to be heirs, in equalproportions. The old gentleman, always kindto his kindred, and a brave and solid manthough somewhat abrupt in his ways, hadlately died; leaving a settlement to this ef-fect, not without some intricacies, and almostcaprices, in the conditions attached.

This property, which is still a valuable one,was Sterling’s chief pecuniary outlook for thedistant future. Of course it well deservedtaking care of; and if the eye of the mas-ter were upon it, of course too (according tothe adage) the cattle would fatten better. As

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the warm climate was favorable to pulmonarycomplaints, and Sterling’s occupations wereso shattered to pieces and his outlooks hereso waste and vague, why should not he under-take this duty for himself and others?

It was fixed upon as the eligiblest course. Avisit to St. Vincent, perhaps a permanent res-idence there: he went into the project with hiscustomary impetuosity; his young Wife cheer-fully consenting, and all manner of new hopesclustering round it. There are the rich trop-ical sceneries, the romance of the torrid zonewith its new skies and seas and lands; thereare Blacks, and the Slavery question to be in-vestigated: there are the bronzed Whites andYellows, and their strange new way of life: byall means let us go and try!—Arrangementsbeing completed, so soon as his strength hadsufficiently recovered, and the harsh springwinds had sufficiently abated, Sterling withhis small household set sail for St. Vincent;and arrived without accident. His first child,a son Edward, now living and grown to man-hood, was born there, “at Brighton in the Is-land of St. Vincent,” in the fall of that year1831.

CHAPTER XII.ISLAND OF ST.VINCENT.

Sterling found a pleasant residence, with allits adjuncts, ready for him, at Colonarie, inthis “volcanic Isle” under the hot sun. An in-teresting Isle: a place of rugged chasms, pre-cipitous gnarled heights, and the most fruit-ful hollows; shaggy everywhere with luxuri-ant vegetation; set under magnificent skies,in the mirror of the summer seas; offering ev-erywhere the grandest sudden outlooks andcontrasts. His Letters represent a placidlycheerful riding life: a pensive humor, butthe thunder-clouds all sleeping in the dis-tance. Good relations with a few neighbor-ing planters; indifference to the noisy politicaland other agitations of the rest: friendly, byno means romantic appreciation of the Blacks;quiet prosperity economic and domestic: onthe whole a healthy and recommendable wayof life, with Literature very much in abeyancein it.

He writes to Mr. Hare (date not given):

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“The landscapes around me here are nobleand lovely as any that can be conceived onEarth. How indeed could it be otherwise,in a small Island of volcanic mountains, farwithin the Tropics, and perpetually coveredwith the richest vegetation?” The moral as-pect of things is by no means so good; but nei-ther is that without its fair features. “So faras I see, the Slaves here are cunning, deceit-ful and idle; without any great aptitude forferocious crimes, and with very little scrupleat committing others. But I have seen themmuch only in very favorable circumstances.They are, as a body, decidedly unfit for free-dom; and if left, as at present, completelyin the hands of their masters, will never be-come so, unless through the agency of theMethodists.”9

In the Autumn came an immense hurri-cane; with new and indeed quite perilous ex-periences of West-Indian life. This hasty Let-ter, addressed to his Mother, is not intrinsi-cally his remarkablest from St. Vincent: butthe body of fact delineated in it being somuch the greatest, we will quote it in prefer-ence. A West-Indian tornado, as John Ster-ling witnesses it, and with vivid authenticitydescribes it, may be considered worth lookingat.

To Mrs. Sterling,South Place, Knightsbridge,

London.9Biography, by Mr. Hare, p. xli.

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“BRIGHTON, ST. VINCENT,“28TH AUGUST, 1831.

“MY DEAR MOTHER,—The packet came in yesterday;

bringing me some Newspapers, aLetter from my Father, and onefrom Anthony, with a few linesfrom you. I wrote, some daysago, a hasty Note to my Father,on the chance of its reaching youthrough Grenada sooner than anycommunication by the packet; andin it I spoke of the great misfor-tune which had befallen this Islandand Barbadoes, but from which allthose you take an interest in havehappily escaped unhurt.

“From the day of our arrival inthe West Indies until Thursday the11th instant, which will long be amemorable day with us, I had beendoing my best to get ourselves es-tablished comfortably; and I had atlast bought the materials for mak-ing some additions to the house.But on the morning I have men-tioned, all that I had exerted my-self to do, nearly all the propertyboth of Susan and myself, and thevery house we lived in, were sud-denly destroyed by a visitation ofProvidence far more terrible thanany I have ever witnessed.

“When Susan came from herroom, to breakfast, at eight o’clock,


I pointed out to her the extraor-dinary height and violence of thesurf, and the singular appearanceof the clouds of heavy rain sweep-ing down the valleys before us.At this time I had so little ap-prehension of what was coming,that I talked of riding down tothe shore when the storm shouldabate, as I had never seen so fiercea sea. In about a quarter ofan hour the House-Negroes camein, to close the outside shuttersof the windows. They knew thatthe plantain-trees about the Ne-gro houses had been blown down inthe night; and had told the maid-servant Tyrrell, but I had heardnothing of it. A very few min-utes after the closing of the win-dows, I found that the shutters ofTyrrell’s room, at the south andcommonly the most sheltered endof the House, were giving way. Itried to tie them; but the silk hand-kerchief which I used soon gaveway; and as I had neither ham-mer, boards nor nails in the house,I could do nothing more to keepout the tempest. I found, in push-ing at the leaf of the shutter, thatthe wind resisted, more as if it hadbeen a stone wall or a mass of iron,than a mere current of air. Therewere one or two people outside try-

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ing to fasten the windows, and Iwent out to help; but we had notools at hand: one man was blowndown the hill in front of the house,before my face; and the other andmyself had great difficulty in get-ting back again inside the door.The rain on my face and hands feltlike so much small shot from a gun.There was great exertion necessaryto shut the door of the house.

“The windows at the end of thelarge room were now giving way;and I suppose it was about nineo’clock, when the hurricane burstthem in, as if it had been a dis-charge from a battery of heavy can-non. The shutters were first forcedopen, and the wind fastened themback to the wall; and then thepanes of glass were smashed bythe mere force of the gale, with-out anything having touched them.Even now I was not at all sure thehouse would go. My books, I saw,were lost; for the rain poured pastthe bookcases, as if it had beenthe Colonarie River. But we car-ried a good deal of furniture intothe passage at the entrance; weset Susan there on a sofa, and theBlack Housekeeper was even at-tempting to get her some break-fast. The house, however, beganto shake so violently, and the rain


was so searching, that she couldnot stay there long. She went intoher own room and I stayed to seewhat could be done.

“Under the forepart of thehouse, there are cellars built ofstone, but not arched. To these,however, there was no access ex-cept on the outside; and I knewfrom my own experience that Su-san could not have gone a step be-yond the door, without being car-ried away by the storm, and prob-ably killed on the spot. The onlychance seemed to be that of break-ing through the floor. But whenthe old Cook and myself resolvedon this, we found that we had noinstrument with which it would bepossible to do it. It was now clearthat we had only God to trust in.The front windows were giving waywith successive crashes, and thefloor shook as you may have seena carpet on a gusty day in London.I went into our bedroom; where Ifound Susan, Tyrrell, and a littleColored girl of seven or eight yearsold; and told them that we shouldprobably not be alive in half anhour. I could have escaped, if I hadchosen to go alone, by crawling onthe ground either into the kitchen,a separate stone building at nogreat distance, or into the open

CHAPTER XII 129

fields away from trees or houses;but Susan could not have gone ayard. She became quite calm whenshe knew the worst; and she saton my knee in what seemed thesafest corner of the room, while ev-ery blast was bringing nearer andnearer the moment of our seem-ingly certain destruction.—

“The house was under two par-allel roofs; and the one next thesea, which sheltered the other, andus who were under the other, wentoff, I suppose about ten o’clock. Af-ter my old plan, I will give you asketch, from which you may per-ceive how we were situated:—

The a, a are the windows that werefirst destroyed: b went next; mybooks were between the windows b,and on the wall opposite to them.The lines c and d mark the direc-tions of the two roofs; e is the roomin which we were, and 2 is a plan ofit on a larger scale. Look now at 2:a is the bed; c, c the two wardrobes;b the corner in which we were. I


was sitting in an arm-chair, hold-ing my Wife; and Tyrrell and thelittle Black child were close to us.We had given up all notion of sur-viving; and only waited for the fallof the roof to perish together.

“Before long the roof went. Mostof the materials, however, were car-ried clear away: one of the largecouples was caught on the bedpostmarked d, and held fast by the ironspike; while the end of it hung overour heads: had the beam fallen aninch on either side of the bedpost,it must necessarily have crushedus. The walls did not go with theroof; and we remained for half anhour, alternately praying to God,and watching them as they bent,creaked, and shivered before thestorm.

“Tyrrell and the child, whenthe roof was off, made their waythrough the remains of the parti-tion, to the outer door; and with thehelp of the people who were look-ing for us, got into the kitchen. Agood while after they were gone,and before we knew anything oftheir fate, a Negro suddenly cameupon us; and the sight of him gaveus a hope of safety. When the peo-ple learned that we were in danger,and while their own huts were fly-ing about their ears, they crowded

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to help us; and the old Cook urgedthem on to our rescue. He madefive attempts, after saving Tyrrell,to get to us; and four times he wasblown down. The fifth time he, andthe Negro we first saw, reached thehouse. The space they had to tra-verse was not above twenty yardsof level ground, if so much. Inanother minute or two, the Over-seers and a crowd of Negroes, mostof whom had come on their handsand knees, were surrounding us;and with their help Susan was car-ried round to the end of the house;where they broke open the cellarwindow, and placed her in compar-ative safety. The force of the hurri-cane was, by this time, a good dealdiminished, or it would have beenimpossible to stand before it.

“But the wind was still terrific;and the rain poured into the cellarsthrough the floor above. Susan,Tyrrell, and a crowd of Negroes re-mained under it, for more than twohours: and I was long afraid thatthe wet and cold would kill her, ifshe did not perish more violently.Happily we had wine and spiritsat hand, and she was much nervedby a tumbler of claret. As soon asI saw her in comparative security,I went off with one of the Over-seers down to the Works, where


the greater number of the Negroeswere collected, that we might seewhat could be done for them. Theywere wretched enough, but no onewas hurt; and I ordered them adram apiece, which seemed to givethem a good deal of consolation.

“Before I could make my wayback, the hurricane became as badas at first; and I was obliged to takeshelter for half an hour in a ru-ined Negro house. This, however,was the last of its extreme violence.By one o’clock, even the rain hadin a great degree ceased; and asonly one room of the house, the onemarked f ; was standing, and thatrickety,—I had Susan carried in achair down the hill, to the Hospi-tal; where, in a small paved un-lighted room, she spent the nexttwenty-four hours. She was far lessinjured than might have been ex-pected from such a catastrophe.

“Next day, I had the passageat the entrance of the house re-paired and roofed; and we returnedto the ruins of our habitation, stillencumbered as they were with thewreck of almost all we were pos-sessed of. The walls of the part ofthe house next the sea were car-ried away, in less I think than halfan hour after we reached the cel-lar: when I had leisure to examine

CHAPTER XII 133

the remains of the house, I foundthe floor strewn with fragments ofthe building, and with broken fur-niture; and our books all soaked ascompletely as if they had been forseveral hours in the sea.

“In the course of a few days Ihad the other room, g, which isunder the same roof as the onesaved, rebuilt; and Susan stayed inthis temporary abode for a week,—when we left Colonarie, and cameto Brighton. Mr. Munro’s kindnessexceeds all precedent. We shall cer-tainly remain here till my Wife isrecovered from her confinement. Inthe mean while we shall have anew house built, in which we hopeto be well settled before Christmas.

“The roof was half blown off thekitchen, but I have had it mendedalready; the other offices were allswept away. The gig is much in-jured; and my horse received awound in the fall of the stable, fromwhich he will not be recovered forsome weeks: in the mean time Ihave no choice but to buy another,as I must go at least once or twicea week to Colonarie, besides busi-ness in Town. As to our own com-forts, we can scarcely expect ever torecover from the blow that has nowstricken us. No money would re-pay me for the loss of my books, of


which a large proportion had beenin my hands for so many yearsthat they were like old and faith-ful friends, and of which many hadbeen given me at different times bythe persons in the world whom Imost value.

“But against all this I have toset the preservation of our lives,in a way the most awfully prov-idential; and the safety of everyone on the Estate. And I havealso the great satisfaction of re-flecting that all the Negroes fromwhom any assistance could reason-ably be expected, behaved like somany Heroes of Antiquity; riskingtheir lives and limbs for us andour property, while their own poorhouses were flying like chaff beforethe hurricane. There are few Whitepeople here who can say as muchfor their Black dependents; and theforce and value of the relation be-tween Master and Slave has beentried by the late calamity on a largescale.

“Great part of both sides of thisIsland has been laid completelywaste. The beautiful wide and fer-tile Plain called the Charib Coun-try, extending for many miles to thenorth of Colonarie, and formerlycontaining the finest sets of worksand best dwelling-houses in the Is-

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land, is, I am told, completely des-olate: on several estates not a roofeven of a Negro hut standing. Inthe embarrassed circumstances ofmany of the proprietors, the ruin is,I fear, irreparable.—At Colonariethe damage is serious, but by nomeans desperate. The crop is per-haps injured ten or fifteen per cent.The roofs of several large buildingsare destroyed, but these we are al-ready supplying; and the injuriesdone to the cottages of the Negroesare, by this time, nearly if not quiteremedied.

“Indeed, all that has been suf-fered in St. Vincent appears noth-ing when compared with the ap-palling loss of property and of hu-man lives at Barbadoes. There theTown is little but a heap of ru-ins, and the corpses are reckonedby thousands; while throughoutthe Island there are not, I believe,ten estates on which the buildingsare standing. The Elliotts, fromwhom we have heard, are livingwith all their family in a tent; andmay think themselves wonderfullysaved, when whole families roundthem were crushed at once beneaththeir houses. Hugh Barton, theonly officer of the Garrison hurt,has broken his arm, and we knownothing of his prospects of recov-


ery. The more horrible misfortuneof Barbadoes is partly to be ac-counted for by the fact of the hurri-cane having begun there during thenight. The flatness of the surface inthat Island presented no obstacleto the wind, which must, however,I think have been in itself more fu-rious than with us. No other islandhas suffered considerably.

“I have told both my Uncle andAnthony that I have given youthe details of our recent history;—which are not so pleasant that Ishould wish to write them again.Perhaps you will be good enough tolet them see this, as soon as youand my Father can spare it.... I amever, dearest Mother,

“Your grateful and affectionate“JOHN STERLING.”

This Letter, I observe, is dated 28th Au-gust, 1831; which is otherwise a day of markto the world and me,—the Poet Goethe’s lastbirthday. While Sterling sat in the Tropi-cal solitudes, penning this history, little Eu-ropean Weimar had its carriages and state-carriages busy on the streets, and was astirwith compliments and visiting-cards, doing itsbest, as heretofore, on behalf of a remarkableday; and was not, for centuries or tens of cen-turies, to see the like of it again!—

At Brighton, the hospitable home of thoseMunros, our friends continued for above

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two months. Their first child, Edward, asabove noticed, was born here, “14th October,1831;”—and now the poor lady, safe from allher various perils, could return to Colonarieunder good auspices.

It was in this year that I first heard defi-nitely of Sterling as a contemporary existence;and laid up some note and outline of him inmy memory, as of one whom I might yet hopeto know. John Mill, Mrs. Austin and perhapsother friends, spoke of him with great affec-tion and much pitying admiration; and hopedto see him home again, under better omens,from over the seas. As a gifted amiable be-ing, of a certain radiant tenuity and velocity,too thin and rapid and diffusive, in danger ofdissipating himself into the vague, or alas intodeath itself: it was so that, like a spot of brightcolors, rather than a portrait with features, hehung occasionally visible in my imagination.

CHAPTER XIII. ACATASTROPHE.

The ruin of his house had hardly been re-paired, when there arrived out of Europe tid-ings which smote as with a still more fa-tal hurricane on the four corners of his in-ner world, and awoke all the old thundersthat lay asleep on his horizon there. Tidings,at last of a decisive nature, from Gibraltarand the Spanish democrat adventure. Thisis what the Newspapers had to report—thecatastrophe at once, the details by degrees—from Spain concerning that affair, in the be-ginning of the new year 1832.

Torrijos, as we have seen, had hitherto ac-complished as good as nothing, except dis-appointment to his impatient followers, andsorrow and regret to himself. Poor Torrijos,on arriving at Gibraltar with his wild band,and coming into contact with the rough fact,had found painfully how much his imagina-tion had deceived him. The fact lay roundhim haggard and iron-bound; flatly refusingto be handled according to his scheme of it.No Spanish soldiery nor citizenry showed the

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least disposition to join him; on the contrarythe official Spaniards of that coast seemedto have the watchfulest eye on all his move-ments, nay it was conjectured they had spiesin Gibraltar who gathered his very intentionsand betrayed them. This small project of at-tack, and then that other, proved futile, or wasabandoned before the attempt. Torrijos hadto lie painfully within the lines of Gibraltar,—his poor followers reduced to extremity of im-patience and distress; the British Governortoo, though not unfriendly to him, obliged tofrown. As for the young Cantabs, they, aswas said, had wandered a little over the Southborder of romantic Spain; had perhaps seenSeville, Cadiz, with picturesque views, sincenot with belligerent ones; and their money be-ing done, had now returned home. So had itlasted for eighteen months.

The French Three Days breaking out hadarmed the Guerrillero Mina, armed all man-ner of democratic guerrieros and guerrilleros;and considerable clouds of Invasion, fromSpanish exiles, hung minatory over the Northand North-East of Spain, supported by thenew-born French Democracy, so far as pri-vately possible. These Torrijos had to lookupon with inexpressible feelings, and take nohand in supporting from the South; these alsohe had to see brushed away, successively abol-ished by official generalship; and to sit withinhis lines, in the painfulest manner, unable todo anything. The fated, gallant-minded, buttoo headlong man. At length the British Gov-ernor himself was obliged, in official decency

CHAPTER XIII 141

and as is thought on repeated remonstrancefrom his Spanish official neighbors, to signifyhow indecorous, improper and impossible itwas to harbor within one’s lines such explo-sive preparations, once they were discovered,against allies in full peace with us,—the ne-cessity, in fact, there was for the matter end-ing. It is said, he offered Torrijos and his peo-ple passports, and British protection, to anycountry of the world except Spain: Torrijos didnot accept the passports; spoke of going peace-ably to this place or to that; promised at least,what he saw and felt to be clearly necessary,that he would soon leave Gibraltar. And hedid soon leave it; he and his, Boyd alone of theEnglishmen being now with him.

It was on the last night of November, 1831,that they all set forth; Torrijos with Fifty-fivecompanions; and in two small vessels com-mitted themselves to their nigh-desperate for-tune. No sentry or official person had noticedthem; it was from the Spanish Consul, nextmorning, that the British Governor first heardthey were gone. The British Governor knewnothing of them; but apparently the Spanishofficials were much better informed. Span-ish guardships, instantly awake, gave chase tothe two small vessels, which were making allsail towards Malaga; and, on shore, all man-ner of troops and detached parties were in mo-tion, to render a retreat to Gibraltar by landimpossible.

Crowd all sail for Malaga, then; there per-haps a regiment will join us; there,—or ifnot, we are but lost! Fancy need not paint


a more tragic situation than that of Torrijos,the unfortunate gallant man, in the gray ofthis morning, first of December, 1831,—hislast free morning. Noble game is afoot, afootat last; and all the hunters have him in theirtoils.—The guardships gain upon Torrijos; hecannot even reach Malaga; has to run ashoreat a place called Fuengirola, not far from thatcity;—the guardships seizing his vessels, sosoon as he is disembarked. The country isall up; troops scouring the coast everywhere:no possibility of getting into Malaga with aparty of Fifty-five. He takes possession of afarmstead (Ingles, the place is called); bar-ricades himself there, but is speedily belea-guered with forces hopelessly superior. Hedemands to treat; is refused all treaty; isgranted six hours to consider, shall then ei-ther surrender at discretion, or be forced todo it. Of course he does it, having no alter-native; and enters Malaga a prisoner, all hisfollowers prisoners. Here had the Torrijos En-terprise, and all that was embarked upon it,finally arrived.

Express is sent to Madrid; express in-stantly returns; “Military execution on theinstant; give them shriving if they want it;that done, fusillade them all.” So poor Tor-rijos and his followers, the whole Fifty-six ofthem, Robert Boyd included, meet swift deathin Malaga. In such manner rushes down thecurtain on them and their affair; they van-ish thus on a sudden; rapt away as in blackclouds of fate. Poor Boyd, Sterling’s cousin,pleaded his British citizenship; to no pur-

CHAPTER XIII 143

pose: it availed only to his dead body, thiswas delivered to the British Consul for inter-ment, and only this. Poor Madam Torrijos,hearing, at Paris where she now was, of herhusband’s capture, hurries towards Madrid tosolicit mercy; whither also messengers fromLafayette and the French Government werehurrying, on the like errand: at Bayonne,news met the poor lady that it was alreadyall over, that she was now a widow, and herhusband hidden from her forever.—Such wasthe handsel of the new year 1832 for Sterlingin his West-Indian solitudes.

Sterling’s friends never heard of these af-fairs; indeed we were all secretly warned notto mention the name of Torrijos in his hearing,which accordingly remained strictly a forbid-den subject. His misery over this catastrophewas known, in his own family, to have beenimmense. He wrote to his Brother Anthony:“I hear the sound of that musketry; it is as ifthe bullets were tearing my own brain.” To fig-ure in one’s sick and excited imagination sucha scene of fatal man-hunting, lost valor hope-lessly captured and massacred; and to add toit, that the victims are not men merely, thatthey are noble and dear forms known latelyas individual friends: what a Dance of theFuries and wild-pealing Dead-march is this,for the mind of a loving, generous and vividman! Torrijos getting ashore at Fuengirola;Robert Boyd and others ranked to die on theesplanade at Malaga—Nay had not Sterling,too, been the innocent yet heedless means ofBoyd’s embarking in this enterprise? By his


own kinsman poor Boyd had been witlesslyguided into the pitfalls. “I hear the sound ofthat musketry; it is as if the bullets were tear-ing my own brain!”

CHAPTER XIV.PAUSE.

These thoughts dwelt long with Sterling; andfor a good while, I fancy, kept possession ofthe proscenium of his mind; madly paradingthere, to the exclusion of all else,—coloring allelse with their own black hues. He was young,rich in the power to be miserable or otherwise;and this was his first grand sorrow which hadnow fallen upon him.

An important spiritual crisis, coming atany rate in some form, had hereby suddenlyin a very sad form come. No doubt, as youthwas passing into manhood in these Tropicalseclusions, and higher wants were awaken-ing in his mind, and years and reflection wereadding new insight and admonition, much inhis young way of thought and action lay al-ready under ban with him, and repentancesenough over many things were not wanting.But here on a sudden had all repentances,as it were, dashed themselves together intoone grand whirlwind of repentance; and hispast life was fallen wholly as into a state ofreprobation. A great remorseful misery had

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come upon him. Suddenly, as with a suddenlightning-stroke, it had kindled into confla-gration all the ruined structure of his past life;such ruin had to blaze and flame round him,in the painfulest manner, till it went out inblack ashes. His democratic philosophies, andmutinous radicalisms, already falling doomedin his thoughts, had reached their consumma-tion and final condemnation here. It was allso rash, imprudent, arrogant, all that; false,or but half true; inapplicable wholly as a ruleof noble conduct;—and it has ended thus. Woeon it! Another guidance must be found in life,or life is impossible!—

It is evident, Sterling’s thoughts had al-ready, since the old days of the “black dra-goon,” much modified themselves. We per-ceive that, by mere increase of experienceand length of time, the opposite and muchdeeper side of the question, which also hasits adamantine basis of truth, was in turncoming into play; and in fine that a Philoso-phy of Denial, and world illuminated merelyby the flames of Destruction, could neverhave permanently been the resting-place ofsuch a man. Those pilgrimings to Coleridge,years ago, indicate deeper wants beginningto be felt, and important ulterior resolutionsbecoming inevitable for him. If in yourown soul there is any tone of the “EternalMelodies,” you cannot live forever in thosepoor outer, transitory grindings and discords;you will have to struggle inwards and up-wards, in search of some diviner home foryourself!—Coleridge’s prophetic moonshine,

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Torrijos’s sad tragedy: those were impor-tant occurrences in Sterling’s life. But, onthe whole, there was a big Ocean for him,with impetuous Gulf-streams, and a doomedvoyage in quest of the Atlantis, before ei-ther of those arose as lights on the hori-zon. As important beacon-lights let us countthem nevertheless;—signal-dates they form tous, at lowest. We may reckon this Torrijostragedy the crisis of Sterling’s history; theturning-point, which modified, in the most im-portant and by no means wholly in the mostfavorable manner, all the subsequent stagesof it.

Old Radicalism and mutinous audaciousEthnicism having thus fallen to wreck, and amere black world of misery and remorse nowdisclosing itself, whatsoever of natural pietyto God and man, whatsoever of pity and rev-erence, of awe and devout hope was in Ster-ling’s heart now awoke into new activity; andstrove for some due utterance and predomi-nance. His Letters, in these months, speak ofearnest religious studies and efforts;—of at-tempts by prayer and longing endeavor of allkinds, to struggle his way into the temple, iftemple there were, and there find sanctuary.10

The realities were grown so haggard; life afield of black ashes, if there rose no templeanywhere on it! Why, like a fated Orestes, isman so whipt by the Furies, and driven madlyhither and thither, if it is not even that he mayseek some shrine, and there make expiation

10Hare, pp. xliii-xlvi.


and find deliverance?In these circumstances, what a scope for

Coleridge’s philosophy, above all! “If the bot-tled moonshine be actually substance? Ah,could one but believe in a Church while find-ing it incredible! What is faith; what is con-viction, credibility, insight? Can a thing beat once known for true, and known for false?‘Reason,’ ‘Understanding:’ is there, then, suchan internecine war between these two? Itwas so Coleridge imagined it, the wisest ofexisting men!”—No, it is not an easy matter(according to Sir Kenelm Digby), this of get-ting up your “astral spirit” of a thing, andsetting it in action, when the thing itselfis well burnt to ashes. Poor Sterling; poorsons of Adam in general, in this sad age ofcobwebs, worn-out symbolisms, reminiscencesand simulacra! Who can tell the strugglesof poor Sterling, and his pathless wanderingsthrough these things! Long afterwards, inspeech with his Brother, he compared his casein this time to that of “a young lady who hastragically lost her lover, and is willing to behalf-hoodwinked into a convent, or in any no-ble or quasi-noble way to escape from a worldwhich has become intolerable.”

During the summer of 1832, I find traces ofattempts towards Anti-Slavery Philanthropy;shadows of extensive schemes in that direc-tion. Half-desperate outlooks, it is likely,towards the refuge of Philanthropism, as anew chivalry of life. These took no serioushold of so clear an intellect; but they hoverednow and afterwards as day-dreams, when life

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otherwise was shorn of aim;—mirages in thedesert, which are found not to be lakes whenyou put your bucket into them. One thing wasclear, the sojourn in St. Vincent was not to lastmuch longer.

Perhaps one might get some scheme raisedinto life, in Downing Street, for universal Ed-ucation to the Blacks, preparatory to emanci-pating them? There were a noble work for aman! Then again poor Mrs. Sterling’s health,contrary to his own, did not agree with warmmoist climates. And again, &c. &c. Thesewere the outer surfaces of the measure; theunconscious pretexts under which it showeditself to Sterling and was shown by him: butthe inner heart and determining cause of it(as frequently in Sterling’s life, and in all ourlives) was not these. In brief, he had hadenough of St. Vincent. The strangling oppres-sions of his soul were too heavy for him there.Solution lay in Europe, or might lie; not inthese remote solitudes of the sea,—where noshrine or saint’s well is to be looked for, nocommuning of pious pilgrims journeying to-gether towards a shrine.

CHAPTER XV.BONN;HERSTMONCEUX.

After a residence of perhaps fifteen monthsSterling quitted St. Vincent, and never re-turned. He reappeared at his Father’s house,to the joy of English friends, in August, 1832;well improved in health, and eager for Englishnews; but, beyond vague schemes and possi-bilities, considerably uncertain what was nextto be done.

After no long stay in this scene,—findingDowning Street dead as stone to the Slave-Education and to all other schemes,—he wentacross, with his wife and child, to Germany;purposing to make not so much a tour as someloose ramble, or desultory residence in thatcountry, in the Rhineland first of all. Herewas to be hoped the picturesque in scenery,which he much affected; here the new andtrue in speculation, which he inwardly longedfor and wanted greatly more; at all events,here as readily as elsewhere might a tempo-rary household be struck up, under interest-

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ing circumstances.—I conclude he went acrossin the Spring of 1833; perhaps directly afterArthur Coningsby had got through the press.This Novel, which, as we have said, was beguntwo or three years ago, probably on his cessa-tion from the Athenæum, and was mainly fin-ished, I think, before the removal to St. Vin-cent, had by this time fallen as good as ob-solete to his own mind; and its destinationnow, whether to the press or to the fire, wasin some sort a matter at once of difficulty andof insignificance to him. At length decidingfor the milder alternative, he had thrown insome completing touches here and there,—especially, as I conjecture, a proportion of Co-leridgean moonshine at the end; and so sent itforth.

It was in the sunny days, perhaps in Mayor June of this year, that Arthur Coningsbyreached my own hand, far off amid the heathywildernesses; sent by John Mill: and I can stillrecollect the pleasant little episode it madein my solitude there. The general impres-sion it left on me, which has never since beenrenewed by a second reading in whole or inpart, was the certain prefigurement to my-self, more or less distinct, of an opulent, ge-nial and sunny mind, but misdirected, dis-appointed, experienced in misery;—nay crudeand hasty; mistaking for a solid outcome fromits woes what was only to me a gilded vacu-ity. The hero an ardent youth, representingSterling himself, plunges into life such as wenow have it in these anarchic times, with theradical, utilitarian, or mutinous heathen the-

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ory, which is the readiest for inquiring souls;finds, by various courses of adventure, uttershipwreck in this; lies broken, very wretched:that is the tragic nodus, or apogee of his life-course. In this mood of mind, he clutches des-perately towards some new method (recogniz-able as Coleridge’s) of laying hand again onthe old Church, which has hitherto been ex-traneous and as if non-extant to his way ofthought; makes out, by some Coleridgean leg-edermain, that there actually is still a Churchfor him; that this extant Church, which helong took for an extinct shadow, is not such,but a substance; upon which he can anchorhimself amid the storms of fate;—and he doesso, even taking orders in it, I think. Suchcould by no means seem to me the true or ten-able solution. Here clearly, struggling amidthe tumults, was a lovable young fellow-soul;who had by no means yet got to land; but ofwhom much might be hoped, if he ever did.Some of the delineations are highly pictorial,flooded with a deep ruddy effulgence; beto-kening much wealth, in the crude or the ripestate. The hope of perhaps, one day, know-ing Sterling, was welcome and interesting tome. Arthur Coningsby, struggling imperfectlyin a sphere high above circulating-library nov-els, gained no notice whatever in that quarter;gained, I suppose in a few scattered heads,some such recognition as the above; and thererested. Sterling never mentioned the name ofit in my hearing, or would hear it mentioned.

In those very days while Arthur Coningsbywas getting read amid the Scottish moors, “in


June, 1833,” Sterling, at Bonn in the Rhine-country, fell in with his old tutor and friend,the Reverend Julius Hare; one with whomhe always delighted to communicate, espe-cially on such topics as then altogether occu-pied him. A man of cheerful serious character,of much approved accomplishment, of perfectcourtesy; surely of much piety, in all senses ofthat word. Mr. Hare had quitted his scholas-tic labors and distinctions, some time ago; thecall or opportunity for taking orders havingcome; and as Rector of Herstmonceux in Sus-sex, a place patrimonially and otherwise en-deared to him, was about entering, under thebest omens, on a new course of life. He wasnow on his return from Rome, and a visit ofsome length to Italy. Such a meeting could notbut be welcome and important to Sterling insuch a mood. They had much earnest conver-sation, freely communing on the highest mat-ters; especially of Sterling’s purpose to under-take the clerical profession, in which coursehis reverend friend could not but bid him goodspeed.

It appears, Sterling already intimated hisintention to become a clergyman: He wouldstudy theology, biblicalities, perfect himself inthe knowledge seemly or essential for his newcourse;—read diligently “for a year or two insome good German University,” then seek toobtain orders: that was his plan. To whichMr. Hare gave his hearty Euge; adding that ifhis own curacy happened then to be vacant,he should be well pleased to have Sterling inthat office. So they parted.

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“A year or two” of serious reflection “insome good German University,” or anywherein the world, might have thrown much elu-cidation upon these confused strugglings andpurposings of Sterling’s, and probably havespared him some confusion in his subsequentlife. But the talent of waiting was, of allothers, the one he wanted most. Impetuousvelocity, all-hoping headlong alacrity, whatwe must call rashness and impatience, char-acterized him in most of his important andunimportant procedures; from the purpose tothe execution there was usually but one bigleap with him. A few months after Mr. Harewas gone, Sterling wrote that his purposeswere a little changed by the late meeting atBonn; that he now longed to enter the Churchstraightway: that if the Herstmonceux Cu-racy was still vacant, and the Rector’s kindthought towards him still held, he would in-stantly endeavor to qualify himself for that of-fice.

Answer being in the affirmative on bothheads, Sterling returned to England; tookorders,—“ordained deacon at Chichester onTrinity Sunday in 1834” (he never becametechnically priest):—and so, having fittedhimself and family with a reasonable house,in one of those leafy lanes in quiet Herstmon-ceux, on the edge of Pevensey Level, he com-menced the duties of his Curacy.

The bereaved young lady has taken theveil, then! Even so. “Life is growing all sodark and brutal; must be redeemed into hu-man, if it will continue life. Some pious hero-


ism, to give a human color to life again, on anyterms,”—even on impossible ones!

To such length can transcendental moon-shine, cast by some morbidly radiating Co-leridge into the chaos of a fermenting life, actmagically there, and produce divulsions andconvulsions and diseased developments. Sodark and abstruse, without lamp or authenticfinger-post, is the course of pious genius to-wards the Eternal Kingdoms grown. No fixedhighway more; the old spiritual highways andrecognized paths to the Eternal, now all tornup and flung in heaps, submerged in unut-terable boiling mud-oceans of Hypocrisy andUnbelievability, of brutal living Atheism anddamnable dead putrescent Cant: surely atragic pilgrimage for all mortals; Darkness,and the mere shadow of Death, envelopingall things from pole to pole; and in the rag-ing gulf-currents, offering us will-o’-wisps forloadstars,—intimating that there are no stars,nor ever were, except certain Old-Jew oneswhich have now gone out. Once more, a tragicpilgrimage for all mortals; and for the youngpious soul, winged with genius, and passion-ately seeking land, and passionately abhor-rent of floating carrion withal, more tragicalthan for any!—A pilgrimage we must all un-dertake nevertheless, and make the best ofwith our respective means. Some arrive; a glo-rious few: many must be lost,—go down uponthe floating wreck which they took for land.Nay, courage! These also, so far as there wasany heroism in them, have bequeathed theirlife as a contribution to us, have valiantly laid

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their bodies in the chasm for us: of these alsothere is no ray of heroism lost,—and, on thewhole, what else of them could or should be“saved” at any time? Courage, and ever For-ward!

Concerning this attempt of Sterling’s tofind sanctuary in the old Church, and des-perately grasp the hem of her garment insuch manner, there will at present be manyopinions: and mine must be recorded here inflat reproval of it, in mere pitying condemna-tion of it, as a rash, false, unwise and un-permitted step. Nay, among the evil lessonsof his Time to poor Sterling, I cannot but ac-count this the worst; properly indeed, as wemay say, the apotheosis, the solemn apologyand consecration, of all the evil lessons thatwere in it to him. Alas, if we did rememberthe divine and awful nature of God’s Truth,and had not so forgotten it as poor doomedcreatures never did before,—should we, durstwe in our most audacious moments, think ofwedding it to the World’s Untruth, which isalso, like all untruths, the Devil’s? Only inthe world’s last lethargy can such things bedone, and accounted safe and pious! Fools!“Do you think the Living God is a buzzardidol,” sternly asks Milton, that you dare ad-dress Him in this manner?—Such darkness,thick sluggish clouds of cowardice and oblivi-ous baseness, have accumulated on us: thick-ening as if towards the eternal sleep! It is notnow known, what never needed proof or state-ment before, that Religion is not a doubt; thatit is a certainty,—or else a mockery and hor-


ror. That none or all of the many things weare in doubt about, and need to have demon-strated and rendered probable, can by anyalchemy be made a “Religion” for us; but areand must continue a baleful, quiet or unquiet,Hypocrisy for us; and bring—salvation, do wefancy? I think, it is another thing they willbring, and are, on all hands, visibly bringingthis good while!—

The time, then, with its deliriums, hasdone its worst for poor Sterling. Into deeperaberration it cannot lead him; this is thecrowning error. Happily, as beseems the su-perlative of errors, it was a very brief, almost amomentary one. In June, 1834, Sterling datesas installed at Herstmonceux; and is flinging,as usual, his whole soul into the business; suc-cessfully so far as outward results could show:but already in September, he begins to havemisgivings; and in February following, quits italtogether,—the rest of his life being, in greatpart, a laborious effort of detail to pick thefragments of it off him, and be free of it in soulas well as in title.

At this the extreme point of spiritual de-flexion and depression, when the world’s mad-ness, unusually impressive on such a man,has done its very worst with him, and in all fu-ture errors whatsoever he will be a little lessmistaken, we may close the First Part of Ster-ling’s Life.

PART II.

159

CHAPTER I.CURATE.

By Mr. Hare’s account, no priest of anyChurch could more fervently address himselfto his functions than Sterling now did. Hewent about among the poor, the ignorant,and those that had need of help; zealouslyforwarded schools and beneficences; strove,with his whole might, to instruct and aidwhosoever suffered consciously in body, or stillworse unconsciously in mind. He had chargedhimself to make the Apostle Paul his model;the perils and voyagings and ultimate mar-tyrdom of Christian Paul, in those old ages,on the great scale, were to be translated intodetail, and become the practical emblem ofChristian Sterling on the coast of Sussex inthis new age. “It would be no longer fromJerusalem to Damascus,” writes Sterling, “toArabia, to Derbe, Lystra, Ephesus, that hewould travel: but each house of his appointedParish would be to him what each of thosegreat cities was,—a place where he wouldbend his whole being, and spend his heart forthe conversion, purification, elevation of those

161


under his influence. The whole man would beforever at work for this purpose; head, heart,knowledge, time, body, possessions, all wouldbe directed to this end.” A high enough modelset before one:—how to be realized!—Sterlinghoped to realize it, to struggle towards realiz-ing it, in some small degree. This is Mr. Hare’sreport of him:—

“He was continually devising somefresh scheme for improving thecondition of the Parish. His aimwas to awaken the minds of thepeople, to arouse their conscience,to call forth their sense of moralresponsibility, to make them feeltheir own sinfulness, their need ofredemption, and thus lead them toa recognition of the Divine Love bywhich that redemption is offered tous. In visiting them he was diligentin all weathers, to the risk of hisown health, which was greatly im-paired thereby; and his gentlenessand considerate care for the sickwon their affection; so that, thoughhis stay was very short, his name isstill, after a dozen years, cherishedby many.”

How beautiful would Sterling be in all this;rushing forward like a host towards victory;playing and pulsing like sunshine or softlightning; busy at all hours to perform hispart in abundant and superabundant mea-sure! “Of that which it was to me personally,”

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continues Mr. Hare, “to have such a fellow-laborer, to live constantly in the freest com-munion with such a friend, I cannot speak.He came to me at a time of heavy affliction,just after I had heard that the Brother, whohad been the sharer of all my thoughts andfeelings from childhood, had bid farewell tohis earthly life at Rome; and thus he seemedgiven to me to make up in some sort for himwhom I had lost. Almost daily did I lookout for his usual hour of coming to me, andwatch his tall slender form walking rapidlyacross the hill in front of my window; withthe assurance that he was coming to cheerand brighten, to rouse and stir me, to call meup to some height of feeling, or down to somedepth of thought. His lively spirit, respond-ing instantaneously to every impulse of Na-ture and Art; his generous ardor in behalf ofwhatever is noble and true; his scorn of allmeanness, of all false pretences and conven-tional beliefs, softened as it was by compas-sion for the victims of those besetting sins of acultivated age; his never-flagging impetuosityin pushing onward to some unattained pointof duty or of knowledge: all this, along withhis gentle, almost reverential affectionatenesstowards his former tutor, rendered my inter-course with him an unspeakable blessing; andtime after time has it seemed to me that hisvisit had been like a shower of rain, bring-ing down freshness and brightness on a dustyroadside hedge. By him too the recollectionof these our daily meetings was cherished till


the last.”11

There are many poor people still at Her-stmonceux who affectionately remember him:Mr. Hare especially makes mention of onegood man there, in his young days “a poorcobbler,” and now advanced to a much betterposition, who gratefully ascribes this outwardand the other improvements in his life to Ster-ling’s generous encouragement and charitablecare for him. Such was the curate life at Her-stmonceux. So, in those actual leafy lanes, onthe edge of Pevensey Level, in this new age,did our poor New Paul (on hest of certain or-acles) diligently study to comport himself,—and struggle with all his might not to be amoonshine shadow of the First Paul.

It was in this summer of 1834,—month ofMay, shortly after arriving in London,—thatI first saw Sterling’s Father. A stout broadgentleman of sixty, perpendicular in attitude,rather showily dressed, and of gracious, in-genious and slightly elaborate manners. Itwas at Mrs. Austin’s in Bayswater; he wasjust taking leave as I entered, so our inter-view lasted only a moment: but the figureof the man, as Sterling’s father, had alreadyan interest for me, and I remember the timewell. Captain Edward Sterling, as we for-merly called him, had now quite dropt themilitary title, nobody even of his friends nowremembering it; and was known, accordingto his wish, in political and other circles, asMr. Sterling, a private gentleman of some fig-

11Hare, xlviii, liv, lv.

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ure. Over whom hung, moreover, a kind ofmysterious nimbus as the principal or one ofthe principal writers in the Times, which gavean interesting chiaroscuro to his character insociety. A potent, profitable, but somewhatquestionable position; of which, though he af-fected, and sometimes with anger, altogetherto disown it, and rigorously insisted on therights of anonymity, he was not unwilling totake the honors too: the private pecuniary ad-vantages were very undeniable; and his recep-tion in the Clubs, and occasionally in higherquarters, was a good deal modelled on the uni-versal belief in it.

John Sterling at Herstmonceux that after-noon, and his Father here in London, wouldhave offered strange contrasts to an eye thathad seen them both. Contrasts, and yet con-cordances. They were two very different-looking men, and were following two very dif-ferent modes of activity that afternoon. Andyet with a strange family likeness, too, bothin the men and their activities; the centralimpulse in each, the faculties applied to fulfilsaid impulse, not at all dissimilar,—as grewvisible to me on farther knowledge.

CHAPTER II. NOTCURATE.

Thus it went on for some months at Herst-monceux; but thus it could not last. We saidthere were already misgivings as to health,&c. in September:12 that was but the fourthmonth, for it had begun only in June. The likeclouds of misgiving, flights of dark vapor, che-quering more and more the bright sky of thispromised land, rose heavier and rifer monthafter month; till in February following, thatis in the eighth month from starting, the skyhad grown quite overshaded; and poor Ster-ling had to think practically of departure fromhis promised land again, finding that the goalof his pilgrimage was not there. Not there,wherever it may be! March again, therefore;the abiding city, and post at which we can liveand die, is still ahead of us, it would appear!

“Ill-health” was the external cause; and,to all parties concerned, to Sterling himselfI have no doubt as completely as to any, theone determining cause. Nor was the ill-healthwanting; it was there in too sad reality. And

12Hare, p. lvi.

167


yet properly it was not there as the burden; itwas there as the last ounce which broke thecamel’s back. I take it, in this as in othercases known to me, ill-health was not theprimary cause but rather the ultimate one,the summing-up of innumerable far deeperconscious and unconscious causes,—the causewhich could boldly show itself on the surface,and give the casting vote. Such was oftenSterling’s way, as one could observe in suchcases: though the most guileless, undeceptiveand transparent of men, he had a noticeable,almost childlike faculty of self-deception, andusually substituted for the primary determin-ing motive and set of motives, some ultimateostensible one, and gave that out to himselfand others as the ruling impulse for impor-tant changes in life. As is the way with muchmore ponderous and deliberate men;—as isthe way, in a degree, with all men!

Enough, in February, 1835, Sterlingcame up to London, to consult with hisphysicians,—and in fact in all ways to con-sider with himself and friends,—what was tobe done in regard to this Herstmonceux busi-ness. The oracle of the physicians, like thatof Delphi, was not exceedingly determinate:but it did bear, what was a sufficiently unde-niable fact, that Sterling’s constitution, witha tendency to pulmonary ailments, was ill-suited for the office of a preacher; that totalabstinence from preaching for a year or twowould clearly be the safer course. To whicheffect he writes to Mr. Hare with a tone ofsorrowful agitation; gives up his clerical du-

CHAPTER II 169

ties at Herstmonceux;—and never resumedthem there or elsewhere. He had been in theChurch eight months in all: a brief sectionof his life, but an important one, which col-ored several of his subsequent years, and nowstrangely colors all his years in the memory ofsome.

This we may account the second grand cri-sis of his History. Radicalism, not long since,had come to its consummation, and vanishedfrom him in a tragic manner. “Not by Rad-icalism is the path to Human Nobleness forme!” And here now had English Priesthoodrisen like a sun, over the waste ruins andextinct volcanoes of his dead Radical world,with promise of new blessedness and heal-ing under its Wings; and this too has soonfound itself an illusion: “Not by Priesthoodeither lies the way, then. Once more, wheredoes the way lie!”—To follow illusions till theyburst and vanish is the lot of all new soulswho, luckily or lucklessly, are left to their ownchoice in starting on this Earth. The roads aremany; the authentic finger-posts are few,—never fewer than in this era, when in so manysenses the waters are out. Sterling of all menhad the quickest sense for nobleness, heroismand the human summum bonum; the liveli-est headlong spirit of adventure and audacity;few gifted living men less stubbornness of per-severance. Illusions, in his chase of the sum-mum bonum, were not likely to be wanting;aberrations, and wasteful changes of course,were likely to be many! It is in the historyof such vehement, trenchant, far-shining and


yet intrinsically light and volatile souls, mis-sioned into this epoch to seek their way there,that we best see what a confused epoch it is.

This clerical aberration,—for such it un-doubtedly was in Sterling,—we have ascribedto Coleridge; and do clearly think that hadthere been no Coleridge, neither had thisbeen,—nor had English Puseyism or someother strange enough universal portents been.Nevertheless, let us say farther that it laypartly in the general bearing of the world forsuch a man. This battle, universal in our sadepoch of “all old things passing away” against“all things becoming new,” has its summaryand animating heart in that of Radicalismagainst Church; there, as in its flaming core,and point of focal splendor, does the heroicworth that lies in each side of the quarrelmost clearly disclose itself; and Sterling wasthe man, above many, to recognize such worthon both sides. Natural enough, in such aone, that the light of Radicalism having goneout in darkness for him, the opposite splen-dor should next rise as the chief, and invitehis loyalty till it also failed. In one form orthe other, such an aberration was not unlikelyfor him. But an aberration, especially in thisform, we may certainly call it. No man ofSterling’s veracity, had he clearly consultedhis own heart, or had his own heart beencapable of clearly responding, and not beendazzled and bewildered by transient fantasiesand theosophic moonshine, could have under-taken this function. His heart would have an-swered: “No, thou canst not. What is incredi-

CHAPTER II 171

ble to thee, thou shalt not, at thy soul’s peril,attempt to believe!—Elsewhither for a refuge,or die here. Go to Perdition if thou must,—but not with a lie in thy mouth; by the Eter-nal Maker, no!”

Alas, once more! How are poor mortalswhirled hither and thither in the tumultuouschaos of our era; and, under the thick smoke-canopy which has eclipsed all stars, how dothey fly now after this poor meteor, now af-ter that!—Sterling abandoned his clerical of-fice in February, 1835; having held it, and ar-dently followed it, so long as we say,—eightcalendar months in all.

It was on this his February expedition toLondon that I first saw Sterling,—at the In-dia House incidentally, one afternoon, where Ifound him in company with John Mill, whom Ihappened like himself to be visiting for a fewminutes. The sight of one whose fine quali-ties I had often heard of lately, was interest-ing enough; and, on the whole, proved not dis-appointing, though it was the translation ofdream into fact, that is of poetry into prose,and showed its unrhymed side withal. A loose,careless-looking, thin figure, in careless dimcostume, sat, in a lounging posture, carelesslyand copiously talking. I was struck with thekindly but restless swift-glancing eyes, whichlooked as if the spirits were all out coursinglike a pack of merry eager beagles, beating ev-ery bush. The brow, rather sloping in form,was not of imposing character, though againthe head was longish, which is always the bestsign of intellect; the physiognomy in general


indicated animation rather than strength.We talked rapidly of various unmemorable

things: I remember coming on the Negroes,and noticing that Sterling’s notion on theSlavery Question had not advanced into thestage of mine. In reference to the ques-tion whether an “engagement for life,” onjust terms, between parties who are fixed inthe character of master and servant, as theWhites and the Negroes are, is not really bet-ter than one from day to day,—he said with akindly jeer, “I would have the Negroes them-selves consulted as to that!”—and would notin the least believe that the Negroes wereby no means final or perfect judges of it.—His address, I perceived, was abrupt, uncer-emonious; probably not at all disinclined tologic, and capable of dashing in upon youlike a charge of Cossacks, on occasion: butit was also eminently ingenious, social, guile-less. We did all very well together: andSterling and I walked westward in company,choosing whatever lanes or quietest streetsthere were, as far as Knightsbridge where ourroads parted; talking on moralities, theologi-cal philosophies; arguing copiously, but exceptin opinion not disagreeing

In his notions on such subjects, the ex-pected Coleridge cast of thought was very vis-ible; and he seemed to express it even withexaggeration, and in a fearless dogmatic man-ner. Identity of sentiment, difference of opin-ion: these are the known elements of a pleas-ant dialogue. We parted with the mutual wishto meet again;—which accordingly, at his Fa-

CHAPTER II 173

ther’s house and at mine, we soon repeatedlydid; and already, in the few days before hisreturn to Herstmonceux, had laid the foun-dations of a frank intercourse, pointing to-wards pleasant intimacies both with himselfand with his circle, which in the future wereabundantly fulfilled. His Mother, essentiallyand even professedly “Scotch,” took to my Wifegradually with a most kind maternal relation;his Father, a gallant showy stirring gentle-man, the Magus of the Times, had talk and ar-gument ever ready, was an interesting figure,and more and more took interest in us. Wehad unconsciously made an acquisition, whichgrew richer and wholesomer with every newyear; and ranks now, seen in the pale moon-light of memory, and must ever rank, amongthe precious possessions of life.

Sterling’s bright ingenuity, and also his au-dacity, velocity and alacrity, struck me moreand more. It was, I think, on the occasionof a party given one of these evenings at hisFather’s, where I remember John Mill, JohnCrawford, Mrs. Crawford, and a number ofyoung and elderly figures of distinction,—thata group having formed on the younger sideof the room, and transcendentalisms and the-ologies forming the topic, a number of deepthings were said in abrupt conversationalstyle, Sterling in the thick of it. For exam-ple, one sceptical figure praised the Churchof England, in Hume’s phrase, “as a Churchtending to keep down fanaticism,” and rec-ommendable for its very indifferency; where-upon a transcendental figure urges him: “You


are afraid of the horse’s kicking: but willyou sacrifice all qualities to being safe fromthat? Then get a dead horse. None com-parable to that for not kicking in your sta-ble!” Upon which, a laugh; with new laughson other the like occasions;—and at last, inthe fire of some discussion, Sterling, who wasunusually eloquent and animated, broke outwith this wild phrase, “I could plunge into thebottom of Hell, if I were sure of finding theDevil there and getting him strangled!” Whichproduced the loudest laugh of all; and had tobe repeated, on Mrs. Crawford’s inquiry, to thehouse at large; and, creating among the eldersa kind of silent shudder,—though we urgedthat the feat would really be a good invest-ment of human industry,—checked or stoptthese theologic thunders for the evening. Istill remember Sterling as in one of his mostanimated moods that evening. He probablyreturned to Herstmonceux next day, wherehe proposed yet to reside for some indefinitetime.

Arrived at Herstmonceux, he had not for-gotten us. One of his Letters written theresoon after was the following, which much en-tertained me, in various ways. It turns ona poor Book of mine, called Sartor Resartus;which was not then even a Book, but wasstill hanging desolately under bibliopolic dif-ficulties, now in its fourth or fifth year, onthe wrong side of the river, as a mere ag-gregate of Magazine Articles; having at lastbeen slit into that form, and lately completedso, and put together into legibility. I suppose

CHAPTER II 175

Sterling had borrowed it of me. The adven-turous hunter spirit which had started sucha bemired Auerochs, or Urus of the Germanwoods, and decided on chasing that as game,struck me not a little;—and the poor Wood-Ox,so bemired in the forests, took it as a compli-ment rather:—

To Thomas Carlyle, Esq.,Chelsea, London.

“HERSTMONCEUX NEAR BATTLE,“29TH MAY, 1835.

“MY DEAR CARLYLE,—I have now read twice, with

care, the wondrous account ofTeufelsdrockh and his Opinions;and I need not say that it has givenme much to think of. It falls inwith the feelings and tastes whichwere, for years, the ruling ones ofmy life; but which you will not beangry with me when I say that Iam infinitely and hourly thankfulfor having escaped from. Not thatI think of this state of mind asone with which I have no longerany concern. The sense of a one-ness of life and power in all exis-tence; and of a boundless exuber-ance of beauty around us, to whichmost men are well-nigh dead, is apossession which no one that hasever enjoyed it would wish to lose.


When to this we add the deep feel-ing of the difference between theactual and the ideal in Nature,and still more in Man; and bringin, to explain this, the principleof duty, as that which connects uswith a possible Higher State, andsets us in progress towards it,—wehave a cycle of thoughts which wasthe whole spiritual empire of thewisest Pagans, and which mightwell supply food for the wide spec-ulations and richly creative fancyof Teufelsdrockh, or his prototypeJean Paul.

“How then comes it, we can-not but ask, that these ideas, dis-played assuredly with no wantof eloquence, vivacity or earnest-ness, have found, unless I ammuch mistaken, so little accep-tance among the best and mostenergetic minds in this country?In a country where millions readthe Bible, and thousands Shak-speare; where Wordsworth cir-culates through book-clubs anddrawing-rooms; where there areinnumerable admirers of your fa-vorite Burns; and where Coleridge,by sending from his solitude thevoice of earnest spiritual instruc-tion, came to be beloved, stud-ied and mourned for, by no smallor careless school of disciples?—

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To answer this question would, ofcourse, require more thought andknowledge than I can pretend tobring to it. But there are somepoints on which I will venture tosay a few words.

“In the first place, as to theform of composition,—which maybe called, I think, the Rhapsodico-Reflective. In this the Sartor Resar-tus resembles some of the master-works of human invention, whichhave been acknowledged as such bymany generations; and especiallythe works of Rabelais, Montaigne,Sterne and Swift. There is noth-ing I know of in Antiquity like it.That which comes nearest is per-haps the Platonic Dialogue. Butof this, although there is some-thing of the playful and fancifulon the surface, there is in realityneither in the language (which isausterely determined to its end),nor in the method and progres-sion of the work, any of that head-long self-asserting capriciousness,which, if not discernible in the planof Teufelsdrockh’s Memoirs, is yetplainly to be seen in the structureof the sentences, the lawless oddity,and strange heterogeneous combi-nation and allusion. The princi-ple of this difference, observable of-ten elsewhere in modern literature


(for the same thing is to be found,more or less, in many of our mostgenial works of imagination,—DonQuixote, for instance, and the writ-ings of Jeremy Taylor), seems tobe that well-known one of the pre-dominant objectivity of the Paganmind; while among us the subjec-tive has risen into superiority, andbrought with it in each individuala multitude of peculiar associationsand relations. These, as not expli-cable from any one external princi-ple assumed as a premise by theancient philosopher, were rejectedfrom the sphere of his aestheticcreation: but to us they all havea value and meaning; being con-nected by the bond of our own per-sonality and all alike existing inthat infinity which is its arena.

“But however this may be, andcomparing the TeufelsdrockheanEpopee only with those other mod-ern works,—it is noticeable thatRabelais, Montaigne and Sternehave trusted for the currency oftheir writings, in a great degree,to the use of obscene and sensualstimulants. Rabelais, besides, wasfull of contemporary and personalsatire; and seems to have been achampion in the great cause of histime,—as was Montaigne also,—that of the right of thought in all

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competent minds, unrestrained byany outward authority. Montaigne,moreover, contains more pleasantand lively gossip, and more distinctgood-humored painting of his owncharacter and daily habits, thanany other writer I know. Sterneis never obscure, and never moral;and the costume of his subjects isdrawn from the familiar experienceof his own time and country: andSwift, again, has the same meritof the clearest perspicuity, joinedto that of the most homely, un-affected, forcible English. Thesepoints of difference seem to me thechief ones which bear against thesuccess of the Sartor. On the otherhand, there is in Teufelsdrockh adepth and fervor of feeling, and apower of serious eloquence, far be-yond that of any of these four writ-ers; and to which indeed there isnothing at all comparable in anyof them, except perhaps now andthen, and very imperfectly, in Mon-taigne.

“Of the other points of compar-ison there are two which I wouldchiefly dwell on: and first as to thelanguage. A good deal of this is pos-itively barbarous. ‘Environment,’‘vestural,’ ‘stertorous,’ ‘visualized,’‘complected,’ and others to be foundI think in the first twenty pages,—


are words, so far as I know, with-out any authority; some of themcontrary to analogy: and none re-paying by their value the disad-vantage of novelty. To these mustbe added new and erroneous locu-tions; ‘whole other tissues’ for allthe other, and similar uses of theword whole; ‘orients’ for pearls; ‘lu-cid’ and ‘lucent’ employed as if theywere different in meaning; ‘hulls’perpetually for coverings, it beinga word hardly used, and then onlyfor the husk of a nut; ‘to insurea man of misapprehension;’ ‘tal-ented,’ a mere newspaper and hus-tings word, invented, I believe, byO’Connell.

“I must also mention the con-stant recurrence of some wordsin a quaint and queer connec-tion, which gives a grotesque andsomewhat repulsive mannerism tomany sentences. Of these the com-monest offender is ‘quite;’ whichappears in almost every page, andgives at first a droll kind of empha-sis; but soon becomes wearisome.‘Nay,’ ‘manifold,’ ‘cunning enoughsignificance,’ ‘faculty’ (meaning aman’s rational or moral power),‘special,’ ‘not without,’ haunt thereader as if in some uneasy dreamwhich does not rise to the dignity ofnightmare. Some of these strange

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mannerisms fall under the generalhead of a singularity peculiar, sofar as I know, to Teufelsdrockh. Forinstance, that of the incessant useof a sort of odd superfluous qual-ification of his assertions; whichseems to give the character of delib-erateness and caution to the style,but in time sounds like mere trickor involuntary habit. ‘Almost’ doesmore than yeoman’s, almost slave’sservice in this way. Something sim-ilar may be remarked of the use ofthe double negative by way of affir-mation.

“Under this head, of language,may be mentioned, though not withstrict grammatical accuracy, twostanding characteristics of the Pro-fessor’s style,—at least as renderedinto English: First, the composi-tion of words, such as ‘snow-and-rosebloom maiden:’ an attractivedamsel doubtless in Germany, but,with all her charms, somewhat un-couth here. ‘Life-vision’ is anotherexample; and many more might befound. To say nothing of the innu-merable cases in which the wordsare only intelligible as a compoundterm, though not distinguished byhyphens. Of course the composi-tion of words is sometimes allow-able even in English: but the habitof dealing with German seems to


have produced, in the pages beforeus, a prodigious superabundance ofthis form of expression; which givesharshness and strangeness, wherethe matter would at all events havebeen surprising enough. Secondly,I object, with the same qualifica-tion, to the frequent use of inver-sion; which generally appears as atransposition of the two membersof a clause, in a way which wouldnot have been practiced in conver-sation. It certainly gives empha-sis and force, and often serves topoint the meaning. But a style maybe fatiguing and faulty preciselyby being too emphatic, forcible andpointed; and so straining the atten-tion to find its meaning, or the ad-miration to appreciate its beauty.

“Another class of considerationsconnects itself with the heightenedand plethoric fulness of the style:its accumulation and contrast ofimagery; its occasional jerking andalmost spasmodic violence;—andabove all, the painful subjectiveexcitement, which seems the ele-ment and groundwork even of ev-ery description of Nature; oftentaking the shape of sarcasm orbroad jest, but never subsiding intocalm. There is also a point whichI should think worth attending to,were I planning any similar book:

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I mean the importance, in a workof imagination, of not too much dis-turbing in the reader’s mind thebalance of the New and Old. Theformer addresses itself to his ac-tive, the latter to his passive fac-ulty; and these are mutually de-pendent, and must coexist in cer-tain proportion, if you wish to com-bine his sympathy and progressiveexertion with willingness and easeof attention. This should be takeninto account in forming a style; forof course it cannot be consciouslythought of in composing each sen-tence.

“But chiefly it seems importantin determining the plan of a work.If the tone of feeling, the line ofspeculation are out of the commonway, and sure to present some diffi-culty to the average reader, then itwould probably be desirable to se-lect, for the circumstances, draperyand accessories of all kinds, thosemost familiar, or at least most at-tractive. A fable of the homeli-est purport, and commonest every-day application, derives an inter-est and charm from its turningon the characters and acts of godsand genii, lions and foxes, Arabsand Affghauns. On the contrary,for philosophic inquiry and truthsof awful preciousness, I would se-


lect as my personages and inter-locutors beings with whose lan-guage and ‘whereabouts’ my read-ers would be familiar. Thus didPlato in his Dialogues, Christ inhis Parables. Therefore it seemsdoubtful whether it was judiciousto make a German Professor thehero of Sartor. Berkeley beganhis Siris with tar-water; but whatcan English readers be expected tomake of Gukguk by way of preli-bation to your nectar and tokay?The circumstances and details donot flash with living reality on theminds of your readers, but, on thecontrary, themselves require someof that attention and minute spec-ulation, the whole original stockof which, in the minds of most ofthem, would not be too much to en-able them to follow your views ofMan and Nature. In short, thereis not a sufficient basis of the com-mon to justify the amount of pecu-liarity in the work. In a book ofscience, these considerations wouldof course be inapplicable; but thenthe whole shape and coloring ofthe book must be altered to makeit such; and a man who wishesmerely to get at the philosophicalresult, or summary of the whole,will regard the details and illustra-tions as so much unprofitable sur-

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plusage.“The sense of strangeness is

also awakened by the marvellouscombinations, in which the workabounds to a degree that the com-mon reader must find perfectly be-wildering. This can hardly, how-ever, be treated as a consequenceof the style; for the style in thisrespect coheres with, and springsfrom, the whole turn and tendencyof thought. The noblest imagesare objects of a humorous smile, ina mind which sees itself above allNature and throned in the arms ofan Almighty Necessity; while themeanest have a dignity, inasmuchas they are trivial symbols of thesame one life to which the greatwhole belongs. And hence, as Idivine, the startling whirl of in-congruous juxtaposition, which of atruth must to many readers seemas amazing as if the Pythia onthe tripod should have struck upa drinking-song, or Thersites hadcaught the prophetic strain of Cas-sandra.

“All this, of course, appears tome true and relevant; but I can-not help feeling that it is, after all,but a poor piece of quackery to com-ment on a multitude of phenomenawithout adverting to the principlewhich lies at the root, and gives


the true meaning to them all. Nowthis principle I seem to myself tofind in the state of mind which isattributed to Teufelsdrockh; in hisstate of mind, I say, not in his opin-ions, though these are, in him asin all men, most important,—beingone of the best indices to his stateof mind. Now what distinguisheshim, not merely from the greatestand best men who have been onearth for eighteen hundred years,but from the whole body of thosewho have been working forwardstowards the good, and have beenthe salt and light of the world, isthis: That he does not believe ina God. Do not be indignant, I amblaming no one;—but if I write mythoughts, I must write them hon-estly.

“Teufelsdrockh does not belongto the herd of sensual and thought-less men; because he does perceivein all Existence a unity of power;because he does believe that this isa real power external to him anddominant to a certain extent overhim, and does not think that heis himself a shadow in a world ofshadows. He had a deep feelingof the beautiful, the good and thetrue; and a faith in their final vic-tory.

“At the same time, how evi-

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dent is the strong inward unrest,the Titanic heaving of mountainon mountain; the storm-like rush-ing over land and sea in search ofpeace. He writhes and roars un-der his consciousness of the differ-ence in himself between the pos-sible and the actual, the hoped-for and the existent. He feelsthat duty is the highest law ofhis own being; and knowing howit bids the waves be stilled intoan icy fixedness and grandeur, hetrusts (but with a boundless in-ward misgiving) that there is aprinciple of order which will reduceall confusion to shape and clear-ness. But wanting peace himself,his fierce dissatisfaction fixes on allthat is weak, corrupt and imper-fect around him; and instead of acalm and steady co-operation withall those who are endeavoring toapply the highest ideas as reme-dies for the worst evils, he holdshimself aloof in savage isolation;and cherishes (though he dare notown) a stern joy at the prospect ofthat Catastrophe which is to turnloose again the elements of man’ssocial life, and give for a time thevictory to evil;—in hopes that eachnew convulsion of the world mustbring us nearer to the ultimaterestoration of all things; fancying


that each may be the last. Want-ing the calm and cheerful reliance,which would be the spring of activeexertion, he flatters his own dis-temper by persuading himself thathis own age and generation are pe-culiarly feeble and decayed; andwould even perhaps be willing toexchange the restless immaturityof our self-consciousness, and thepromise of its long throe-pangs, forthe unawakened undoubting sim-plicity of the world’s childhood; ofthe times in which there was all theevil and horror of our day, only withthe difference that conscience hadnot arisen to try and condemn it. Inthese longings, if they are Teufels-drockh’s, he seems to forget that,could we go back five thousandyears, we should only have theprospect of travelling them again,and arriving at last at the samepoint at which we stand now.

“Something of this state of mindI may say that I understand; forI have myself experienced it. Andthe root of the matter appears tome: A want of sympathy with thegreat body of those who are nowendeavoring to guide and help on-ward their fellow-men. And inwhat is this alienation grounded?It is, as I believe, simply in thedifference on that point: viz. the

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clear, deep, habitual recognition ofa one Living Personal God, essen-tially good, wise, true and holy, theAuthor of all that exists; and a re-union with whom is the only endof all rational beings. This belief...[There follow now several pageson “Personal God,” and other ab-struse or indeed properly unspeak-able matters; these, and a generalPostscript of qualifying purport, Iwill suppress; extracting only thefollowing fractions, as luminous orslightly significant to us:]

“Now see the difference ofTeufelsdrockh’s feelings. At theend of book iii. chap. 8, I find thesewords: ‘But whence? O Heaven,whither? Sense knows not; Faithknows not; only that it is throughmystery to mystery, from God toGod.

‘We are such stuffAs dreams are made of, and our little lifeIs rounded with a sleep.’

And this tallies with the wholestrain of his character. What wefind everywhere, with an abun-dant use of the name of God, isthe conception of a formless Infi-nite whether in time or space; ofa high inscrutable Necessity, whichit is the chief wisdom and virtue tosubmit to, which is the mysterious


impersonal base of all Existence,—shows itself in the laws of everyseparate being’s nature; and forman in the shape of duty. On theother hand, I affirm, we do knowwhence we come and whither wego!—

... “And in this state of mind, asthere is no true sympathy with oth-ers, just as little is there any truepeace for ourselves. There is indeedpossible the unsympathizing facti-tious calm of Art, which we find inGoethe. But at what expense is itbought? Simply, by abandoning al-together the idea of duty, which isthe great witness of our personal-ity. And he attains his inhumanghastly calmness by reducing theUniverse to a heap of material forthe idea of beauty to work on!—

... “The sum of all I have beenwriting as to the connection of ourfaith in God with our feeling to-wards men and our mode of action,may of course be quite erroneous:but granting its truth, it wouldsupply the one principle which Ihave been seeking for, in order toexplain the peculiarities of style inyour account of Teufelsdrockh andhis writings.... The life and worksof Luther are the best comment Iknow of on this doctrine of mine.

“Reading over what I have writ-

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ten, I find I have not nearly donejustice to my own sense of thegenius and moral energy of thebook; but this is what you will bestexcuse.—Believe me most sincerelyand faithfully yours,

“JOHN STERLING.”

Here are sufficient points of “discrepancywith agreement,” here is material for talkand argument enough; and an expanse of freediscussion open, which requires rather to bespeedily restricted for convenience’ sake, thanallowed to widen itself into the boundless, asit tends to do!—

In all Sterling’s Letters to myself and oth-ers, a large collection of which now lies be-fore me, duly copied and indexed, there is,to one that knew his speech as well, a per-haps unusual likeness between the speechand the Letters; and yet, for most part, witha great inferiority on the part of these. These,thrown off, one and all of them, without pre-meditation, and with most rapid-flowing pen,are naturally as like his speech as writingcan well be; this is their grand merit to us:but on the other hand, the want of the liv-ing tones, swift looks and motions, and man-ifold dramatic accompaniments, tells heavily,more heavily than common. What can be donewith champagne itself, much more with soda-water, when the gaseous spirit is fled! Thereader, in any specimens he may see, mustbear this in mind.

Meanwhile these Letters do excel in hon-


esty, in candor and transparency; their verycarelessness secures their excellence in thisrespect. And in another much deeper andmore essential respect I must likewise callthem excellent,—in their childlike goodness,in the purity of heart, the noble affectionand fidelity they everywhere manifest in thewriter. This often touchingly strikes a famil-iar friend in reading them; and will awakenreminiscences (when you have the commen-tary in your own memory) which are sad andbeautiful, and not without reproach to you onoccasion. To all friends, and all good causes,this man is true; behind their back as be-fore their face, the same man!—Such traits ofthe autobiographic sort, from these Letters, ascan serve to paint him or his life, and promisenot to weary the reader, I must endeavor toselect, in the sequel.

CHAPTER III.BAYSWATER

Sterling continued to reside at Herstmonceuxthrough the spring and summer; holding bythe peaceable retired house he still had there,till the vague future might more definitelyshape itself, and better point out what placeof abode would suit him in his new circum-stances. He made frequent brief visits to Lon-don; in which I, among other friends, fre-quently saw him, our acquaintance at eachvisit improving in all ways. Like a swift dash-ing meteor he came into our circle; corus-cated among us, for a day or two, with suddenpleasant illumination; then again suddenlywithdrew,—we hoped, not for long.

I suppose, he was full of uncertainties; butundoubtedly was gravitating towards London.Yet, on the whole, on the surface of him,you saw no uncertainties; far from that: itseemed always rather with peremptory reso-lutions, and swift express businesses, that hewas charged. Sickly in body, the testimonysaid: but here always was a mind that gaveyou the impression of peremptory alertness,

193


cheery swift decision,—of a health which youmight have called exuberant. I remember dia-logues with him, of that year; one pleasant di-alogue under the trees of the Park (where now,in 1851, is the thing called “Crystal Palace”),with the June sunset flinging long shadowsfor us; the last of the Quality just vanish-ing for dinner, and the great night beginningto prophesy of itself. Our talk (like that ofthe foregoing Letter) was of the faults of mystyle, of my way of thinking, of my &c. &c.;all which admonitions and remonstrances, sofriendly and innocent, from this young junior-senior, I was willing to listen to, though un-able, as usual, to get almost any practical holdof them. As usual, the garments do not fit you,you are lost in the garments, or you cannot getinto them at all; this is not your suit of clothes,it must be another’s:—alas, these are not yourdimensions, these are only the optical anglesyou subtend; on the whole, you will never getmeasured in that way!—

Another time, of date probably verycontiguous, I remember hearing Sterlingpreach. It was in some new college-chapel inSomerset-house (I suppose, what is now calledKing’s College); a very quiet small place, theaudience student-looking youths, with a fewelder people, perhaps mostly friends of thepreacher’s. The discourse, delivered with agrave sonorous composure, and far surpassingin talent the usual run of sermons, had withalan air of human veracity as I still recollect,and bespoke dignity and piety of mind: butgave me the impression rather of artistic ex-

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cellence than of unction or inspiration in thatkind. Sterling returned with us to Chelseathat day;—and in the afternoon we went onthe Thames Putney-ward together, we twowith my Wife; under the sunny skies, on thequiet water, and with copious cheery talk, theremembrance of which is still present enoughto me.

This was properly my only specimen ofSterling’s preaching. Another time, late in thesame autumn, I did indeed attend him oneevening to some Church in the City,—a bigChurch behind Cheapside, “built by Wren” ashe carefully informed me;—but there, in mywearied mood, the chief subject of reflectionwas the almost total vacancy of the place, andhow an eloquent soul was preaching to merelamps and prayer-books; and of the sermonI retain no image. It came up in the way ofbanter, if he ever urged the duty of “Churchextension,” which already he very seldom didand at length never, what a specimen we oncehad of bright lamps, gilt prayer-books, baize-lined pews, Wren-built architecture; and how,in almost all directions, you might have fireda musket through the church, and hit noChristian life. A terrible outlook indeed forthe Apostolic laborer in the brick-and-mortarline!—

In the Autumn of this same 1835, he re-moved permanently to London, whither allsummer he had been evidently tending; tooka house in Bayswater, an airy suburb, halftown, half country, near his Father’s, andwithin fair distance of his other friends and


objects; and decided to await there what theultimate developments of his course might be.His house was in Orme Square, close by thecorner of that little place (which has only threesides of houses); its windows looking to theeast: the Number was, and I believe still is,No. 5. A sufficiently commodious, by no meanssumptuous, small mansion; where, with themeans sure to him, he could calculate on find-ing adequate shelter for his family, his booksand himself, and live in a decent manner, inno terror of debt, for one thing. His income, Isuppose, was not large; but he lived generallya safe distance within it; and showed himselfalways as a man bountiful in money matters,and taking no thought that way.

His study-room in this house was per-haps mainly the drawing-room; looking outsafe, over the little dingy grassplot in front,and the quiet little row of houses opposite,with the huge dust-whirl of Oxford Streetand London far enough ahead of you asbackground,—as back-curtain, blotting outonly half your blue hemisphere with dustand smoke. On the right, you had the con-tinuous growl of the Uxbridge Road and itswheels, coming as lullaby not interruption.Leftward and rearward, after some thin beltof houses, lay mere country; bright sweepinggreen expanses, crowned by pleasant Hamp-stead, pleasant Harrow, with their rusticsteeples rising against the sky. Here on win-ter evenings, the bustle of removal being allwell ended, and family and books got plantedin their new places, friends could find Ster-

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ling, as they often did, who was delighted tobe found by them, and would give and take,vividly as few others, an hour’s good talk atany time.

His outlooks, it must be admitted, weresufficiently vague and overshadowed; neitherthe past nor the future of a too joyful kind.Public life, in any professional form, is quiteforbidden; to work with his fellows anywhereappears to be forbidden: nor can the humblestsolitary endeavor to work worthily as yet findan arena. How unfold one’s little bit of talent;and live, and not lie sleeping, while it is calledTo-day? As Radical, as Reforming Politician inany public or private form,—not only has this,in Sterling’s case, received tragical sentenceand execution; but the opposite extreme, theChurch whither he had fled, likewise provesabortive: the Church also is not the havenfor him at all. What is to be done? Some-thing must be done, and soon,—under penal-ties. Whoever has received, on him there isan inexorable behest to give. “Fais ton fait,Do thy little stroke of work:” this is Nature’svoice, and the sum of all the commandments,to each man!

A shepherd of the people, some smallAgamemnon after his sort, doing what lit-tle sovereignty and guidance he can in hisday and generation: such every gifted soullongs, and should long, to be. But how, in anymeasure, is the small kingdom necessary forSterling to be attained? Not through news-papers and parliaments, not by rubrics andreading-desks: none of the sceptres offered


in the world’s market-place, nor none of thecrosiers there, it seems, can be the shepherd’s-crook for this man. A most cheerful, hop-ing man; and full of swift faculty, thoughmuch lamed,—considerably bewildered too;and tending rather towards the wastes andsolitary places for a home; the paved worldnot being friendly to him hitherto! The pavedworld, in fact, both on its practical and spir-itual side, slams to its doors against him; in-dicates that he cannot enter, and even mustnot,—that it will prove a choke-vault, deadlyto soul and to body, if he enter. Sceptre,crosier, sheep-crook is none there for him.

There remains one other implement, theresource of all Adam’s posterity that are oth-erwise foiled,—the Pen. It was evident fromthis point that Sterling, however otherwisebeaten about, and set fluctuating, would grav-itate steadily with all his real weight towardsLiterature. That he would gradually try withconsciousness to get into Literature; and, onthe whole, never quit Literature, which wasnow all the world for him. Such is accord-ingly the sum of his history henceforth: suchsmall sum, so terribly obstructed and dimin-ished by circumstances, is all we have realizedfrom him.

Sterling had by no means as yet con-sciously quitted the clerical profession, farless the Church as a creed. We have seen,he occasionally officiated still in these months,when a friend requested or an opportunityinvited. Nay it turned out afterwards, hehad, unknown even to his own family, dur-

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ing a good many weeks in the coldest periodof next spring, when it was really dangerousfor his health and did prove hurtful to it,—been constantly performing the morning ser-vice in some Chapel in Bayswater for a youngclerical neighbor, a slight acquaintance of his,who was sickly at the time. So far as I know,this of the Bayswater Chapel in the springof 1836, a feat severely rebuked by his Doc-tor withal, was his last actual service as achurchman. But the conscious life ecclesias-tical still hung visibly about his inner uncon-scious and real life, for years to come; andnot till by slow degrees he had unwinded fromhim the wrappages of it, could he become clearabout himself, and so much as try heartilywhat his now sole course was. Alas, and hehad to live all the rest of his days, as in con-tinual flight for his very existence; “duckingunder like a poor unfledged partridge-bird,”as one described it, “before the mower; dart-ing continually from nook to nook, and therecrouching, to escape the scythe of Death.” ForLiterature Proper there was but little left insuch a life. Only the smallest broken fractionsof his last and heaviest-laden years can poorSterling be said to have completely lived. Hispurpose had risen before him slowly in nobleclearness; clear at last,—and even then the in-evitable hour was at hand.

In those first London months, as alwaysafterwards while it remained physically pos-sible, I saw much of him; loved him, as wasnatural, more and more; found in him, manyways, a beautiful acquisition to my existence


here. He was full of bright speech and argu-ment; radiant with arrowy vitalities, vivaci-ties and ingenuities. Less than any man hegave you the idea of ill-health. Hopeful, san-guine; nay he did not even seem to need def-inite hope, or much to form any; projectinghimself in aerial pulses like an aurora bore-alis, like a summer dawn, and filling all theworld with present brightness for himself andothers. Ill-health? Nay you found at last, itwas the very excess of life in him that broughton disease. This restless play of being, fit toconquer the world, could it have been held andguided, could not be held. It had worn holes inthe outer case of it, and there found vent foritself,—there, since not otherwise.

In our many promenades and colloquies,which were of the freest, most copious andpleasant nature, religion often formed a topic,and perhaps towards the beginning of our in-tercourse was the prevailing topic. Sterlingseemed much engrossed in matters theolog-ical, and led the conversation towards such;talked often about Church, Christianity An-glican and other, how essential the belief in itto man; then, on the other side, about Pan-theism and such like;—all in the Coleridgedialect, and with eloquence and volubility toall lengths. I remember his insisting oftenand with emphasis on what he called a “per-sonal God,” and other high topics, of whichit was not always pleasant to give accountin the argumentative form, in a loud hur-ried voice, walking and arguing through thefields or streets. Though of warm quick feel-

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ings, very positive in his opinions, and vehe-mently eager to convince and conquer in suchdiscussions, I seldom or never saw the leastanger in him against me or any friend. Whenthe blows of contradiction came too thick, hecould with consummate dexterity whisk asideout of their way; prick into his adversaryon some new quarter; or gracefully flourish-ing his weapon, end the duel in some hand-some manner. One angry glance I rememberin him, and it was but a glance, and gonein a moment. “Flat Pantheism!” urged heonce (which he would often enough do aboutthis time), as if triumphantly, of something orother, in the fire of a debate, in my hearing:“It is mere Pantheism, that!”—“And supposeit were Pot-theism?” cried the other: “If thething is true!”—Sterling did look hurt at suchflippant heterodoxy, for a moment. The soulof his own creed, in those days, was far otherthan this indifference to Pot or Pan in suchdepartments of inquiry.

To me his sentiments for most part werelovable and admirable, though in the logi-cal outcome there was everywhere room foropposition. I admired the temper, the long-ing towards antique heroism, in this youngman of the nineteenth century; but saw nothow, except in some German-English empireof the air, he was ever to realize it on thoseterms. In fact, it became clear to me moreand more that here was nobleness of heartstriving towards all nobleness; here was ar-dent recognition of the worth of Christianity,for one thing; but no belief in it at all, in my


sense of the word belief,—no belief but one de-finable as mere theoretic moonshine, whichwould never stand the wind and weather offact. Nay it struck me farther that Sterling’swas not intrinsically, nor had ever been in thehighest or chief degree, a devotional mind. Ofcourse all excellence in man, and worship asthe supreme excellence, was part of the inher-itance of this gifted man: but if called to definehim, I should say, Artist not Saint was the realbent of his being. He had endless admiration,but intrinsically rather a deficiency of rever-ence in comparison. Fear, with its corollar-ies, on the religious side, he appeared to havenone, nor ever to have had any.

In short, it was a strange enough symptomto me of the bewildered condition of the world,to behold a man of this temper, and of this ve-racity and nobleness, self-consecrated here, byfree volition and deliberate selection, to be aChristian Priest; and zealously struggling tofancy himself such in very truth. Undoubt-edly a singular present fact;—from which, asfrom their point of intersection, great perplex-ities and aberrations in the past, and consid-erable confusions in the future might be seenominously radiating. Happily our friend, as Isaid, needed little hope. To-day with its activ-ities was always bright and rich to him. Hisunmanageable, dislocated, devastated world,spiritual or economical, lay all illuminated inliving sunshine, making it almost beautiful tohis eyes, and gave him no hypochondria. Aricher soul, in the way of natural outfit for fe-licity, for joyful activity in this world, so far as

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his strength would go, was nowhere to be metwith.

The Letters which Mr. Hare has printed,Letters addressed, I imagine, mostly to him-self, in this and the following year or two, giverecord of abundant changeful plannings andlaborings, on the part of Sterling; still chieflyin the theological department. Translationfrom Tholuck, from Schleiermacher; treatiseon this thing, then on that, are on the anvil: itis a life of abstruse vague speculations, singu-larly cheerful and hopeful withal, about Will,Morals, Jonathan Edwards, Jewhood, Man-hood, and of Books to be written on these top-ics. Part of which adventurous vague plans,as the Translation from Tholuck, he actuallyperformed; other greater part, merging al-ways into wider undertakings, remained planmerely. I remember he talked often aboutTholuck, Schleiermacher, and others of thatstamp; and looked disappointed, though fullof good nature, at my obstinate indifference tothem and their affairs.

His knowledge of German Literature, veryslight at this time, limited itself altogetherto writers on Church matters,—Evidences,Counter-Evidences, Theologies and Rumors ofTheologies; by the Tholucks, Schleiermach-ers, Neanders, and I know not whom. Of thetrue sovereign souls of that Literature, theGoethes, Richters, Schillers, Lessings, he hadas good as no knowledge; and of Goethe inparticular an obstinate misconception, withproper abhorrence appended,—which did notabate for several years, nor quite abolish it-


self till a very late period. Till, in a word,he got Goethe’s works fairly read and stud-ied for himself! This was often enough thecourse with Sterling in such cases. He hada most swift glance of recognition for the wor-thy and for the unworthy; and was prone, inhis ardent decisive way, to put much faith init. “Such a one is a worthless idol; not excel-lent, only sham-excellent:” here, on this nega-tive side especially, you often had to admirehow right he was;—often, but not quite al-ways. And he would maintain, with endlessingenuity, confidence and persistence, his fal-lacious spectrum to be a real image. How-ever, it was sure to come all right in the end.Whatever real excellence he might misknow,you had but to let it stand before him, solic-iting new examination from him: none surerthan he to recognize it at last, and to pay itall his dues, with the arrears and interest onthem. Goethe, who figures as some absurdhigh-stalking hollow play-actor, or empty or-namental clock-case of an “Artist” so-called, inthe Tale of the Onyx Ring, was in the throneof Sterling’s intellectual world before all wasdone; and the theory of “Goethe’s want of feel-ing,” want of &c. &c. appeared to him alsoabundantly contemptible and forgettable.

Sterling’s days, during this time as always,were full of occupation, cheerfully interestingto himself and others; though, the wrecks oftheology so encumbering him, little fruit onthe positive side could come of these labors.On the negative side they were productive;and there also, so much of encumbrance re-

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quiring removal, before fruit could grow, therewas plenty of labor needed. He looked happyas well as busy; roamed extensively among hisfriends, and loved to have them about him,—chiefly old Cambridge comrades now settlinginto occupations in the world;—and was feltby all friends, by myself as by few, to bea welcome illumination in the dim whirl ofthings. A man of altogether social and humanways; his address everywhere pleasant andenlivening. A certain smile of thin but gen-uine laughter, we might say, hung gracefullyover all he said and did;—expressing grace-fully, according to the model of this epoch,the stoical pococurantism which is requiredof the cultivated Englishman. Such laughterin him was not deep, but neither was it false(as lamentably happens often); and the cheer-fulness it went to symbolize was hearty andbeautiful,—visible in the silent unsymbolizedstate in a still gracefuler fashion.

Of wit, so far as rapid lively intellect pro-duces wit, he had plenty, and did not abusehis endowment that way, being always funda-mentally serious in the purport of his speech:of what we call humor, he had some, thoughlittle; nay of real sense for the ludicrous, inany form, he had not much for a man of his vi-vacity; and you remarked that his laugh waslimited in compass, and of a clear but notrich quality. To the like effect shone some-thing, a kind of childlike half-embarrassedshimmer of expression, on his fine vivid coun-tenance; curiously mingling with its ardorsand audacities. A beautiful childlike soul! He


was naturally a favorite in conversation, espe-cially with all who had any funds for convers-ing: frank and direct, yet polite and delicatewithal,—though at times too he could cracklewith his dexterous petulancies, making theair all like needles round you; and there wasno end to his logic when you excited it; no end,unless in some form of silence on your part.Elderly men of reputation I have sometimesknown offended by him: for he took a frankway in the matter of talk; spoke freely outof him, freely listening to what others spoke,with a kind of “hail fellow well met” feeling;and carelessly measured a men much less byhis reputed account in the bank of wit, or inany other bank, than by what the man hadto show for himself in the shape of real spir-itual cash on the occasion. But withal therewas ever a fine element of natural courtesyin Sterling; his deliberate demeanor to ac-knowledged superiors was fine and graceful;his apologies and the like, when in a fit ofrepentance he felt commanded to apologize,were full of naivete, and very pretty and in-genuous.

His circle of friends was wide enough;chiefly men of his own standing, old Collegefriends many of them; some of whom havenow become universally known. Among whomthe most important to him was Frederic Mau-rice, who had not long before removed tothe Chaplaincy of Guy’s Hospital here, andwas still, as he had long been, his intimateand counsellor. Their views and articulateopinions, I suppose, were now fast beginning

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to diverge; and these went on diverging farenough: but in their kindly union, in theirperfect trustful familiarity, precious to bothparties, there never was the least break, buta steady, equable and duly increasing cur-rent to the end. One of Sterling’s common-est expeditions, in this time, was a sally tothe other side of London Bridge: “Going toGuy’s to-day.” Maurice, in a year or two, be-came Sterling’s brother-in-law; wedded Mrs.Sterling’s younger sister,—a gentle excellentfemale soul; by whom the relation was, inmany ways, strengthened and beautified forSterling and all friends of the parties. Withthe Literary notabilities I think he had no ac-quaintance; his thoughts indeed still tendedrather towards a certain class of the Clerical;but neither had he much to do with these; forhe was at no time the least of a tuft-hunter,but rather had a marked natural indifferenceto tufts.

The Rev. Mr. Dunn, a venerable and ami-able Irish gentleman, “distinguished,” wewere told, “by having refused a bishopric:”and who was now living, in an opulent enoughretirement, amid his books and philosophiesand friends, in London,—is memorable to meamong this clerical class: one of the mildest,beautifulest old men I have ever seen,—“likeFenelon,” Sterling said: his very face, withits kind true smile, with its look of sufferingcheerfulness and pious wisdom, was a sort ofbenediction. It is of him that Sterling writes,in the Extract which Mr. Hare, modestly re-ducing the name to an initial “Mr. D.,” has


given us:13 “Mr. Dunn, for instance; the de-fect of whose Theology, compounded as it is ofthe doctrine of the Greek Fathers, of the Mys-tics and of Ethical Philosophers, consists,—if Imay hint a fault in one whose holiness, meek-ness and fervor would have made him thebeloved disciple of him whom Jesus loved,—in an insufficient apprehension of the real-ity and depth of Sin.” A characteristic “de-fect” of this fine gentle soul. On Mr. Dunn’sdeath, which occurred two or three years later,Stirling gave, in some veiled yet transparentform, in Blackwood’s Magazine, an affection-ate and eloquent notice of him; which, striptof the veil, was excerpted into the Newspapersalso.14

Of Coleridge there was little said. Co-leridge was now dead, not long since; nor washis name henceforth much heard in Sterling’scircle; though on occasion, for a year or twoto come, he would still assert his transcen-dent admiration, especially if Maurice wereby to help. But he was getting into Ger-man, into various inquiries and sources ofknowledge new to him, and his admirationsand notions on many things were silently andrapidly modifying themselves.

So, amid interesting human realities, andwide cloud-canopies of uncertain speculation,which also had their interests and theirrainbow-colors to him, and could not fail inhis life just now, did Sterling pass his year

13P. lxxviii.14Given in Hare (ii. 188-193).

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and half at Bayswater. Such vaporous specu-lations were inevitable for him at present; butit was to be hoped they would subside by andby, and leave the sky clear. All this was butthe preliminary to whatever work might lie inhim:—and, alas, much other interruption laybetween him and that.

CHAPTER V. TOMADEIRA.

Sterling’s dubieties as to continuing at Bor-deaux were quickly decided. The cholera inFrance, the cholera in Nice, the— In fact hismoorings were now loose; and having beenfairly at sea, he never could anchor himselfhere again. Very shortly after this Letter, heleft Belsito again (for good, as it proved); andreturned to England with his household, thereto consider what should next be done.

On my return from Scotland, that year,perhaps late in September, I remember find-ing him lodged straitly but cheerfully, andin happy humor, in a little cottage on Black-heath; whither his Father one day persuadedme to drive out with him for dinner. Ourwelcome, I can still recollect, was conspicu-ously cordial; the place of dinner a kind of up-per room, half garret and full of books, whichseemed to be John’s place of study. Froma shelf, I remember also, the good soul tookdown a book modestly enough bound in threevolumes, lettered on the back Carlyle’s FrenchRevolution, which had been published lately;

211


this he with friendly banter bade me look atas a first symptom, small but significant, thatthe book was not to die all at once. “One copyof it at least might hope to last the date ofsheep-leather,” I admitted,—and in my thenmood the little fact was welcome. Our din-ner, frank and happy on the part of Sterling,was peppered with abundant jolly satire fromhis Father: before tea, I took myself away; to-wards Woolwich, I remember, where probablythere was another call to make, and passagehomeward by steamer: Sterling strode alongwith me a good bit of road in the bright sunnyevening, full of lively friendly talk, and alto-gether kind and amiable; and beautifully sym-pathetic with the loads he thought he saw onme, forgetful of his own. We shook hands onthe road near the foot of Shooter’s Hill:—atwhich point dim oblivious clouds rush down;and of small or great I remember nothingmore in my history or his for some time.

Besides running much about amongfriends, and holding counsels for the man-agement of the coming winter, Sterling wasnow considerably occupied with Literatureagain; and indeed may be said to have alreadydefinitely taken it up as the one practicalpursuit left for him. Some correspondencewith Blackwood’s Magazine was openingitself, under promising omens: now, and moreand more henceforth, he began to look onLiterature as his real employment, after all;and was prosecuting it with his accustomedloyalty and ardor. And he continued ever af-terwards, in spite of such fitful circumstances

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and uncertain outward fluctuations as hiswere sure of being, to prosecute it steadilywith all the strength he had.

One evening about this time, he camedown to us, to Chelsea, most likely by appoint-ment and with stipulation for privacy; andread, for our opinion, his Poem of the Sex-ton’s Daughter, which we now first heard of.The judgment in this house was friendly, butnot the most encouraging. We found the piecemonotonous, cast in the mould of Wordsworth,deficient in real human fervor or depth ofmelody, dallying on the borders of the infan-tile and “goody-good;”—in fact, involved stillin the shadows of the surplice, and incul-cating (on hearsay mainly) a weak morality,which he would one day find not to be moralat all, but in good part maudlin-hypocriticaland immoral. As indeed was to be said still ofmost of his performances, especially the po-etical; a sickly shadow of the parish-churchstill hanging over them, which he could by nomeans recognize for sickly. Imprimatur never-theless was the concluding word,—with thesegrave abatements, and rhadamanthine admo-nitions. To all which Sterling listened seri-ously and in the mildest humor. His reading,it might have been added, had much hurt theeffect of the piece: a dreary pulpit or even con-venticle manner; that flattest moaning hoo-hoo of predetermined pathos, with a kind ofrocking canter introduced by way of intona-tion, each stanza the exact fellow Of the other,and the dull swing of the rocking-horse dulyin each;—no reading could be more unfavor-


able to Sterling’s poetry than his own. Sucha mode of reading, and indeed generally in aman of such vivacity the total absence of allgifts for play-acting or artistic mimicry in anykind, was a noticeable point.

After much consultation, it was settledat last that Sterling should go to Madeirafor the winter. One gray dull autumn after-noon, towards the middle of October, I re-member walking with him to the eastern Dockregion, to see his ship, and how the finalpreparations in his own little cabin were pro-ceeding there. A dingy little ship, the deckcrowded with packages, and bustling sailorswithin eight-and-forty hours of lifting anchor;a dingy chill smoky day, as I have said withal,and a chaotic element and outlook, enoughto make a friend’s heart sad. I admired thecheerful careless humor and brisk activity ofSterling, who took the matter all on the sunnyside, as he was wont in such cases. We camehome together in manifold talk: he acceptedwith the due smile my last contribution tohis sea-equipment, a sixpenny box of Ger-man lucifers purchased on the sudden in St.James’s Street, fit to be offered with laugh-ter or with tears or with both; he was to leavefor Portsmouth almost immediately, and therego on board. Our next news was of his safearrival in the temperate Isle. Mrs. Sterlingand the children were left at Knightsbridge; topass this winter with his Father and Mother.

At Madeira Sterling did well: improvedin health; was busy with much Literature;and fell in with society which he could reckon

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pleasant. He was much delighted with thescenery of the place; found the climate whole-some to him in a marked degree; and, withgood news from home, and kindly interestshere abroad, passed no disagreeable winterin that exile. There was talking, there waswriting, there was hope of better health; herode almost daily, in cheerful busy humor,along those fringed shore-roads:—beautifulleafy roads and horse-paths; with here andthere a wild cataract and bridge to look at;and always with the soft sky overhead, thedead volcanic mountain on one hand, andbroad illimitable sea spread out on the other.Here are two Letters which give reasonablygood account of him:—


“FUNCHAL, MADEIRA,“16TH NOVEMBER, 1837.

“MY DEAR CARLYLE,—I have been writing a good

many letters all in a batch, to goby the same opportunity; and Iam thoroughly weary of writing thesame things over and over again todifferent people. My letter to youtherefore, I fear, must have much ofthe character of remainder-biscuit.But you will receive it as a proofthat I do not wish you to forget me,


though it may be useless for anyother purpose.

“I reached this on the 2d, af-ter a tolerably prosperous voyage,deformed by some days of sea-sickness, but otherwise not to becomplained of. I liked my twentyfellow-passengers far better thanI expected;—three or four of themI like much, and continue to seefrequently. The Island too is bet-ter than I expected: so that myBarataria at least does not disap-point me. The bold rough moun-tains, with mist about their sum-mits, verdure below, and a brightsun over all, please me much; andI ride daily on the steep and nar-row paved roads, which no wheelsever journeyed on. The Town isclean, and there its merits end:but I am comfortably lodged; witha large and pleasant sitting-roomto myself. I have met with muchkindness; and see all the society Iwant,—though it is not quite equalto that of London, even excludingChelsea.

“I have got about me whatBooks I brought out; and have reada little, and done some writing forBlackwood,—all, I have the plea-sure to inform you, prose, nay ex-tremely prose. I shall now be moreat leisure; and hope to get more

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steadily to work; though I do notknow what I shall begin upon. Asto reading, I have been looking atGoethe, especially the Life,—muchas a shying horse looks at a post.In truth, I am afraid of him. I en-joy and admire him so much, andfeel I could so easily be temptedto go along with him. And yet Ihave a deeply rooted and old per-suasion that he was the most splen-did of anachronisms. A thoroughly,nay intensely Pagan Life, in anage when it is men’s duty to beChristian. I therefore never takehim up without a kind of inwardcheck, as if I were trying some for-bidden spell; while, on the otherhand, there is so infinitely muchto be learnt from him, and it is soneedful to understand the world welive in, and our own age, and espe-cially its greatest minds, that I can-not bring myself to burn my booksas the converted Magicians did, orsink them as did Prospero. Theremust, as I think, have been someprodigious defect in his mind, to lethim hold such views as his aboutwomen and some other things; andin another respect, I find so muchcoldness and hollowness as to thehighest truths, and feel so stronglythat the Heaven he looks up to isbut a vault of ice,—that these two


indications, leading to the sameconclusion, go far to convince mehe was a profoundly immoral andirreligious spirit, with as rare fac-ulties of intelligence as ever be-longed to any one. All this may bemere goody weakness and twaddle,on my part: but it is a persuasionthat I cannot escape from; though Ishould feel the doing so to be a de-liverance from a most painful load.If you could help me, I heartilywish you would. I never take himup without high admiration, or layhim down without real sorrow forwhat he chose to be.

“I have been reading nothingelse that you would much care for.Southey’s Amadis has amused me;and Lyell’s Geology interested me.The latter gives one the same sortof bewildering view of the abysmalextent of Time that Astronomydoes of Space. I do not think I shalltake your advice as to learning Por-tuguese. It is said to be very ill spo-ken here; and assuredly it is themost direful series of nasal twangsI ever heard. One gets on quite wellwith English.

“The people here are, I be-lieve, in a very low condition; butthey do not appear miserable. Iam told that the influence of thepriests makes the peasantry all

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Miguelites; but it is said that no-body wants any more revolutions.There is no appearance of riotor crime; and they are all ex-tremely civil. I was much inter-ested by learning that Columbusonce lived here, before he foundAmerica and fame. I have beento see a deserted quinta (country-house), where there is a great dealof curious old sculpture, in relief,upon the masonry; many of the fig-ures, which are nearly as large aslife, representing soldiers clad andarmed much as I should supposethose of Cortez were. There areno buildings about the Town, of thesmallest pretensions to beauty orcharm of any kind. On the whole,if Madeira were one’s world, lifewould certainly rather tend to stag-nate; but as a temporary refuge, aniche in an old ruin where one issheltered from the shower, it hasgreat merit. I am more comfort-able and contented than I expectedto be, so far from home and fromeverybody I am closely connectedwith: but, of course, it is at best atolerable exile.

“Tell Mrs. Carlyle that I havewritten, since I have been here, andam going to send to Blackwood, ahumble imitation of her Watch andCanary-Bird, entitled The Suit of


Armor and the Skeleton.15 I amconscious that I am far from hav-ing reached the depth and fulnessof despair and mockery which dis-tinguish the original! But in truththere is a lightness of tone abouther style, which I hold to be invalu-able: where she makes hairstrokes,I make blotches. I have a vehe-ment suspicion that my Dialogue isan entire failure; but I cannot beplagued with it any longer. Tell herI will not send her messages, butwill write to her soon.—MeanwhileI am affectionately hers and yours,


The next is to his Brother-in-law; and in a stillhopefuler tone:—

To Charles Barton, Esq.16

“FUNCHAL, MADEIRA,“3D MARCH, 1838.

“MY DEAR CHARLES,—I have often been thinking of

you and your whereabouts in Ger-many, and wishing I knew moreabout you; and at last it occurredto me that you might perhaps have

15Came out, as will soon appear, in Blackwood(February, 1838).

16“Hotel de l’Europe, Berlin,” added in Mrs. Sterling’shand.

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the same wish about me, and thattherefore I should do well to writeto you.

“I have been here exactly fourmonths, having arrived on the 2d ofNovember,—my wedding-day; andthough you perhaps may not thinkit a compliment to Susan, I haveseldom passed four months morecheerfully and agreeably. I haveof course felt my absence from myfamily, and missed the society ofmy friends; for there is not a per-son here whom I knew before Ileft England. But, on the whole,I have been in good health, andactively employed. I have a goodmany agreeable and valuable ac-quaintances, one or two of whomI hope I may hereafter reckon asfriends. The weather has generallybeen fine, and never cold; and thescenery of the Island is of a beautywhich you unhappy Northern peo-ple can have little conception of.

“It consists of a great massof volcanic mountains, covered intheir lower parts with cottages,vines and patches of vegetables.When you pass through, or overthe central ridge, and get towardsthe North, there are woods oftrees, of the laurel kind, coveringthe wild steep slopes, and form-ing some of the strangest and most


beautiful prospects I have everseen. Towards the interior, theforms of the hills become moreabrupt, and loftier; and give thenotion of very recent volcanic dis-turbances, though in fact there hasbeen nothing of the kind since thediscovery of the Island by Euro-peans. Among these mountains,the dark deep precipices, and nar-row ravines with small streams atthe bottom; the basaltic knobs andridges on the summits; and theperpetual play of mist and cloudaround them, under this bright sunand clear sky,—form landscapeswhich you would thoroughly enjoy,and which I much wish I couldgive you a notion of. The Townis on the south, and of course thesheltered side of the Island; per-fectly protected from the North andEast; although we have seen some-times patches of bright snow on thedark peaks in the distance. It isa neat cheerful place; all built ofgray stone, but having many of thehouses colored white or red. Thereis not a really handsome buildingin it, but there is a general as-pect of comfort and solidity. Theshops are very poor. The Englishdo not mix at all with the Por-tuguese. The Bay is a very badanchorage; but is wide, bright and

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cheerful; and there are some pic-turesque points—one a small blackisland—scattered about it.

“I lived till a fortnight ago inlodgings, having two rooms, one avery good one; and paying for ev-erything fifty-six dollars a month,the dollar being four shillings andtwopence. This you will see is dear;but I could make no better arrange-ment, for there is an unusual afflu-ence of strangers this year. I havenow come to live with a friend, aDr. Calvert, in a small house of ourown, where I am much more com-fortable, and live greatly cheaper.He is a friend of Mrs. Percival’s;about my age, an Oriel man, anda very superior person. I think thechances are, we shall go home to-gether.... I cannot tell you of allthe other people I have become fa-miliar with; and shall only men-tion in addition Bingham Baring,eldest son of Lord Ashburton, whowas here for some weeks on ac-count of a dying brother, and whomI saw a great deal of. He is a pleas-ant, very good-natured and ratherclever man; Conservative Memberfor North Staffordshire.

“During the first two monthsI was here, I rode a great dealabout the Island, having a horseregularly; and was much in agree-


able company, seeing a great dealof beautiful scenery. Since then,the weather has been much moreunsettled, though not cold; and Ihave gone about less, as I cannotrisk the being wet. But I havespent my time pleasantly, readingand writing. I have written a goodmany things for Blackwood; one ofwhich, the Armor and the Skele-ton, I see is printed in the Febru-ary Number. I have just sent thema long Tale, called the Onyx Ring,which cost me a good deal of trou-ble; and the extravagance of which,I think, would amuse you; but itslength may prevent its appearancein Blackwood. If so, I think Ishould make a volume of it. Ihave also written some poems, andshall probably publish the Sexton’sDaughter when I return.

“My health goes on most favor-ably. I have had no attack of thechest this spring; which has nothappened to me since the springbefore we went to Bonn; and Iam told, if I take care, I may rollalong for years. But I have lit-tle hope of being allowed to spendthe four first months of any year inEngland; and the question will be,Whether to go at once to Italy, byway of Germany and Switzerland,with my family, or to settle with

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them in England, perhaps at Hast-ings, and go abroad myself when itmay be necessary. I cannot decidetill I return; but I think the latterthe most probable.

“To my dear Charles I do notlike to use the ordinary forms ofending a letter, for they are veryinadequate to express my senseof your long and most unvaryingkindness; but be assured no one liv-ing could say with more sinceritythat he is ever affectionately yours,


Other Letters give occasionally views of theshadier side of things: dark broken weather,in the sky and in the mind; ugly clouds cov-ering one’s poor fitful transitory prospect, fora time, as they might well do in Sterling’scase. Meanwhile we perceive his literary busi-ness is fast developing itself; amid all his con-fusions, he is never idle long. Some of hisbest Pieces—the Onyx Ring, for one, as weperceive—were written here this winter. Outof the turbid whirlpool of the days he strivesassiduously to snatch what he can.

Sterling’s communications with Black-wood’s Magazine had now issued in some opensanction of him by Professor Wilson, the dis-tinguished presiding spirit of that Periodical;a fact naturally of high importance to him un-der the literary point of view. For Wilson, withhis clear flashing eye and great genial heart,had at once recognized Sterling; and lavished


stormily, in his wild generous way, torrentsof praise on him in the editorial comments:which undoubtedly was one of the gratefulestliterary baptisms, by fire or by water, thatcould befall a soul like Sterling’s. He bore itvery gently, being indeed past the age to havehis head turned by anybody’s praises: nor doI think the exaggeration that was in these eu-logies did him any ill whatever; while surelytheir generous encouragement did him muchgood, in his solitary struggle towards new ac-tivity under such impediments as his. Lau-dari a laudato; to be called noble by one whomyou and the world recognize as noble: thisgreat satisfaction, never perhaps in such a de-gree before or after had now been vouchsafedto Sterling; and was, as I compute, an impor-tant fact for him. He proceeded on his pilgrim-age with new energy, and felt more and moreas if authentically consecrated to the same.

The Onyx Ring, a curious Tale, with wildimprobable basis, but with a noble glow ofcoloring and with other high merits in it, aTale still worth reading, in which, among theimaginary characters, various friends of Ster-ling’s are shadowed forth, not always in thetruest manner, came out in Blackwood in thewinter of this year. Surely a very high tal-ent for painting, both of scenery and per-sons, is visible in this Fiction; the promiseof a Novel such as we have few. But therewants maturing, wants purifying of clear fromunclear;—properly there want patience andsteady depth. The basis, as we said, is wildand loose; and in the details, lucent often

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with fine color, and dipt in beautiful sun-shine, there are several things misseen, un-true, which is the worst species of mispaint-ing. Witness, as Sterling himself would haveby and by admitted, the “empty clockcase” (sowe called it) which he has labelled Goethe,—which puts all other untruths in the Piece tosilence.

One of the great alleviations of his exileat Madeira he has already celebrated to us:the pleasant circle of society he fell into there.Great luck, thinks Sterling in this voyage;as indeed there was: but he himself, more-over, was readier than most men to fall intopleasant circles everywhere, being singularlyprompt to make the most of any circle. Someof his Madeira acquaintanceships were reallygood; and one of them, if not more, ripenedinto comradeship and friendship for him. Hesays, as we saw, “The chances are, Calvert andI will come home together.”

Among the English in pursuit of health,or in flight from fatal disease, that winter,was this Dr. Calvert; an excellent ingeniouscheery Cumberland gentleman, about Ster-ling’s age, and in a deeper stage of ailment,this not being his first visit to Madeira: he,warmly joining himself to Sterling, as we haveseen, was warmly received by him; so thatthere soon grew a close and free intimacy be-tween them; which for the next three years,till poor Calvert ended his course, was a lead-ing element in the history of both. Compan-ionship in incurable malady, a touching bondof union, was by no means purely or chiefly


a companionship in misery in their case. Thesunniest inextinguishable cheerfulness shone,through all manner of clouds, in both. Calverthad been travelling physician in some familyof rank, who had rewarded him with a pen-sion, shielding his own ill-health from one sadevil. Being hopelessly gone in pulmonary dis-order, he now moved about among friendlyclimates and places, seeking what alleviationthere might be; often spending his summersin the house of a sister in the environs of Lon-don; an insatiable rider on his little brownpony; always, wherever you might meet him,one of the cheeriest of men. He had plenty ofspeculation too, clear glances of all kinds intoreligious, social, moral concerns; and pleas-antly incited Sterling’s outpourings on suchsubjects. He could report of fashionable per-sons and manners, in a fine human Cumber-land manner; loved art, a great collector ofdrawings; he had endless help and ingenu-ity; and was in short every way a very human,lovable, good and nimble man,—the laughingblue eyes of him, the clear cheery soul of him,still redolent of the fresh Northern breezesand transparent Mountain streams. With thisCalvert, Sterling formed a natural intimacy;and they were to each other a great posses-sion, mutually enlivening many a dark dayduring the next three years. They did comehome together this spring; and subsequentlymade several of these health-journeys in part-nership.

CHAPTER VI.LITERATURE:THE STERLINGCLUB.

In spite of these wanderings, Sterling’s coursein life, so far as his poor life could have anycourse or aim beyond that of screening it-self from swift death, was getting more andmore clear to him; and he pursued it dili-gently, in the only way permitted him, byhasty snatches, in the intervals of continualfluctuation, change of place and other inter-ruption.

Such, once for all, were the conditions ap-pointed him. And it must be owned he had,with a most kindly temper, adjusted himselfto these; nay you would have said, he lovedthem; it was almost as if he would have chosenthem as the suitablest. Such an adaptationwas there in him of volition to necessity:—forindeed they both, if well seen into, proceededfrom one source. Sterling’s bodily disease wasthe expression, under physical conditions, of

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the too vehement life which, under the moral,the intellectual and other aspects, incessantlystruggled within him. Too vehement;—whichwould have required a frame of oak and ironto contain it: in a thin though most wiry bodyof flesh and bone, it incessantly “wore holes,”and so found outlet for itself. He could takeno rest, he had never learned that art; he was,as we often reproached him, fatally incapableof sitting still. Rapidity, as of pulsing auro-ras, as of dancing lightnings: rapidity in allforms characterized him. This, which was hisbane, in many senses, being the real originof his disorder, and of such continual neces-sity to move and change,—was also his anti-dote, so far as antidote there might be; en-abling him to love change, and to snatch, asfew others could have done, from the wastechaotic years, all tumbled into ruin by inces-sant change, what hours and minutes of avail-able turned up. He had an incredible facilityof labor. He flashed with most piercing glanceinto a subject; gathered it up into organic ut-terability, with truly wonderful despatch, con-sidering the success and truth attained; andthrew it on paper with a swift felicity, in-genuity, brilliancy and general excellence, ofwhich, under such conditions of swiftness, Ihave never seen a parallel. Essentially an im-proviser genius; as his Father too was, and ofadmirable completeness he too, though undera very different form.

If Sterling has done little in Literature, wemay ask, What other man than he, in suchcircumstances, could have done anything? In

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virtue of these rapid faculties, which other-wise cost him so dear, he has built together,out of those wavering boiling quicksands ofhis few later years, a result which may justlysurprise us. There is actually some result inthose poor Two Volumes gathered from him,such as they are; he that reads there will notwholly lose his time, nor rise with a malisoninstead of a blessing on the writer. Here ac-tually is a real seer-glance, of some compass,into the world of our day; blessed glance, oncemore, of an eye that is human; truer than oneof a thousand, and beautifully capable of mak-ing others see with it. I have known consider-able temporary reputations gained, consider-able piles of temporary guineas, with loud re-viewing and the like to match, on a far less ba-sis than lies in those two volumes. Those also,I expect, will be held in memory by the world,one way or other, till the world has extractedall its benefit from them. Graceful, ingeniousand illuminative reading, of their sort, for allmanner of inquiring souls. A little verdantflowery island of poetic intellect, of melodioushuman verity; sunlit island founded on therocks;—which the enormous circumambientcontinents of mown reed-grass and floatinglumber, with their mountain-ranges of ejectedstable-litter however alpine, cannot by anymeans or chance submerge: nay, I expect, theywill not even quite hide it, this modest littleisland, from the well-discerning; but will floatpast it towards the place appointed for them,and leave said island standing. Allah kereem,say the Arabs! And of the English also some


still know that there is a, difference in the ma-terial of mountains!—

As it is this last little result, the amountof his poor and ever-interrupted literary la-bor, that henceforth forms the essential his-tory of Sterling, we need not dwell at too muchlength on the foreign journeys, disanchorings,and nomadic vicissitudes of household, whichoccupy his few remaining years, and whichare only the disastrous and accidental arenaof this. He had now, excluding his early andmore deliberate residence in the West Indies,made two flights abroad, once with his fam-ily, once without, in search of health. He hadtwo more, in rapid succession, to make, andmany more to meditate; and in the whole fromBayswater to the end, his family made nofewer than five complete changes of abode, forhis sake. But these cannot be accepted as inany sense epochs in his life: the one last epochof his life was that of his internal change to-wards Literature as his work in the world;and we need not linger much on these, whichare the mere outer accidents of that, and hadno distinguished influence in modifying that.

Friends still hoped the unrest of that bril-liant too rapid soul would abate with years.Nay the doctors sometimes promised, on thephysical side, a like result; prophesying that,at forty-five or some mature age, the stress ofdisease might quit the lungs, and direct itselfto other quarters of the system. But no suchresult was appointed for us; neither forty-fiveitself, nor the ameliorations promised then,were ever to be reached. Four voyages abroad,

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three of them without his family, in flight fromdeath; and at home, for a like reason, fivecomplete shiftings of abode: in such wander-ing manner, and not otherwise, had Sterlingto continue his pilgrimage till it ended.

Once more I must say, his cheerfulnessthroughout was wonderful. A certain grim-mer shade, coming gradually over him, mightperhaps be noticed in the concluding years;not impatience properly, yet the conscious-ness how much he needed patience; some-thing more caustic in his tone of wit, moretrenchant and indignant occasionally in histone of speech: but at no moment was his ac-tivity bewildered or abated, nor did his compo-sure ever give way. No; both his activity andhis composure he bore with him, through allweathers, to the final close; and on the whole,right manfully he walked his wild stern waytowards the goal, and like a Roman wrapthis mantle round him when he fell.—Let usglance, with brevity, at what he saw and suf-fered in his remaining pilgrimings and charg-ings; and count up what fractions of spiritualfruit he realized to us from them.

Calvert and he returned from Madeira inthe spring of 1838. Mrs. Sterling and the fam-ily had lived in Knightsbridge with his Fa-ther’s people through the winter: they nowchanged to Blackheath, or ultimately Hast-ings, and he with them, coming up to Lon-don pretty often; uncertain what was to bedone for next winter. Literature went onbriskly here: Blackwood had from him, be-sides the Onyx Ring which soon came out with


due honor, assiduous almost monthly contri-butions in prose and verse. The series calledHymns of a Hermit was now going on; elo-quent melodies, tainted to me with somethingof the same disease as the Sexton’s Daughter,though perhaps in a less degree, consideringthat the strain was in a so much higher pitch.Still better, in clear eloquent prose, the seriesof detached thoughts, entitled Crystals from aCavern; of which the set of fragments, gener-ally a little larger in compass, called Thoughtsand Images, and again those called Sayingsand Essayings,17 are properly continuations.Add to which, his friend John Mill had nowcharge of a Review, The London and Westmin-ster its name; wherein Sterling’s assistance,ardently desired, was freely afforded, withsatisfaction to both parties, in this and the fol-lowing years. An Essay on Montaigne, withthe notes and reminiscences already spokenof, was Sterling’s first contribution here; thenone on Simonides:18 both of the present sea-son.

On these and other businesses, slight orimportant, he was often running up to Lon-don; and gave us almost the feeling of hisbeing resident among us. In order to meetthe most or a good many of his friends atonce on such occasions, he now furthermorecontrived the scheme of a little Club, wheremonthly over a frugal dinner some reunionmight take place; that is, where friends of his,

17Hare, ii. 96-167.18Ib. i. 129, 188.

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and withal such friends of theirs as suited,—and in fine, where a small select company de-finable as persons to whom it was pleasantto talk together,—might have a little oppor-tunity of talking. The scheme was approvedby the persons concerned: I have a copy ofthe Original Regulations, probably drawn upby Sterling, a very solid lucid piece of eco-nomics; and the List of the proposed Mem-bers, signed “James Spedding, Secretary,” anddated “8th August, 1838.”19 The Club grew;was at first called the Anonymous Club; then,after some months of success, in complimentto the founder who had now left us again,the Sterling Club;—under which latter name,it once lately, for a time, owing to the Reli-gious Newspapers, became rather famous in

19Here in a Note they are, if they can be important toanybody. The marks of interrogation, attached to someNames as not yet consulted or otherwise questionable,are in the Secretary’s hand:—

J. D. Acland, Esq., Hon. W. B. Baring, Rev. J. W.Blakesley, W. Boxall, Esq., T. Carlyle, Esq., Hon. R.Cavendish (?), H. N. Coleridge, Esq. (?), J. W. Colville,Esq., Allan Cunningham, Esq. (?), Rev. H. Donn., F. H.Doyle, Esq., C. L. Eastlake, Esq., Alex. Ellice, Esq., J.F. Elliott, Esq., Copley Fielding, Esq., Rev. J. C. Hare,Sir Edmund Head (?), D. D. Heath, Esq., G. C. Lewis,Esq., H. L. Lushington, Esq., The Lord Lyttleton, C.Macarthy, Esq., H. Malden, Esq., J. S. Mill, Esq., R. M.Milnes, Esq., R. Monteith, Esq., S. A. O’Brien, Esq.,Sir F. Palgrave (?), W. F. Pollok, Esq., Philip Pusey,Esq., A. Rio, Esq., C. Romilly, Esq., James Spedding,Esq., Rev. John Sterling., Alfred Tennyson, Esq., Rev.Connop Thirlwall, Rev. W. Hepworth Thompson, Ed-ward Twisleton, Esq., G. S. Venables, Esq., SamuelWood, Esq., Rev. T. Worsley.

James Spedding, Secretary, 8th August, 1838.


the world! In which strange circumstancesthe name was again altered, to suit weakbrethren; and the Club still subsists, in a suf-ficiently flourishing though happily once morea private condition. That is the origin andgenesis of poor Sterling’s Club; which, hav-ing honestly paid the shot for itself at Will’sCoffee-house or elsewhere, rashly fancied itsbits of affairs were quite settled; and once lit-tle thought of getting into Books of Historywith them!—

But now, Autumn approaching, Sterlinghad to quit Clubs, for matters of sadder con-sideration. A new removal, what we call“his third peregrinity,” had to be decided on;and it was resolved that Rome should be thegoal of it, the journey to be done in companywith Calvert, whom also the Italian climatemight be made to serve instead of Madeira.One of the liveliest recollections I have, con-nected with the Anonymous Club, is that ofonce escorting Sterling, after a certain meet-ing there, which I had seen only towards theend, and now remember nothing of,—exceptthat, on breaking up, he proved to be encum-bered with a carpet-bag, and could not at oncefind a cab for Knightsbridge. Some small ban-tering hereupon, during the instants of em-bargo. But we carried his carpet-bag, sling-ing it on my stick, two or three of us alter-nately, through dusty vacant streets, underthe gaslights and the stars, towards the surestcab-stand; still jesting, or pretending to jest,he and we, not in the mirthfulest manner; andhad (I suppose) our own feelings about the

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poor Pilgrim, who was to go on the morrow,and had hurried to meet us in this way, as thelast thing before leaving England.

CHAPTER VII.ITALY.

The journey to Italy was undertaken by ad-vice of Sir James Clark, reckoned the chiefauthority in pulmonary therapeutics; whoprophesied important improvements from it,and perhaps even the possibility henceforthof living all the year in some English home.Mrs. Sterling and the children continued in ahouse avowedly temporary, a furnished houseat Hastings, through the winter. The twofriends had set off for Belgium, while the duewarmth was still in the air. They traversedBelgium, looking well at pictures and such ob-jects; ascended the Rhine; rapidly traversedSwitzerland and the Alps; issuing upon Italyand Milan, with immense appetite for pic-tures, and time still to gratify themselves inthat pursuit, and be deliberate in their ap-proach to Rome. We will take this free-flowingsketch of their passage over the Alps; writtenamid “the rocks of Arona,”—Santo Borromeo’scountry, and poor little Mignon’s! The “elderPerdonnets” are opulent Lausanne people, towhose late son Sterling had been very kind in

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Madeira the year before:—

To Mrs. Sterling,Knightsbridge, London.

“ARONA ON THE“LAGO MAGGIORE,

“8TH OCT., 1838.“MY DEAR MOTHER,—

I bring down the story of myproceedings to the present timesince the 29th of September. Ithink it must have been after thatday that I was at a great break-fast at the elder Perdonnets’, withwhom I had declined to dine, notchoosing to go out at night.... I wastaken by my hostess to see severalpretty pleasure-grounds and pointsof view in the neighborhood; andlatterly Calvert was better, andable to go with us. He was in forceagain, and our passports were allsettled so as to enable us to start onthe morning of the 2d, after takingleave of our kind entertainer withthanks for her infinite kindness.

“We reached St. Maurice earlythat evening; having had the Dentdu Midi close to us for severalhours; glittering like the top of asilver teapot, far up in the sky.Our course lay along the Valleyof the Rhone; which is considered

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one of the least beautiful parts ofSwitzerland, and perhaps for thisreason pleased us, as we had notbeen prepared to expect much. Wesaw, before reaching the foot of theAlpine pass at Brieg, two rathercelebrated Waterfalls; the one thePissevache, which has no morebeauty than any waterfall one hun-dred or two hundred feet high mustnecessarily have: the other, nearTourtemagne, is much more pleas-ing, having foliage round it, and be-ing in a secluded dell. If you buy aSwiss Waterfall, choose this one.

“Our second day took usthrough Martigny to Sion, cele-brated for its picturesque towersupon detached hills, for its strongRomanism and its population ofcretins,—that is, maimed idiotshaving the goitre. It looked tous a more thriving place than weexpected. They are building agreat deal; among other things,a new Bishop’s Palace and a newNunnery,—to inhabit either ofwhich ex officio I feel myself veryunsuitable. From Sion we cameto Brieg; a little village in a nook,close under an enormous mountainand glacier, where it lies like amolehill, or something smaller, atthe foot of a haystack. Here alsowe slept; and the next day our


voiturier, who had brought us fromLausanne, started with us up theSimplon Pass; helped on by twoextra horses.

“The beginning of the road wasrather cheerful; having a gooddeal of green pasturage, and somemountain villages; but it soon be-comes dreary and savage in as-pect, and but for our bright sky andwarm air, would have been trulydismal. However, we gained gradu-ally a distinct and near view of sev-eral large glaciers; and reached atlast the high and melancholy val-leys of the Upper Alps; where eventhe pines become scanty, and nosound is heard but the wheels ofone’s carriage, except when therehappens to be a storm or anavalanche, neither of which enter-tained us. There is, here and there,a small stream of water pouringfrom the snow; but this is rather amonotonous accompaniment to thegeneral desolation than an inter-ruption of it. The road itself iscertainly very good, and impressesone with a strong notion of hu-man power. But the common de-scriptions are much exaggerated;and many of what the Guide-Bookscall ‘galleries’ are merely parts ofthe road supported by a wall builtagainst the rock, and have noth-

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ing like a roof above them. The‘stupendous bridges,’ as they arecalled, might be packed, a dozentogether, into one arch of LondonBridge; and they are seldom evenvery striking from the depth below.The roadway is excellent, and keptin the best order. On the whole, Iam very glad to have travelled themost famous road in Europe, and tohave had delightful weather for do-ing so, as indeed we have had eversince we left Lausanne. The Italiandescent is greatly more remarkablethan the other side.

“We slept near the top, at theVillage of Simplon, in a very fairand well-warmed inn, close to amountain stream, which is one ofthe great ornaments of this sideof the road. We have here passedinto a region of granite, from thatof limestone, and what is calledgneiss. The valleys are sharperand closer,—like cracks in a hardand solid mass;—and there is muchmore of the startling contrast oflight and shade, as well as moreangular boldness of outline; to allwhich the more abundant watersadd a fresh and vivacious inter-est. Looking back through oneof these abysmal gorges, one seestwo torrents dashing together, theprecipice and ridge on one side,


pitch-black with shade; and that onthe other all flaming gold; while be-hind rises, in a huge cone, one ofthe glacier summits of the chain.The stream at one’s feet rushesat a leap some two hundred feetdown, and is bordered with pinesand beeches, struggling through aruined world of clefts and boul-ders. I never saw anything somuch resembling some of the Cir-cles described by Dante. From Sim-plon we made for Duomo d’Ossola;having broken out, as through themouth of a mine, into green and fer-tile valleys full of vines and chest-nuts, and white villages,—in short,into sunshine and Italy.

“At this place we dismissed ourSwiss voiturier, and took an Italianone; who conveyed us to Omegnaon the Lake of Orta; a place littlevisited by English travellers, butwhich fully repaid us the troubleof going there. We were lodgedin a simple and even rude Ital-ian inn; where they cannot speaka word of French; where we oc-cupied a barn-like room, with ahuge chimney fit to lodge a hun-dred ghosts, whom we expelled bydint of a hot woodfire. There weretwo beds, and as it happened goodones, in this strange old apart-ment; which was adorned by pic-

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tures of Architecture, and by Headsof Saints, better than many atthe Royal Academy Exhibition, andwhich one paid nothing for look-ing at. The thorough Italian char-acter of the whole scene amusedus, much more than Meurice’s atParis would have done; for we hadvoluble, commonplace good-humor,with the aspect and accessories of aden of banditti.

“To-day we have seen the Lakeof Orta, have walked for some milesamong its vineyards and chestnuts;and thence have come, by Baveno,to this place;—having seen by theway, I believe, the most beauti-ful part of the Lago Maggiore, andcertainly the most cheerful, com-plete and extended example of finescenery I have ever fallen in with.Here we are, much to my wonder,—for it seems too good to be true,—fairly in Italy; and as yet my jour-ney has been a pleasanter andmore instructive, and in point ofhealth a more successful one, thanI at all imagined possible. Calvertand I go on as well as can be. Ilet him have his way about natu-ral science, and he only laughs be-nignly when he thinks me absurdin my moral speculations. My onlyregrets are caused by my separa-tion from my family and friends,


and by the hurry I have been liv-ing in, which has prevented me do-ing any work,—and compelled meto write to you at a good deal fasterrate than the vapore moves on theLago Maggiore. It will take me to-morrow to Sesto Calende, whencewe go to Varese. We shall not be atMilan for some days. Write thither,if you are kind enough to write atall, till I give you another address.Love to my Father.

“Your affectionate son,“JOHN STERLING.”

Omitting Milan, Florence nearly all, andmuch about “Art,” Michael Angelo, and otheraerial matters, here are some select terres-trial glimpses, the fittest I can find, of hisprogress towards Rome:—

To His Mother.

“LUCCA, NOV. 27TH, 1838.—Ihad dreams, like other people, be-fore I came here, of what the Lom-bard Lakes must be; and the weekI spent among them has left mean image, not only more distinct,but far more warm, shining andvarious, and more deeply attrac-tive in innumerable respects, thanall I had before conceived of them.

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And so also it has been with Flo-rence; where I spent three weeks:enough for the first hazy radiantdawn of sympathy to pass away;yet constantly adding an increaseof knowledge and of love, while Iexamined, and tried to understand,the wonderful minds that have leftbehind them there such abundanttraces of their presence.... On Sun-day, the day before I left Florence,I went to the highest part of theGrand Duke’s Garden of Boboli,which commands a view of mostof the City, and of the vale of theArno to the westward; where, as wehad been visited by several rainydays, and now at last had a veryfine one, the whole prospect wasin its highest beauty. The massof buildings, chiefly on the otherside of the River, is sufficient tofill the eye, without perplexing themind by vastness like that of Lon-don; and its name and history, itsoutline and large and picturesquebuildings, give it grandeur of ahigher order than that of mere mul-titudinous extent. The Hills thatborder the Valley of the Arno arealso very pleasing and striking tolook upon; and the view of the richPlain, glimmering away into bluedistance, covered with an endlessweb of villages and country-houses,


is one of the most delightful imagesof human well-being I have everseen....

“Very shortly before leaving Flo-rence, I went through the house ofMichael Angelo; which is still pos-sessed by persons of the same fam-ily, descendants, I believe, of hisNephew. There is in it his ‘firstwork in marble,’ as it is called;and a few drawings,—all with thestamp of his enginery upon them,which was more powerful than allthe steam in London.... On thewhole, though I have done no workin Florence that can be of anyuse or pleasure to others, exceptmy Letters to my Wife,—I leave itwith the certainty of much valuableknowledge gained there, and with amost pleasant remembrance of thebusy and thoughtful days I owe toit.

“We left Florence before sevenyesterday morning [26th Novem-ber] for this place; travelling onthe northern side of the Arno, byPrato, Pistoia, Pescia. We tried tosee some old frescos in a Churchat Prato; but found the Priests allabout, saying mass; and of coursedid not venture to put our handsinto a hive where the bees werebuzzing and on the wing. Pistoiawe only coasted. A little on one

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side of it, there is a Hill, the firston the road from Florence; whichwe walked up, and had a very livelyand brilliant prospect over the roadwe had just travelled, and the townof Pistoia. Thence to this placethe whole land is beautiful, and inthe highest degree prosperous,—inshort, to speak metaphorically, alldotted with Leghorn bonnets, andstreaming with olive-oil. The girlshere are said to employ themselveschiefly in platting straw, which isa profitable employment; and theslightness and quiet of the workare said to be much more favor-able to beauty than the coarserkinds of labor performed by thecountry-women elsewhere. Cer-tain it is that I saw more prettywomen in Pescia, in the hour Ispent there, than I ever before metwith among the same numbers ofthe ‘phare sect.’ Wherefore, as amemorial of them, I bought thereseveral Legends of Female Saintsand Martyrs, and of other Ladiesquite the reverse, and held up aswarnings; all of which are writtenin ottava rima, and sold for threehalfpence apiece. But unhappily Ihave not yet had time to read them.This Town has 30,000 inhabitants,and is surrounded by Walls, laidout as walks, and evidently not at


present intended to be besieged,—for which reason, this morning, Imerely walked on them round theTown, and did not besiege them....

“The Cathedral [of Lucca] con-tains some Relics; which have un-doubtedly worked miracles on theimagination of the people here-abouts. The Grandfather of allRelics (as the Arabs would say) inthe place is the Volto Santo, whichis a Face of the Saviour appertain-ing to a wooden Crucifix. Now youmust know that, after the ascen-sion of Christ, Nicodemus was or-dered by an Angel to carve an im-age of him; and went accordinglywith a hatchet, and cut down acedar for that purpose. He thenproceeded to carve the figure; andbeing tired, fell asleep before hehad done the face; which however,on awaking, he found completedby celestial aid. This image wasbrought to Lucca, from Leghorn,I think, where it had arrived ina ship, ‘more than a thousandyears ago,’ and has ever since beenkept, in purple and fine linen andgold and diamonds, quietly work-ing miracles. I saw the gilt Shrineof it; and also a Hatchet which re-fused to cut off the head of an in-nocent man, who had been con-demned to death, and who prayed

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to the Volto Santo. I suppose itis by way of economy (they beinga frugal people) that the Italianshave their Book of Common Prayerand their Arabian Nights’ Enter-tainments condensed into one.”

To the Same.

“PISA, DECEMBER 2D, 1838.—Pisa is very unfairly treated in allthe Books I have read. It seemsto me a quiet, but very agreeableplace; with wide clean streets, anda look of stability and comfort; andI admire the Cathedral and itsappendages more, the more I seethem. The leaning of the Toweris to my eye decidedly unpleasant;but it is a beautiful building never-theless, and the view from the topis, under a bright sky, remarkablylively and satisfactory. The Lucch-ese Hills form a fine mass, and thesea must in clear weather be verydistinct. There was some haze overit when I was up, though the landwas all clear. I could just see theLeghorn Light-house. Leghorn it-self I shall not be able to visit....

“The quiet gracefulness of Ital-ian life, and the mental maturityand vigor of Germany, have a greatcharm when compared with therestless whirl of England, and thechorus of mingled yells and groans


sent up by our parties and sects,and by the suffering and bewil-dered crowds of the laboring peo-ple. Our politics make my heartache, whenever I think of them.The base selfish frenzies of factionsseem to me, at this distance, halfdiabolic; and I am out of the wayof knowing anything that may bequietly a-doing to elevate the stan-dard of wise and temperate man-hood in the country, and to diffusethe means of physical and moralwell-being among all the people....I will write to my Father as soonas I can after reaching the capitalof his friend the Pope,—who, if hehad happened to be born an En-glish gentleman, would no doubtby this time be a respectable old-gentlemanly gouty member of theCarlton. I have often amused my-self by thinking what a mere ac-cident it is that Phillpotts is notArchbishop of Tuam, and M’HaleBishop of Exeter; and how slighta change of dress, and of a fewcatchwords, would even now enablethem to fill those respective postswith all the propriety and discre-tion they display in their presentpositions.”

At Rome he found the Crawfords, knownto him long since; and at different dates other

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English friends old and new; and was alto-gether in the liveliest humor, no end to his ac-tivities and speculations. Of all which, duringthe next four months, the Letters now beforeme give abundant record,—far too abundantfor our objects here. His grand pursuit, as nat-ural at Rome, was Art; into which metaphysi-cal domain we shall not follow him; preferringto pick out, here and there, something of con-crete and human. Of his interests, researches,speculations and descriptions on this subjectof Art, there is always rather a superabun-dance, especially in the Italian Tour. Unfortu-nately, in the hard weather, poor Calvert fellill; and Sterling, along with his Art-studies,distinguished himself as a sick-nurse till hispoor comrade got afoot again. His general im-pressions of the scene and what it held for himmay be read in the following excerpts. TheLetters are all dated Rome, and addressed tohis Father or Mother:—

“DECEMBER 21ST, 1838.—OfRome itself, as a whole, there areinfinite things to be said, wellworth saying; but I shall confinemyself to two remarks: first, thatwhile the Monuments and works ofArt gain in wondrousness and sig-nificance by familiarity with them,the actual life of Rome, the Pa-pacy and its pride, lose; and thoughone gets accustomed to Cardinalsand Friars and Swiss Guards, andragged beggars and the finery of


London and Paris, all rolling ontogether, and sees how it is thatthey subsist in a sort of spuri-ous unity, one loses all tendencyto idealize the Metropolis and Sys-tem of the Hierarchy into anythinghigher than a piece of showy stage-declamation, at bottom, in our day,thoroughly mean and prosaic. Myother remark is, that Rome, seenfrom the tower of the Capitol, fromthe Pincian or the Janiculum, isat this day one of the most beau-tiful spectacles which eyes ever be-held. The company of great domesrising from a mass of large andsolid buildings, with a few stone-pines and scattered edifices on theoutskirts; the broken bare Cam-pagna all around; the Alban Hillsnot far, and the purple range ofSabine Mountains in the distancewith a cope of snow;—this seen inthe clear air, and the whole spir-itualized by endless recollections,and a sense of the grave and loftyreality of human existence whichhas had this place for a main the-atre, fills at once the eyes and heartmore forcibly, and to me delight-fully, than I can find words to say.”

“JANUARY 22D, 1839.—TheModern Rome, Pope and all in-clusive, are a shabby attempt at

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something adequate to fill the placeof the old Commonwealth. It iseasy enough to live among them,and there is much to amuse andeven interest a spectator; but thenative existence of the place isnow thin and hollow, and there isa stamp of littleness, and child-ish poverty of taste, upon all thegreat Christian buildings I haveseen here,—not excepting St. Pe-ter’s; which is crammed with bitsof colored marble and gilding, andGog-and-Magog colossal statues ofsaints (looking prodigiously small),and mosaics from the worst pic-tures in Rome; and has altogether,with most imposing size and lavishsplendor, a tang of Guildhall fineryabout it that contrasts oddly withthe melancholy vastness and sim-plicity of the Ancient Monuments,though these have not the Athe-nian elegance. I recur perpetu-ally to the galleries of Sculpturein the Vatican, and to the Fres-cos of Raffael and Michael Angelo,of inexhaustible beauty and great-ness, and to the general aspect ofthe City and the Country round it,as the most impressive scene onearth. But the Modern City, withits churches, palaces, priests andbeggars, is far from sublime.”


Of about the same date, here is anotherparagraph worth inserting: “Gladstone hasthree little agate crosses which he will giveyou for my little girls. Calvert bought them,as a present, for ‘the bodies,’ at Martigny inSwitzerland, and I have had no earlier op-portunity of sending them. Will you despatchthem to Hastings when you have an opportu-nity? I have not yet seen Gladstone’s Churchand State; but as there is a copy in Rome, Ihope soon to lay hands on it. I saw yesterdayin the Times a furious, and I am sorry to say,most absurd attack on him and it, and the newOxonian school.”

“FEBRUARY 28TH, 1839.—There is among the people plentyof squalid misery; though notnearly so much as, they say, existsin Ireland; and here there is acertain freedom and freshnessof manners, a dash of Southernenjoyment in the condition ofthe meanest and most miserable.There is, I suppose, as little as wellcan be of conscience or artificialcultivation of any kind; but thereis not the affectation of a virtuewhich they do not possess, nor anyfeeling of being despised for thewant of it; and where life generallyis so inert, except as to its passionsand material wants, there is notthe bitter consciousness of havingbeen beaten by the more prosper-

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ous, in a race which the greaternumber have never thought of run-ning. Among the laboring poor ofRome, a bribe will buy a crime; butif common work procures enoughfor a day’s food or idleness, tentimes the sum will not induce themto toil on, as an English workmanwould, for the sake of rising inthe world. Sixpence any day willput any of them at the top of theonly tree they care for,—that onwhich grows the fruit of idleness.It is striking to see the way inwhich, in magnificent churches,the most ragged beggars kneel onthe pavement before some favoritealtar in the midst of well-dressedwomen and of gazing foreigners.Or sometimes you will see one witha child come in from the streetwhere she has been begging, putherself in a corner, say a prayer(probably for the success of herpetitions), and then return to begagain. There is wonderfully littleof any moral strength connectedwith this devotion; but still it isbetter than nothing, and morethan is often found among the menof the upper classes in Rome. Ibelieve the Clergy to be generallyprofligate, and the state of domes-tic morals as bad as it has everbeen represented.”—


Or, in sudden contrast, take this otherglance homeward; a Letter to his eldest child;in which kind of Letters, more than in anyother, Sterling seems to me to excel. Read-ers recollect the hurricane in St. Vincent; thehasty removal to a neighbor’s house, and thebirth of a son there, soon after. The boyhas grown to some articulation, during theseseven years; and his Father, from the new for-eign scene of Priests and Dilettanti, thus ad-dresses him:—

To Master Edward C. Sterling,Hastings.

“ROME,“21ST JANUARY, 1839.

“MY DEAR EDWARD,—I was very glad to receive your

Letter, which showed me that youhave learned something since I lefthome. If you knew how much plea-sure it gave me to see your hand-writing, I am sure you would takepains to be able to write well, thatyou might often send me letters,and tell me a great many thingswhich I should like to know aboutMamma and your Sisters as well asyourself.

“If I go to Vesuvius, I will try tocarry away a bit of the lava, whichyou wish for. There has lately beena great eruption, as it is called,

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of that Mountain; which means agreat breaking-out of hot ashes andfire, and of melted stones which iscalled lava.

“Miss Clark is very kind to takeso much pains with you; and Itrust you will show that you areobliged to her, by paying atten-tion to all she tells you. Whenyou see how much more grown peo-ple know than you, you ought tobe anxious to learn all you canfrom those who teach you; and asthere are so many wise and goodthings written in Books, you oughtto try to read early and carefully;that you may learn something ofwhat God has made you able toknow. There are Libraries contain-ing very many thousands of Vol-umes; and all that is written inthese is,—accounts of some part orother of the World which God hasmade, or of the Thoughts whichhe has enabled men to have intheir minds. Some Books are de-scriptions of the earth itself, withits rocks and ground and water,and of the air and clouds, and thestars and moon and sun, whichshine so beautifully in the sky.Some tell you about the thingsthat grow upon the ground; themany millions of plants, from littlemosses and threads of grass up to


great trees and forests. Some alsocontain accounts of living things:flies, worms, fishes, birds and four-legged beasts. And some, which arethe most, are about men and theirthoughts and doings. These are themost important of all; for men arethe best and most wonderful crea-tures of God in the world; beingthe only ones able to know him andlove him, and to try of their own ac-cord to do his will.

“These Books about men arealso the most important to us, be-cause we ourselves are human be-ings, and may learn from suchBooks what we ought to think andto do and to try to be. Some ofthem describe what sort of peo-ple have lived in old times andin other countries. By readingthem, we know what is the dif-ference between ourselves in Eng-land now, and the famous nationswhich lived in former days. Suchwere the Egyptians who built thePyramids, which are the greatestheaps of stone upon the face of theearth: and the Babylonians, whohad a city with huge walls, builtof bricks, having writing on themthat no one in our time has beenable to make out. There were alsothe Jews, who were the only an-cient people that knew how won-

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derful and how good God is: andthe Greeks, who were the wisestof all in thinking about men’s livesand hearts, and who knew best howto make fine statues and buildings,and to write wise books. By Booksalso we may learn what sort of peo-ple the old Romans were, whosechief city was Rome, where I amnow; and how brave and skilfulthey were in war; and how wellthey could govern and teach manynations which they had conquered.It is from Books, too, that you mustlearn what kind of men were ourAncestors in the Northern part ofEurope, who belonged to the tribesthat did the most towards pullingdown the power of the Romans:and you will see in the same wayhow Christianity was sent amongthem by God, to make them wiserand more peaceful, and more no-ble in their minds; and how all thenations that now are in Europe,and especially the Italians and theGermans, and the French and theEnglish, came to be what theynow are.—It is well worth know-ing (and it can be known only byreading) how the Germans foundout the Printing of Books, and whatgreat changes this has made in theworld. And everybody in Englandought to try to understand how the


English came to have their Parlia-ments and Laws; and to have fleetsthat sail over all seas of the world.

“Besides learning all thesethings, and a great many moreabout different times and coun-tries, you may learn from Books,what is the truth of God’s will,and what are the best and wisestthoughts, and the most beautifulwords; and how men are able tolead very right lives, and to do agreat deal to better the world. Ihave spent a great part of my lifein reading; and I hope you willcome to like it as much as I do, andto learn in this way all that I know.

“But it is a still more seriousmatter that you should try to beobedient and gentle; and to com-mand your temper; and to think ofother people’s pleasure rather thanyour own, and of what you ought todo rather than what you like. If youtry to be better for all you read, aswell as wiser, you will find Booksa great help towards goodness aswell as knowledge, and above allother Books, the Bible; which tellsus of the will of God, and of the loveof Jesus Christ towards God andmen.

“I had a Letter from Mammato-day, which left Hastings on the10th of this month. I was very glad

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to find in it that you were all welland happy; but I know Mamma isnot well, and is likely to be moreuncomfortable every day for sometime. So I hope you will all takecare to give her as little troubleas possible. After sending you somuch advice, I shall write a littleStory to divert you.—I am, my dearBoy,

“Your affectionate Father,“John Sterling.”

The “Story” is lost, destroyed, as are manysuch which Sterling wrote, with great felicity,I am told, and much to the satisfaction of theyoung folk, when the humor took him.

Besides these plentiful communicationsstill left, I remember long Letters, not nowextant, principally addressed to his Wife, ofwhich we and the circle at Knightsbridge haddue perusal, treating with animated copious-ness about all manner of picture-galleries, pic-tures, statues and objects of Art at Rome, andon the road to Rome and from it, whereso-ever his course led him into neighborhood ofsuch objects. That was Sterling’s habit. Itis expected in this Nineteenth Century thata man of culture shall understand and wor-ship Art: among the windy gospels addressedto our poor Century there are few louder thanthis of Art;—and if the Century expects thatevery man shall do his duty, surely Sterlingwas not the man to balk it! Various extractsfrom these picture-surveys are given in Hare;


the others, I suppose, Sterling himself subse-quently destroyed, not valuing them much.

Certainly no stranger could address him-self more eagerly to reap what artistic har-vest Rome offers, which is reckoned the pe-culiar produce of Rome among cities underthe sun; to all galleries, churches, sistinechapels, ruins, coliseums, and artistic or dilet-tante shrines he zealously pilgrimed; and hadmuch to say then and afterwards, and withreal technical and historical knowledge I be-lieve, about the objects of devotion there. Butit often struck me as a question, Whether allthis even to himself was not, more or less, anebulous kind of element; prescribed not byNature and her verities, but by the Centuryexpecting every man to do his duty? Whethernot perhaps, in good part, temporary dilet-tante cloudland of our poor Century;—or canit be the real diviner Pisgah height, and ever-lasting mount of vision, for man’s soul in anyCentury? And I think Sterling himself benttowards a negative conclusion, in the courseof years. Certainly, of all subjects this was theone I cared least to hear even Sterling talk of:indeed it is a subject on which earnest men,abhorrent of hypocrisy and speech that hasno meaning, are admonished to silence in thissad time, and had better, in such a Babel aswe have got into for the present, “perambulatetheir picture-gallery with little or no speech.”

Here is another and to me much moreearnest kind of “Art,” which renders Romeunique among the cities of the world; of thiswe will, in preference; take a glance through

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Sterling’s eyes:—

“JANUARY 22D, 1839.—On Fri-day last there was a great Festi-val at St. Peter’s; the only one Ihave seen. The Church was deco-rated with crimson hangings, andthe choir fitted up with seats andgalleries, and a throne for the Pope.There were perhaps a couple ofhundred guards of different kinds;and three or four hundred Englishladies, and not so many foreignmale spectators; so that the placelooked empty. The Cardinals inscarlet, and Monsignori in purple,were there; and a body of officiat-ing Clergy. The Pope was carriedin in his chair on men’s shoulders,wearing the Triple Crown; which Ihave thus actually seen: it is some-thing like a gigantic Egg, and of thesame color, with three little bandsof gold,—very large Egg-shell withthree streaks of the yolk smearedround it. He was dressed in whitesilk robes, with gold trimmings.

“It was a fine piece of state-show; though, as there are threeor four such Festivals yearly, ofcourse there is none of the eagerinterest which breaks out at coro-nations and similar rare events; noexplosion of unwonted velvets, jew-els, carriages and footmen, such


as London and Milan have latelyenjoyed. I guessed all the peo-ple in St. Peter’s, including per-formers and spectators, at 2,000;where 20,000 would hardly havebeen a crushing crowd. Mass wasperformed, and a stupid but shortLatin sermon delivered by a lad, inhonor of St. Peter, who would havebeen much astonished if he couldhave heard it. The genuflections,and train-bearings, and folding upthe tails of silk petticoats while thePontiff knelt, and the train of Car-dinals going up to kiss his Ring,and so forth,—made on me the im-pression of something immeasur-ably old and sepulchral, such asmight suit the Grand Lama’s court,or the inside of an Egyptian Pyra-mid; or as if the Hieroglyphics onone of the Obelisks here should be-gin to pace and gesticulate, andnod their bestial heads upon thegranite tablets. The careless by-standers, the London ladies withtheir eye-glasses and look of anOpera-box, the yawning young gen-tlemen of the Guarda Nobile, andthe laugh of one of the file of ver-milion Priests round the steps ofthe altar at the whispered goodthing of his neighbor, brought oneback to nothing indeed of a verylofty kind, but still to the Nine-

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teenth Century.”—

“At the great Benediction of the City andthe World on Easter Sunday by the Pope,” hewrites afterwards, “there was a large crowdboth native and foreign, hundreds of car-riages, and thousands of the lower orders ofpeople from the country; but even of the poorhardly one in twenty took off his hat, and astill smaller number knelt down. A few yearsago, not a head was covered, nor was therea knee which did not bow.”—A very deca-dent “Holiness of our Lord the Pope,” it wouldappear!—

Sterling’s view of the Pope, as seen in thesehis gala days, doing his big play-actorism un-der God’s earnest sky, was much more sub-stantial to me than his studies in the picture-galleries. To Mr. Hare also he writes: “Ihave seen the Pope in all his pomp at St. Pe-ter’s; and he looked to me a mere lie in liv-ery. The Romish Controversy is doubtless amuch more difficult one than the managers ofthe Religious-Tract Society fancy, because it isa theoretical dispute; and in dealing with no-tions and authorities, I can quite understandhow a mere student in a library, with no eyefor facts, should take either one side or other.But how any man with clear head and hon-est heart, and capable of seeing realities, anddistinguishing them from scenic falsehoods,should, after living in a Romanist country, andespecially at Rome, be inclined to side withLeo against Luther, I cannot understand.”20

20Hare, p. cxviii.


It is fit surely to recognize with admiringjoy any glimpse of the Beautiful and the Eter-nal that is hung out for us, in color, in form ortone, in canvas, stone, or atmospheric air, andmade accessible by any sense, in this world:but it is greatly fitter still (little as we areused that way) to shudder in pity and ab-horrence over the scandalous tragedy, tran-scendent nadir of human ugliness and con-temptibility, which under the daring title ofreligious worship, and practical recognitionof the Highest God, daily and hourly every-where transacts itself there. And, alas, notthere only, but elsewhere, everywhere more orless; whereby our sense is so blunted to it;—whence, in all provinces of human life, thesetears!—

But let us take a glance at the Carnival,since we are here. The Letters, as before, areaddressed to Knightsbridge; the date Rome:—

“FEBRUARY 5TH, 1839.—TheCarnival began yesterday. It isa curious example of the triflingthings which will heartily amusetens of thousands of grown peo-ple, precisely because they are tri-fling, and therefore a relief fromserious business, cares and labors.The Corso is a street about amile long, and about as broad asJermyn Street; but bordered bymuch loftier houses, with manypalaces and churches, and hastwo or three small squares open-

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ing into it. Carriages, mostlyopen, drove up and down it fortwo or three hours; and the con-tents were shot at with handfulsof comfits from the windows,—inthe hope of making them as non-content as possible,—while theyreturned the fire to the best oftheir inferior ability. The popu-lace, among whom was I, walkedabout; perhaps one in fifty weremasked in character; but there waslittle in the masquerade either ofsplendor of costume or livelinessof mimicry. However, the wholescene was very gay; there were agood many troops about, and someof them heavy dragoons, who flour-ished their swords with the magna-nimity of our Life-Guards, to repelthe encroachments of too ambitiouslittle boys. Most of the windowsand balconies were hung with col-ored drapery; and there were flags,trumpets, nosegays and flirtationsof all shapes and sizes. The bestof all was, that there was laugh-ter enough to have frightened Cas-sius out of his thin carcass, couldthe lean old homicide have beenpresent, otherwise than as a flesh-less ghost;—in which capacity Ithought I had a glimpse of himlooking over the shoulder of a par-ticolored clown, in a carriage full of


London Cockneys driving towardsthe Capitol. This good-humoredfoolery will go on for several days tocome, ending always with the cele-brated Horse-race, of horses with-out riders. The long street iscleared in the centre by troops,and half a dozen quadrupeds, orna-mented like Grimaldi in a Londonpantomime, scamper away, withthe mob closing and roaring attheir heels.”

“FEBRUARY 9TH, 1839.—Theusual state of Rome is quiet andsober. One could almost fancythe actual generation held theirbreath, and stole by on tiptoe,in presence of so memorable apast. But during the Carnival allmankind, womankind and child-kind think it unbecoming not toplay the fool. The modern donkeypokes its head out of the lion’s skinof old Rome, and brays out the ab-surdest of asinine roundelays. Con-ceive twenty thousand grown peo-ple in a long street, at the win-dows, on the footways, and in car-riages, amused day after day forseveral hours in pelting and be-ing pelted with handfuls of mockor real sugar-plums; and this noname or presence, but real down-right showers of plaster comfits,

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from which people guard their eyeswith meshes of wire. As sure as acarriage passes under a window orbalcony where are acquaintancesof theirs, down comes a showerof hail, ineffectually returned frombelow. The parties in two cross-ing carriages similarly assault eachother; and there are long balconieshung the whole way with a deepcanvas pocket full of this mortalshot. One Russian Grand Dukegoes with a troop of youngstersin a wagon, all dressed in brownlinen frocks and masked, and peltsamong the most furious, also beingpelted. The children are of coursepreeminently vigorous, and thereis a considerable circulation of realsugar-plums, which supply conso-lation for all disappointments.”

The whole to conclude, as is proper, witha display, with two displays, of fireworks;in which art, as in some others, Rome isunrivalled:—

“FEBRUARY 9TH, 1839.—It seems to be the ambition of allthe lower classes to wear a maskand showy grotesque disguise ofsome kind; and I believe many ofthe upper ranks do the same. Theyeven put St. Peter’s into masquer-ade; and make it a Cathedral of


Lamplight instead of a stone one.Two evenings ago this feat wasperformed; and I was able to seeit from the rooms of a friend nearthis, which command an excellentview of it. I never saw so beautifulan effect of artificial light. Theevening was perfectly serene andclear; the principal lines of thebuilding, the columns, architraveand pediment of the front, thetwo inferior cupolas, the curvesof the dome from which the domerises, the ribs of the dome itself,the small oriel windows betweenthem, and the lantern and ball andcross,—all were delineated in theclear vault of air by lines of paleyellow fire. The dome of anothergreat Church, much nearer to theeye, stood up as a great blackmass,—a funereal contrast to theluminous tabernacle.

“While I was looking at thislatter, a red blaze burst from thesummit, and at the same momentseemed to flash over the wholebuilding, filling up the pale outlinewith a simultaneous burst of fire.This is a celebrated display; andis done, I believe, by the employ-ment of a very great number of mento light, at the same instant, thetorches which are fixed for the pur-pose all over the building. After the

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first glare of fire, I did not thinkthe second aspect of the buildingso beautiful as the first; it wantedboth softness and distinctness. Thetwo most animated days of the Car-nival are still to come.”

“APRIL 4TH, 1839.—We havejust come to the termination of allthe Easter spectacles here. OnSunday evening St. Peter’s was asecond time illuminated; I was inthe Piazza, and admired the sightfrom a nearer point than when Ihad seen it before at the time of theCarnival.

“On Monday evening the cele-brated fire-works were let off fromthe Castle of St. Angelo; they weresaid to be, in some respects morebrilliant than usual. I certainlynever saw any fireworks compara-ble to them for beauty. The Giran-dola is a discharge of many thou-sands of rockets at once, which ofcourse fall back, like the leaves ofa lily, and form for a minute avery beautiful picture. There wasalso in silvery light a very long Fa-cade of a Palace, which looked aresidence for Oberon and Titania,and beat Aladdin’s into darkness.Afterwards a series of cascades ofred fire poured down the faces ofthe Castle and of the scaffoldings


round it, and seemed a burningNiagara. Of course there wereabundance of serpents, wheels andcannon-shot; there was also a dis-play of dazzling white light, whichmade a strange appearance on thehouses, the river, the bridge, andthe faces of the multitude. Thewhole ended with a second and amore splendid Girandola.”

Take finally, to people the scene a little forus, if our imagination be at all lively, thesethree small entries, of different dates, and sowind up:—

“DECEMBER 30TH, 1838.—I received on Christmas-day apacket from Dr. Carlyle, contain-ing Letters from the Maurices;which were a very pleasant ar-rival. The Dr. wrote a few lineswith them, mentioning that hewas only at Civita Vecchia whilethe steamer baited on its way toNaples. I have written to thankhim for his despatches.”

“MARCH 16TH, 1839.—I haveseen a good deal of John Mill,whose society I like much. He en-ters heartily into the interest of thethings which I most care for here,and I have seldom had more plea-sure than in taking him to see Raf-

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fael’s Loggie, where are the Fres-cos called his Bible, and to the Six-tine Chapel, which I admire andlove more and more. He is in veryweak health, but as fresh and clearin mind as possible.... English poli-tics seem in a queer state, the Con-servatives creeping on, the Whigslosing ground; like combatants onthe top of a breach, while there is asocial mine below which will prob-ably blow both parties into the air.”

“APRIL 4TH, 1839.—I walkedout on Tuesday on the AnconaRoad, and about noon met a trav-elling carriage, which from a dis-tance looked very suspicious, andon nearer approach was found re-ally to contain Captain Sterlingand an Albanian manservant onthe front, and behind under thehood Mrs. A. Sterling and the sheportion of the tail. They seemedvery well; and, having turned theAlbanian back to the rear of thewhole machine, I sat by Anthony,and entered Rome in triumph.”—Here is indeed a conquest! CaptainA. Sterling, now on his return fromservice in Corfu, meets his Brotherin this manner; and the remain-ing Roman days are of a brightercomplexion. As these suddenlyended, I believe he turned south-


ward, and found at Naples the Dr.Carlyle above mentioned (an ex-tremely intimate acquaintance ofmine), who was still there. For weare a most travelling people, we ofthis Island in this time; and, as theProphet threatened, see ourselves,in so many senses, made “like untoa wheel!”—

Sterling returned from Italy filled withmuch cheerful imagery and reminiscence, andgreat store of artistic, serious, dilettante andother speculation for the time; improved inhealth, too; but probably little enriched in realculture or spiritual strength; and indeed notpermanently altered by his tour in any re-spect to a sensible extent, that one could no-tice. He returned rather in haste, and be-fore the expected time; summoned, about themiddle of April, by his Wife’s domestic situ-ation at Hastings; who, poor lady, had beenbrought to bed before her calculation, and hadin few days lost her infant; and now saw ahousehold round her much needing the mas-ter’s presence. He hurried off to Malta, dread-ing the Alps at that season; and came home,by steamer, with all speed, early in May, 1839.

PART III.

277

CHAPTER I.CLIFTON.

Matters once readjusted at Hastings, it wasthought Sterling’s health had so improved,and his activities towards Literature so de-veloped themselves into congruity, that a per-manent English place of abode might nowagain be selected,—on the Southwest coastsomewhere,—and the family once more havethe blessing of a home, and see its laresand penates and household furniture unlockedfrom the Pantechnicon repositories, wherethey had so long been lying.

Clifton, by Bristol, with its soft South-ern winds and high cheerful situation, recom-mended too by the presence of one or morevaluable acquaintances there, was found to bethe eligible place; and thither in this summerof 1839, having found a tolerable lodging, withthe prospect by and by of an agreeable house,he and his removed. This was the end ofwhat I call his “third peregrinity;”—or reckon-ing the West Indies one, his fourth. This alsois, since Bayswater, the fourth time his familyhas had to shift on his account. Bayswater;

279


then to Bordeaux, to Blackheath and Knights-bridge (during the Madeira time), to Hastings(Roman time); and now to Clifton, not to staythere either: a sadly nomadic life to be pre-scribed to a civilized man!

At Clifton his habitation was speedilyenough set up; household conveniences, meth-ods of work, daily promenades on foot orhorseback, and before long even a circle offriends, or of kindly neighborhoods ripeninginto intimacy, were established round him. Inall this no man could be more expert or ex-peditious, in such cases. It was with singularfacility, in a loving, hoping manner, that hethrew himself open to the new interests andcapabilities of the new place; snatched out ofit whatsoever of human or material would suithim; and in brief, in all senses had pitchedhis tent-habitation, and grew to look on it asa house. It was beautiful too, as well as pa-thetic. This man saw himself reduced to be adweller in tents, his house is but a stone tent;and he can so kindly accommodate himself tothat arrangement;—healthy faculty and dis-eased necessity, nature and habit, and allmanner of things primary and secondary, orig-inal and incidental, conspiring now to make iteasy for him. With the evils of nomadism, heparticipated to the full in whatever benefitslie in it for a man.

He had friends enough, old and new, atClifton, whose intercourse made the place hu-man for him. Perhaps among the most val-ued of the former sort may be mentioned Mrs.Edward Strachey, Widow of the late Indian

CHAPTER I 281

Judge, who now resided here; a cultivated,graceful, most devout and high-minded lady;whom he had known in old years, first prob-ably as Charles Buller’s Aunt, and whose es-teem was constant for him, and always pre-cious to him. She was some ten or twelveyears older than he; she survived him someyears, but is now also gone from us. Ofnew friends acquired here, besides a skilfuland ingenious Dr. Symonds, physician as wellas friend, the principal was Francis New-man, then and still an ardently inquiringsoul, of fine University and other attainments,of sharp-cutting, restlessly advancing intel-lect, and the mildest pious enthusiasm; whoseworth, since better known to all the world,Sterling highly estimated;—and indeed prac-tically testified the same; having by will ap-pointed him, some years hence, guardian tohis eldest Son; which pious function Mr. New-man now successfully discharges.

Sterling was not long in certainty as to hisabode at Clifton: alas, where could he long beso? Hardly six months were gone when hisold enemy again overtook him; again admon-ished him how frail his hopes of permanencywere. Each winter, it turned out, he had to fly;and after the second of these, he quitted theplace altogether. Here, meanwhile, in a Let-ter to myself, and in Excerpts from others, aresome glimpses of his advent and first summerthere:—

To His Mother.


“CLIFTON, JUNE 11TH, 1839.—As yet I am personally very un-comfortable from the general con-fusion of this house, which deprivesme of my room to sit and read andwrite in; all being more or lesslumbered by boxes, and invaded byservile domesticities aproned, han-dled, bristled, and of nondescriptvarieties. We have very fine warmweather, with occasional showers;and the verdure of the woods andfields is very beautiful. Bristolseems as busy as need be; and theshops and all kinds of practical con-veniences are excellent; but thoseof Clifton have the usual sentimen-tal, not to say meretricious fraudu-lence of commercial establishmentsin Watering-places.

“The bag which Hannah forgotreached us safely at Bath on Fri-day morning; but I cannot quite un-riddle the mystery of the change ofpadlocks, for I left the right one incare of the Head Steam-engine atPaddington, which seemed a verydecent person with a good blackcoat on, and a pen behind its ear. Ihave been meditating much on thestory of Palarea’s ‘box of papers;’which does not appear to be in mypossession, and I have a strong im-pression that I gave it to young Flo-rez Calderon. I will write to say so

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to Madam Torrijos speedily.”

Palarea, Dr. Palarea, I understand, was“an old guerilla leader whom they called ElMedico.” Of him and of the vanished shad-ows, now gone to Paris, to Madrid, or out ofthe world, let us say nothing!

To Mr. Carlyle.“JUNE 15TH, 1839.—We have

a room now occupied by RobertBarton [a brother-in-law]; to whichAnthony may perhaps succeed; butwhich after him, or in lieu of him,would expand itself to receive you.Is there no hope of your coming? Iwould undertake to ride with youat all possible paces, and in all ex-isting directions.

“As yet my books are lying asghost books, in a limbo on thebanks of a certain Bristolian Styx,humanly speaking, a Canal; butthe other apparatus of life is gath-ered about me, and performs its di-urnal functions. The place pleasesme better than I expected: a farlookout on all sides, over greencountry; a sufficient old City lyingin the hollow near; and civilization,in no tumultuous state, rather in-deed stagnant, visible in the Rowsof Houses and Gardens which callthemselves Clifton. I hope soon totake a lease of a house, where I


may arrange myself more method-ically; keep myself equably boilingin my own kitchen; and spread my-self over a series of book-shelves....I have just been interrupted bya visit from Mrs. Strachey; withwhom I dined yesterday. She seemsa very good and thoroughly kind-hearted woman; and it is pleas-ant to have her for a neighbor....I have read Emerson’s Pamphlets.I should find it more difficult thanever to write to him.”

To His Father.

“JUNE 30TH, 1839.—Of BooksI shall have no lack, though noplethora; and the Reading-roomsupplies all one can want in theway of Papers and Reviews. I gothere three or four times a week,and inquire how the human racegoes on. I suppose this Turco-Egyptian War will throw severaldiplomatists into a state of greatexcitement, and massacre a goodmany thousands of Africans andAsiatics?—For the present, it ap-pears, the English Education Ques-tion is settled. I wish the Gov-ernment had said that, in their in-spection and superintendence, theywould look only to secular matters,and leave religious ones to the per-sons who set up the schools, who-

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ever these might be. It seems to memonstrous that the State should beprevented taking any efficient mea-sures for teaching Roman Catholicchildren to read, write and ci-pher, merely because they believein the Pope, and the Pope is animpostor,—which I candidly con-fess he is! There is no ques-tion which I can so ill endure tosee made a party one as that ofEducation.”—

The following is of the same day:—


“MANOR HOUSE,“CLIFTON PLACE, CLIFTON,

“30TH JUNE, 1839.“MY DEAR CARLYLE,—

I have heard, this morning,from my Father, that you are toset out on Tuesday for Scotland:so I have determined to fillip awaysome spurt of ink in your direction,which may reach you before youmove towards Thule.

“Writing to you, in fact, is con-siderably easier than writing aboutyou; which has been my employ-ment of late, at leisure moments,—that is, moments of leisure from


idleness, not work. As you partlyguessed, I took in hand a Reviewof Teufelsdrockh—for want of a bet-ter Heuschrecke to do the work;and when I have been well enough,and alert enough, during the lastfortnight, have tried to set downsome notions about Tobacco, Rad-icalism, Christianity, Assafoetidaand so forth. But a few abortivepages are all the result as yet. Ifmy speculations should ever seedaylight, they may chance to getyou into scrapes, but will certainlyget me into worse.... But one mustwork; sic itur ad astra,—and theastra are always there to befriendone, at least as asterisks, filling upthe gaps which yawn in vain forwords.

“Except my unsuccessful effortsto discuss you and your offences,I have done nothing that leavesa trace behind;—unless the en-deavor to teach my little boy theLatin declensions shall be found,at some time short of the LastDay, to have done so. I have—rather I think from dyspepsia thandyspneumony—been often and fordays disabled from doing anythingbut read. In this way I have gonethrough a good deal of Strauss’sBook; which is exceedingly cleverand clearheaded; with more of in-

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sight, and less of destructive ragethan I expected. It will workdeep and far, in such a time asours. When so many minds aredistracted about the history, orrather genesis of the Gospel, itis a great thing for partisans onthe one side to have, what theother never have wanted, a Bookof which they can say, This is ourCreed and Code,—or rather Anti-creed and Anti-code. And Straussseems perfectly secure against thesort of answer to which Voltaire’scritical and historical shallownessperpetually exposed him. I meanto read the Book through. Itseems admitted that the ortho-dox theologians have failed to giveany sufficient answer.—I have alsolooked through Michelet’s Luther,with great delight; and have readthe fourth volume of Coleridge’sLiterary Remains, in which thereare things that would interest you.He has a great hankering afterCromwell, and explicitly defendsthe execution of Charles.

“Of Mrs. Strachey we have seena great deal; and might have seenmore, had I had time and spiritsfor it. She is a warm-hearted, en-thusiastic creature, whom one can-not but like. She seems always ex-cited by the wish for more excite-


ment than her life affords. Andsuch a person is always in dan-ger of doing something less wisethan his best knowledge and aspi-rations; because he must do some-thing, and circumstances do notallow him to do what he desires.Thence, after the first glow of nov-elty, endless self-tormenting comesfrom the contrast between aimsand acts. She sets out, with herdaughter and two boys, for a Tourin Wales to-morrow morning. Hertalk of you is always most affection-ate; and few, I guess, will read Sar-tor with more interest than she.

“I am still in a very extemporecondition as to house, books, &c.One which I have hired for threeyears will be given up to me inthe middle of August; and then Imay hope to have something likea house,—so far as that is possiblefor any one to whom Time itself isoften but a worse or a better kindof cave in the desert. We have hadrainy and cheerless weather almostsince the day of our arrival. Butthe sun now shines more lovingly,and the skies seem less disdainfulof man and his perplexities. Theearth is green, abundant and beau-tiful. But human life, so far as I canlearn, is mean and meagre enoughin its purposes, however striking

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to the speculative or sentimentalbystander. Pray be assured thatwhatever you may say of the ‘land-lord at Clifton,’21 the more I knowof him, the less I shall like him.Well with me if I can put up withhim for the present, and make useof him, till at last I can joyfully turnhim off forever!

“Love to you Wife and self. Mylittle Charlotte desires me to tellyou that she has new shoes for herDoll, which she will show you whenyou come.

“Yours,“JOHN STERLING.”

The visit to Clifton never took effect; norto any of Sterling’s subsequent homes; whichnow is matter of regret to me. Concerning the“Review of Teufelsdrockh” there will be moreto say anon. As to “little Charlotte and herDoll,” I remember well enough and was morethan once reminded, this bright little crea-ture, on one of my first visits to Bayswater,had earnestly applied to me to put her Doll’sshoes on for her; which feat was performed.—The next fragment indicates a household set-tled, fallen into wholesome routine again; andmay close the series here:—

To His Mother.21Of Sterling himself, I suppose.


“JULY 22D, 1839.—A fewevenings ago we went to Mr. Grif-fin’s, and met there Dr. Prichard,the author of a well-known Book onthe Races of Mankind, to which itstands in the same relation amongEnglish books as the Racing Calen-dar does to those of Horsekind. Heis a very intelligent, accomplishedperson. We had also there theDean; a certain Dr. —— of CorpusCollege, Cambridge (a booby); anda clever fellow, a Mr. Fisher, one ofthe Tutors of Trinity in my days.We had a very pleasant evening.”—

At London we were in the habit of expect-ing Sterling pretty often; his presence, in thishouse as in others, was looked for, once inthe month or two, and came always as sun-shine in the gray weather to me and mine. Mydaily walks with him had long since been cutshort without renewal; that walk to Elthamand Edgeworth’s perhaps the last of the kindhe and I had: but our intimacy, deepeningand widening year after year, knew no inter-ruption or abatement of increase; an honest,frank and truly human mutual relation, valu-able or even invaluable to both parties, anda lasting loss, hardly to be replaced in thisworld, to the survivor of the two.

His visits, which were usually of two orthree days, were always full of business, rapidin movement as all his life was. To me, ifpossible, he would come in the evening; a

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whole cornucopia of talk and speculation wasto be discharged. If the evening would not do,and my affairs otherwise permitted, I had tomount into cabs with him; fly far and wide,shuttling athwart the big Babel, wherever hiscalls and pauses had to be. This was his wayto husband time! Our talk, in such straitenedcircumstances, was loud or low as the circum-ambient groaning rage of wheels and soundprescribed,—very loud it had to be in suchthoroughfares as London Bridge and Cheap-side; but except while he was absent, off forminutes into some banker’s office, lawyer’s,stationer’s, haberdasher’s or what office theremight be, it never paused. In this way ex-tensive strange dialogues were carried on: tome also very strange,—private friendly col-loquies, on all manner of rich subjects, heldthus amid the chaotic roar of things. Ster-ling was full of speculations, observations andbright sallies; vividly awake to what was pass-ing in the world; glanced pertinently with vic-torious clearness, without spleen, though of-ten enough with a dash of mockery, into itsPuseyisms, Liberalisms, literary Lionisms, orwhat else the mad hour might be producing,—always prompt to recognize what grain of san-ity might be in the same. He was opulent intalk, and the rapid movement and vicissitudeon such occasions seemed to give him new ex-citement.

Once, I still remember,—it was some yearsbefore, probably in May, on his return fromMadeira,—he undertook a day’s riding withme; once and never again. We coursed ex-


tensively, over the Hampstead and Highgateregions, and the country beyond, saunter-ing or galloping through many leafy lanesand pleasant places, in ever-flowing, ever-changing talk; and returned down RegentStreet at nightfall: one of the cheerfulest daysI ever had;—not to be repeated, said the Fates.Sterling was charming on such occasions: atonce a child and a gifted man. A seriousfund of thought he always had, a serious driftyou never missed in him: nor indeed had hemuch depth of real laughter or sense of theludicrous, as I have elsewhere said; but whathe had was genuine, free and continual: hissparkling sallies bubbled up as from aeratednatural fountains; a mild dash of gayety wasnative to the man, and had moulded his phys-iognomy in a very graceful way. We got onceinto a cab, about Charing Cross; I know notnow whence or well whitherward, nor thatour haste was at all special; however, the cab-man, sensible that his pace was slowish, tookto whipping, with a steady, passionless, busi-nesslike assiduity which, though the horseseemed lazy rather than weak, became afflic-tive; and I urged remonstrance with the sav-age fellow: “Let him alone,” answered Ster-ling; “he is kindling the enthusiasm of hishorse, you perceive; that is the first thing,then we shall do very well!”—as accordinglywe did.

At Clifton, though his thoughts began toturn more on poetic forms of composition, hewas diligent in prose elaborations too,—doingCriticism, for one thing, as we incidentally ob-

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served. He wrote there, and sent forth in thisautumn of 1839, his most important contri-bution to John Mill’s Review, the article onCarlyle, which stands also in Mr. Hare’s col-lection.22 What its effect on the public was Iknew not, and know not; but remember well,and may here be permitted to acknowledge,the deep silent joy, not of a weak or ignoblenature, which it gave to myself in my thenmood and situation; as it well might. The firstgenerous human recognition, expressed withheroic emphasis, and clear conviction visibleamid its fiery exaggeration, that one’s poorbattle in this world is not quite a mad andfutile, that it is perhaps a worthy and man-ful one, which will come to something yet:this fact is a memorable one in every his-tory; and for me Sterling, often enough thestiff gainsayer in our private communings,was the doer of this. The thought burnt inme like a lamp, for several days; lighting upinto a kind of heroic splendor the sad volcanicwrecks, abysses, and convulsions of said poorbattle, and secretly I was very grateful to mydaring friend, and am still, and ought to be.What the public might be thinking about himand his audacities, and me in consequence, orwhether it thought at all, I never learned, ormuch heeded to learn.

Sterling’s gainsaying had given way onmany points; but on others it continued stiffas ever, as may be seen in that article; indeedhe fought Parthian-like in such cases, hold-

22Hare, ii. p. 252.


ing out his last position as doggedly as thefirst: and to some of my notions he seemed togrow in stubbornness of opposition, with thegrowing inevitability, and never would sur-render. Especially that doctrine of the “great-ness and fruitfulness of Silence,” remained af-flictive and incomprehensible: “Silence?” hewould say: “Yes, truly; if they give you leaveto proclaim silence by cannon-salvos! MyHarpocrates-Stentor!” In like manner, “Intel-lect and Virtue,” how they are proportional, orare indeed one gift in us, the same great sum-mary of gifts; and again, “Might and Right,”the identity of these two, if a man will un-derstand this God’s-Universe, and that onlyhe who conforms to the law of it can in thelong-run have any “might:” all this, at thefirst blush, often awakened Sterling’s mus-ketry upon me, and many volleys I have had tostand,—the thing not being decidable by thatkind of weapon or strategy.

In such cases your one method was to leaveour friend in peace. By small-arms practiceno mortal could dislodge him: but if you werein the right, the silent hours would work con-tinually for you; and Sterling, more certainlythan any man, would and must at lengthswear fealty to the right, and passionatelyadopt it, burying all hostilities under foot. Amore candid soul, once let the stormful veloc-ities of it expend themselves, was nowhere tobe met with. A son of light, if I have everseen one; recognizing the truth, if truth therewere; hurling overboard his vanities, petu-lances, big and small interests, in ready loy-

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alty to truth: very beautiful; at once a loyalchild, as I said, and a gifted man!—Here isa very pertinent passage from one of his Let-ters, which, though the name continues blank,I will insert:—

To His Father.

“OCTOBER 15TH, 1839.—As tomy ‘over-estimate of ——,’ your ex-pressions rather puzzle me. I sup-pose there may be, at the out-side, a hundred persons in Eng-land whose opinions on such a mat-ter are worth as much as mine. Ifby ‘the public’ you and my Mothermean the other ninety-nine, I sub-mit. I have no doubt that, on anymatter not relating peculiarly tomyself, the judgment of the ninety-nine most philosophical heads inthe country, if unanimous, would beright, and mine, if opposed to them,wrong. But then I am at a loss tomake out, How the decision of thevery few really competent personshas been ascertained to be thus incontradiction to me? And on theother hand, I conceive myself, frommy opportunities, knowledge andattention to the subject, to be alonequite entitled to outvote tens ofthousands of gentlemen, however


much my superiors as men of busi-ness, men of the world, or men ofmerely dry or merely frivolous lit-erature.

“I do not remember ever beforeto have heard the saying, whetherof Talleyrand or of any one else,That all the world is a wiser manthan any man in the world. Hadit been said even by the Devil,it would nevertheless be false. Ihave often indeed heard the say-ing, On peut etre plus FIN qu’unautre, mais pas plus FIN que tousles autres. But observe that ‘fin’means cunning, not wise. The dif-ference between this assertion andthe one you refer to is curious andworth examining. It is quite cer-tain, there is always some one manin the world wiser than all the rest;as Socrates was declared by the or-acle to be; and as, I suppose, Ba-con was in his day, and perhapsBurke in his. There is also someone, whose opinion would be prob-ably true, if opposed to that of allaround him; and it is always in-dubitable that the wise men arethe scores, and the unwise the mil-lions. The millions indeed comeround, in the course of a genera-tion or two, to the opinions of thewise; but by that time a new race ofwise men have again shot ahead of

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their contemporaries: so it has al-ways been, and so, in the nature ofthings, it always must be. But withcunning, the matter is quite differ-ent. Cunning is not dishonest wis-dom, which would be a contradic-tion in terms; it is dishonest pru-dence, acuteness in practice, not inthought: and though there must al-ways be some one the most cunningin the world, as well as some onethe most wise, these two superla-tives will fare very differently inthe world. In the case of cunning,the shrewdness of a whole people,of a whole generation, may doubt-less be combined against that of theone, and so triumph over it; whichwas pretty much the case withNapoleon. But although a manof the greatest cunning can hardlyconceal his designs and true char-acter from millions of unfriendlyeyes, it is quite impossible thusto club the eyes of the mind, andto constitute by the union of tenthousand follies an equivalent for asingle wisdom. A hundred school-boys can easily unite and thrashtheir one master; but a hundredthousand school-boys would not benearer than a score to knowing asmuch Greek among them as Bent-ley or Scaliger. To all which, I be-lieve, you will assent as readily as


I;—and I have written it down onlybecause I have nothing more im-portant to say.”—

Besides his prose labors, Sterling had bythis time written, publishing chiefly in Black-wood, a large assortment of verses, Sexton’sDaughter, Hymns of a Hermit, and I know notwhat other extensive stock of pieces; concern-ing which he was now somewhat at a loss as tohis true course. He could write verses with as-tonishing facility, in any given form of metre;and to various readers they seemed excellent,and high judges had freely called them so, buthe himself had grave misgivings on that latteressential point. In fact here once more was aparting of the ways, “Write in Poetry; write inProse?” upon which, before all else, it muchconcerned him to come to a settlement.

My own advice was, as it had always been,steady against Poetry; and we had colloquiesupon it, which must have tried his patience,for in him there was a strong leaning the otherway. But, as I remarked and urged: Hadhe not already gained superior excellence indelivering, by way of speech or prose, whatthoughts were in him, which is the grand andonly intrinsic function of a writing man, callhim by what title you will? Cultivate thatsuperior excellence till it become a perfectand superlative one. Why sing your bits ofthoughts, if you can contrive to speak them?By your thought, not by your mode of deliv-ering it, you must live or die.—Besides I hadto observe there was in Sterling intrinsically

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no depth of tune; which surely is the real testof a Poet or Singer, as distinguished from aSpeaker? In music proper he had not theslightest ear; all music was mere impertinentnoise to him, nothing in it perceptible but themere march or time. Nor in his way of con-ception and utterance, in the verses he wrote,was there any contradiction, but a constantconfirmation to me, of that fatal prognostic;—as indeed the whole man, in ear and heartand tongue, is one; and he whose soul doesnot sing, need not try to do it with his throat.Sterling’s verses had a monotonous rub-a-dub,instead of tune; no trace of music deeper thanthat of a well-beaten drum; to which limitedrange of excellence the substance also corre-sponded; being intrinsically always a rhymedand slightly rhythmical speech, not a song.

In short, all seemed to me to say, in hiscase: “You can speak with supreme excellence;sing with considerable excellence you nevercan. And the Age itself, does it not, beyondmost ages, demand and require clear speech;an Age incapable of being sung to, in any buta trivial manner, till these convulsive agoniesand wild revolutionary overturnings readjustthemselves? Intelligible word of command,not musical psalmody and fiddling, is possiblein this fell storm of battle. Beyond all ages,our Age admonishes whatsoever thinking orwriting man it has: Oh, speak to me somewise intelligible speech; your wise meaningin the shortest and clearest way; behold Iam dying for want of wise meaning, and in-sight into the devouring fact: speak, if you


have any wisdom! As to song so called, andyour fiddling talent,—even if you have one,much more if you have none,—we will talk ofthat a couple of centuries hence, when thingsare calmer again. Homer shall be thrice wel-come; but only when Troy is taken: alas, whilethe siege lasts, and battle’s fury rages every-where, what can I do with the Homer? I wantAchilleus and Odysseus, and am enraged tosee them trying to be Homers!”—

Sterling, who respected my sincerity, andalways was amenable enough to counsel, wasdoubtless much confused by such contradic-tory diagnosis of his case. The question, Po-etry or Prose? became more and more press-ing, more and more insoluble. He decided,at last, to appeal to the public upon it;—gotready, in the late autumn, a small select Vol-ume of his verses; and was now busy push-ing it through the press. Unfortunately, inthe mean while, a grave illness, of the oldpulmonary sort, overtook him, which at onetime threatened to be dangerous. This is aglance again into his interior household inthese circumstances:—

To His Mother.

“DECEMBER 21ST, 1839.—TheTin box came quite safe, with all itsmiscellaneous contents. I supposewe are to thank you for the ComicAlmanac, which, as usual, is veryamusing; and for the Book on Watt,

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which disappointed me. The scien-tific part is no doubt very good, andparticularly clear and simple; butthere is nothing remarkable in theaccount of Watt’s character; and itis an absurd piece of French imper-tinence in Arago to say, that Eng-land has not yet learnt to appre-ciate men like Watt, because hewas not made a peer; which, wereour peerage an institution like thatof France, would have been veryproper.

“I have now finished correctingthe proofs of my little Volume of Po-ems. It has been a great plague tome, and one that I would not haveincurred, had I expected to be laidup as I have been; but the mat-ter was begun before I had any no-tion of being disabled by such anillness,—the severest I have suf-fered since I went to the West In-dies. The Book will, after all, be abotched business in many respects;and I much doubt whether it willpay its expenses: but I try to con-sider it as out of my hands, and notto fret myself about it. I shall bevery curious to see Carlyle’s Trac-tate on Chartism; which”—

But we need not enter upon that.Sterling’s little Book was printed at his


own expense;23 published by Moxon in thevery end of this year. It carries an appropriateand pretty Epigraph:—

“Feeling, Thought, and Fancy beGentle sister Graces three:If these prove averse to me,They will punish,—pardon Ye!”

He had dedicated the little Volume to Mr.Hare;—and he submitted very patiently to thediscouraging neglect with which it was re-ceived by the world; for indeed the “Ye” saidnothing audible, in the way of pardon or otherdoom; so that whether the “sister Graces”were averse or not, remained as doubtful asever.

23Poems by John Sterling. London (Moxon), 1839.

CHAPTER II. TWOWINTERS.

As we said above, it had been hoped by Ster-ling’s friends, not very confidently by himself,that in the gentler air of Clifton his healthmight so far recover as to enable him to dis-pense with autumnal voyages, and to spendthe year all round in a house of his own.These hopes, favorable while the warm sea-son lasted, broke down when winter came.In November of this same year, while his lit-tle Volume was passing through the press,bad and worse symptoms, spitting of blood tocrown the sad list, reappeared; and Sterlinghad to equip himself again, at this late sea-son, for a new flight to Madeira; wherein thegood Calvert, himself suffering, and ready onall grounds for such an adventure, offered toaccompany him. Sterling went by land to Fal-mouth, meaning there to wait for Calvert, whowas to come by the Madeira Packet, and theretake him on board.

Calvert and the Packet did arrive, instormy January weather; which continuedwildly blowing for weeks; forbidding all egress

303


Westward, especially for invalids. These el-emental tumults, and blustering wars of seaand sky, with nothing but the misty solitudeof Madeira in the distance, formed a very dis-couraging outlook. In the mean while Fal-mouth itself had offered so many resources,and seemed so tolerable in climate and other-wise, while this wintry ocean looked so inhos-pitable for invalids, it was resolved our voy-agers should stay where they were till springreturned. Which accordingly was done; withgood effect for that season, and also with re-sults for the coming seasons. Here again, fromLetters to Knightsbridge, are some glimpsesof his winter-life:—

“FALMOUTH, FEBRUARY 5TH,1840.—I have been to-day to seea new tin-mine, two or three milesoff, which is expected to turn intoa copper-mine by and by, so theywill have the two constituents ofbronze close together. This, bythe way, was the ‘brass’ of Homerand the Ancients generally, who donot seem to have known our brassmade of copper and zinc. Achillesin his armor must have looked likea bronze statue.—I took Sheridan’sadvice, and did not go down themine.”

“FEBRUARY 15TH.—To someiron-works the other day; where Isaw half the beam of a great steam-engine, a piece of iron forty feet

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long and seven broad, cast in aboutfive minutes. It was a very strikingspectacle. I hope to go to Penzancebefore I leave this country, and willnot fail to tell you about it.” Hedid make trial of Penzance, amongother places, next year; but only ofFalmouth this.

“FEBRUARY 20TH.—I am goingon asy here, in spite of a greatchange of weather. The East-windsare come at last, bringing withthem snow, which has been driv-ing about for the last twenty-fourhours; not falling heavily, nor lyinglong when fallen. Neither is it asyet very cold, but I suppose therewill be some six weeks of unpleas-ant temperature. The marine cli-mate of this part of England will,no doubt, modify and mollify theair into a happier sort of substancethan that you breathe in London.

“The large vessels that had beenlying here for weeks, waiting fora wind, have now sailed; two ofthem for the East Indies, andhaving three hundred soldiers onboard. It is a curious thing thatthe long-continued westerly windshad so prevented the coasters ar-riving, that the Town was almoston the point of a famine as to bread.The change has brought in abun-


dance of flour.—The people in gen-eral seem extremely comfortable;their houses are excellent, almostall of stone. Their habits are verylittle agricultural, but mining andfishing seem to prosper with them.There are hardly any gentry here;I have not seen more than two gen-tlemen’s carriages in the Town; in-deed I think the nearest one comesfrom five miles off....

“I have been obliged to try to oc-cupy myself with Natural Science,in order to give some interest tomy walks; and have begun to feelmy way in Geology. I have nowlearnt to recognize three or four ofthe common kinds of stone abouthere, when I see them; but I find itstupid work compared with Poetryand Philosophy. In the mornings,however, for an hour or so beforeI get up, I generally light my can-dle, and try to write some verses;and since I have been here, I haveput together short poems, almostenough for another small volume.In the evenings I have gone ontranslating some of Goethe. But sixor seven hours spent on my legs, inthe open air, do not leave my brainmuch energy for thinking. Thus mylife is a dull and unprofitable one,but still better than it would havebeen in Madeira or on board ship.

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I hear from Susan every day, andwrite to her by return of post.”

At Falmouth Sterling had been warmlywelcomed by the well-known Quaker family ofthe Foxes, principal people in that place, per-sons of cultivated opulent habits, and joiningto the fine purities and pieties of their sect areverence for human intelligence in all kinds;to whom such a visitor as Sterling was nat-urally a welcome windfall. The family hadgrave elders, bright cheery younger branches,men and women; truly amiable all, after theirsort: they made a pleasant image of home forSterling in his winter exile. “Most worthy, re-spectable and highly cultivated people, with agreat deal of money among them,” writes Ster-ling in the end of February; “who make theplace pleasant to me. They are connected withall the large Quaker circle, the Gurneys, Frys,&c., and also with Buxton the Abolitionist. Itis droll to hear them talking of all the commontopics of science, literature, and life, and inthe midst of it: ‘Does thou know Wordsworth?’or, ‘Did thou see the Coronation?’ or ‘Will thoutake some refreshment?’ They are very kindand pleasant people to know.”

“Calvert,” continues our Diarist,“is better than he lately was,though he has not been at all laidup. He shoots little birds, and dis-sects and stuffs them; while I carrya hammer, and break flints andslates, to look for diamonds and ru-bies inside; and admire my success


in the evening, when I empty mygreat-coat pocket of its specimens.On the whole, I doubt whether myphysical proceedings will set theThames on fire. Give my loveto Anthony’s Charlotte; also re-member me affectionately to theCarlyles.”—

At this time, too, John Mill, probably en-couraged by Sterling, arrived in Falmouth,seeking refuge of climate for a sickly youngerBrother, to whom also, while he continuedthere, and to his poor patient, the doors andhearts of this kind family were thrown wideopen. Falmouth, during these winter weeks,especially while Mill continued, was an un-expectedly engaging place to Sterling; and heleft it in spring, for Clifton, with a very kindlyimage of it in his thoughts. So ended, betterthan it might have done, his first year’s flightfrom the Clifton winter.

In April, 1840, he was at his own hearthagain; cheerily pursuing his old labors,—struggling to redeem, as he did with a gallantconstancy, the available months and days, outof the wreck of so many that were unavailable,for the business allotted him in this world.His swift, decisive energy of character; thevaliant rally he made again and ever again,starting up fresh from amid the wounded, andcheerily storming in anew, was admirable,and showed a noble fund of natural healthamid such an element of disease. Somehowone could never rightly fancy that he was dis-

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eased; that those fatal ever-recurring down-breaks were not almost rather the penaltiespaid for exuberance of health, and of facultyfor living and working; criminal forfeitures,incurred by excess of self-exertion and suchirrepressible over-rapidity of movement: andthe vague hope was habitual with us, thatincrease of years, as it deadened this over-energy, would first make the man secure oflife, and a sober prosperous worker among hisfellows. It was always as if with a kind ofblame that one heard of his being ill again!Poor Sterling;—no man knows another’s bur-den: these things were not, and were not tobe, in the way we had fancied them!

Summer went along in its usual quiettenor at Clifton; health good, as usual whilethe warm weather lasted, and activity abun-dant; the scene as still as the busiest couldwish. “You metropolitan signors,” writes Ster-ling to his Father, “cannot conceive the dul-ness and scantiness of our provincial chroni-cle.” Here is a little excursion to the seaside;the lady of the family being again,—for goodreasons,—in a weakly state:—

“To Edward Sterling, Esq.,Knightsbridge, London.

“PORTSHEAD, BRISTOL,“1ST SEPT., 1840.

“MY DEAR FATHER,—This place is a southern head-

land at the mouth of the Avon. Su-san, and the Children too, were all


suffering from languor; and as sheis quite unfit to travel in a carriage,we were obliged to move, if at all, tosome place accessible by water; andthis is the nearest where we couldget the fresher air of the BristolChannel. We sent to take a house,for a week; and came down here ina steamer yesterday morning. Itseems likely to do every one good.We have a comfortable house, witheight rather small bedrooms, forwhich we pay four guineas and ahalf for the week. We have broughtthree of our own maids, and leaveone to take care of the house atClifton.

“A week ago my horse fell withme, but did not hurt seriously ei-ther himself or me: it was, how-ever, rather hard that, as therewere six legs to be damaged, theone that did scratch itself shouldbelong to the part of the machinepossessing only two, instead of thequadrupedal portion. I grazedabout the size of a halfpenny onmy left knee; and for a couple ofdays walked about as if nothinghad happened. I found, however,that the skin was not returning cor-rectly; and so sent for a doctor: hetreated the thing as quite insignif-icant, but said I must keep my legquiet for a few days. It is still not

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quite healed; and I lie all day ona sofa, much to my discomposure;but the thing is now rapidly disap-pearing; and I hope, in a day or twomore, I shall be free again. I find Ican do no work, while thus crippledin my leg. The man in Horace whomade verses stans pede in uno hadthe advantage of me.

“The Great Western came inlast night about eleven, and hasjust been making a flourish pastour windows; looking very grand,with four streamers of bunting, andone of smoke. Of course I do notyet know whether I have Lettersby her, as if so they will havegone to Clifton first. This place isquiet, green and pleasant; and willsuit us very well, if we have goodweather, of which there seems ev-ery appearance.

“Milnes spent last Sunday withme at Clifton; and was very amus-ing and cordial. It is impossible forthose who know him well not to likehim.—I send this to Knightsbridge,not knowing where else to hit you.Love to my Mother.

“Your affectionate,“JOHN STERLING.”

The expected “Letters by the Great West-ern” are from Anthony, now in Canada, do-ing military duties there. The “Milnes” is our


excellent Richard, whom all men know, andtruly whom none can know well without evendoing as Sterling says.—In a week the fam-ily had returned to Clifton; and Sterling wasat his poetizings and equitations again. Hisgrand business was now Poetry; all effort, out-look and aim exclusively directed thither, thisgood while.

Of the published Volume Moxon gave theworst tidings; no man had hailed it with wel-come; unsold it lay, under the leaden seal ofgeneral neglect; the public when asked whatit thought, had answered hitherto by a lazystare. It shall answer otherwise, thoughtSterling; by no means taking that as the fi-nal response. It was in this same Septemberthat he announced to me and other friends,under seal of secrecy as usual, the completion,or complete first-draught, of “a new Poemreaching to two thousand verses.” By working“three hours every morning” he had broughtit so far. This Piece, entitled The Election, ofwhich in due time we obtained perusal, andhad to give some judgment, proved to be ina new vein,—what might be called the mock-heroic, or sentimental Hudibrastic, remind-ing one a little, too, of Wieland’s Oberon;—ithad touches of true drollery combined not illwith grave clear insight; showed spirit every-where, and a plainly improved power of ex-ecution. Our stingy verdict was to the effect,“Better, but still not good enough:—why followthat sad ‘metrical’ course, climbing the loosesandhills, when you have a firm path alongthe plain?” To Sterling himself it remained du-

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bious whether so slight a strain, new thoughit were, would suffice to awaken the sleepingpublic; and the Piece was thrown away andtaken up again, at intervals; and the question,Publish or not publish? lay many months un-decided.

Meanwhile his own feeling was now setmore and more towards Poetry; and in spiteof symptoms and dissuasions, and perverseprognostics of outward wind and weather, hewas rallying all his force for a downrightstruggle with it; resolute to see which wasthe stronger. It must be owned, he takeshis failures in the kindliest manner; and goesalong, bating no jot of heart or hope. PerhapsI should have more admired this than I did!My dissuasions, in that case, might have beenfainter. But then my sincerity, which was allthe use of my poor counsel in assent or dis-sent, would have been less. He was now fur-thermore busy with a Tragedy of Strafford,the theme of many failures in Tragedy; plan-ning it industriously in his head; eagerly read-ing in Whitlocke, Rushworth and the PuritanBooks, to attain a vesture and local habita-tion for it. Faithful assiduous studies I dobelieve;—of which, knowing my stubborn re-alism, and savage humor towards singing bythe Thespian or other methods, he told me lit-tle, during his visits that summer.

The advance of the dark weather sent himadrift again; to Torquay, for this winter: there,in his old Falmouth climate, he hoped to dowell;—and did, so far as well-doing was read-ily possible, in that sad wandering way of life.


However, be where he may, he tries to work“two or three hours in the morning,” were iteven “with a lamp,” in bed, before the firesare lit; and so makes something of it. Fromabundant Letters of his now before me, I gleanthese two or three small glimpses; sufficientfor our purpose at present. The general dateis “Tor, near Torquay:”—

To Mrs. Charles Fox, Falmouth.

TOR, NOVEMBER 30TH, 1840.—I reached this place on Thursday;having, after much hesitation, re-solved to come here, at least forthe next three weeks,—with someobscure purpose of embarking, atthe New Year, from Falmouth forMalta, and so reaching Naples,which I have not seen. There wasalso a doubt whether I should not,after Christmas, bring my familyhere for the first four months ofthe year. All this, however, is stilldoubtful. But for certain inhabi-tants of Falmouth and its neigh-borhood, this place would be farmore attractive than it. But I havehere also friends, whose kindness,like much that I met with last win-ter, perpetually makes me wonderat the stock of benignity in humannature. A brother of my friendJulius Hare, Marcus by name, a

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Naval man, and though not a manof letters, full of sense and knowl-edge, lives here in a beautiful place,with a most agreeable and excel-lent wife, a daughter of Lord Stan-ley of Alderley. I had hardly seenthem before; but they are fraterniz-ing with me, in a much better thanthe Jacobin fashion; and one onlyfeels ashamed at the enormity ofsome people’s good-nature. I am ina little rural sort of lodging; and ascomfortable as a solitary oyster canexpect to be.”—

To C. Barton.

“DECEMBER 5TH.—This placeis extremely small, much more sothan Falmouth even; but pretty,cheerful, and very mild in climate.There are a great many villas inand about the little Town, hav-ing three or four reception-rooms,eight or ten bedrooms; and costingabout fifteen hundred or two thou-sand pounds each, and occupiedby persons spending a thousand ormore pounds a year. If the Coun-try would acknowledge my meritsby the gift of one of these, I couldprevail on myself to come and livehere; which would be the best movefor my health I could make in Eng-land; but, in the absence of any


such expression of public feeling, itwould come rather dear.”—

To Mrs. Fox again.

“DECEMBER 22D.—By the way,did you ever read a Novel? If youever mean to do so hereafter, let itbe Miss Martineau’s Deerbrook. Itis really very striking; and parts ofit are very true and very beautiful.It is not so true, or so thoroughlyclear and harmonious, among de-lineations of English middle-classgentility, as Miss Austen’s books,especially as Pride and Prejudice,which I think exquisite; but itis worth reading. The hour andthe Man is eloquent, but an ab-surd exaggeration.—I hold out sovalorously against this Scandina-vian weather, that I deserve to beranked with Odin and Thor; andfancy I may go to live at Cliftonor Drontheim. Have you had thesame icy desolation as prevailshere?”

To W. Coningham, Esq.

“DECEMBER 28TH.—Lookingback to him [a deceased Uncle,father of his correspondent], as Inow very often do, I feel strongly,what the loss of other friends hasalso impressed on me, how much

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Death deepens our affection; andsharpens our regret for whateverhas been even slightly amiss inour conduct towards those whoare gone. What trifles then swellinto painful importance; how webelieve that, could the past berecalled, life would present noworthier, happier task, than thatof so bearing ourselves towardsthose we love, that we might everafter find nothing but melodioustranquillity breathing about theirgraves! Yet, too often, I feel thedifficulty of always practicing suchmild wisdom towards those whoare still left me.—You will wonderless at my rambling off in thisway, when I tell you that my littlelodging is close to a picturesque oldChurch and Churchyard, where,every day, I brush past a tomb-stone, recording that an Italian,of Manferrato, has buried there agirl of sixteen, his only daughter:‘L’ unica speranza di mia vita.’—No doubt, as you say, our Mechan-ical Age is necessary as a passageto something better; but, at least,do not let us go back.”—

At the New-year time, feeling unusuallywell, he returns to Clifton. His plans, ofcourse, were ever fluctuating; his movementswere swift and uncertain. Alas, his whole life,


especially his winter-life, had to be built as ifon wavering drift-sand; nothing certain in it,except if possible the “two or three hours ofwork” snatched from the general whirlpool ofthe dubious four-and-twenty!

To Dr. Carlyle.

“CLIFTON, JANUARY 10TH,1841.—I stood the sharp frost atTorquay with such entire impunity,that at last I took courage, andresolved to return home. I havebeen here a week, in extreme cold;and have suffered not at all; so thatI hope, with care I may prosper inspite of medical prognostics,—ifyou permit such profane language.I am even able to work a good deal;and write for some hours everymorning, by dint of getting upearly, which an Arnott stove in mystudy enables me to do.”

—But at Clifton he cannot continue. Again,before long, the rude weather has driven himSouthward; the spring finds him in his formerhaunts; doubtful as ever what to decide uponfor the future; but tending evidently towardsa new change of residence for household andself:—

To W. Coningham, Esq.

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“PENZANCE, APRIL 19TH,1841.—My little Boy and I havebeen wandering about betweenTorquay and this place; and lat-terly have had my Father for a fewdays with us,—he left us yesterday.In all probability I shall endeavorto settle either at Torquay, at Fal-mouth, or here; as it is pretty clearthat I cannot stand the sharp airof Clifton, and still less the Londoneast-winds. Penzance is, on thewhole, a pleasant-looking, cheerfulplace; with a delightful mildnessof air, and a great appearance ofcomfort among the people: theview of Mount’s Bay is certainlya very noble one. Torquay wouldsuit the health of my Wife andChildren better; or else I shouldbe glad to live here always, Lon-don and its neighborhood beingimpracticable.”—

Such was his second wandering winter;enough to render the prospect of a third atClifton very uninviting.

With the Falmouth friends, young and old,his intercourse had meanwhile continued cor-dial and frequent. The omens were point-ing towards that region at his next place ofabode. Accordingly, in few weeks hence, in theJune of this Summer, 1841, his dubitationsand inquirings are again ended for a time; hehas fixed upon a house in Falmouth, and re-


moved thither; bidding Clifton, and the re-gretful Clifton friends, a kind farewell. Thiswas the fifth change of place for his familysince Bayswater; the fifth, and to one chiefmember of it the last. Mrs. Sterling hadbrought him a new child in October last; andwent hopefully to Falmouth, dreading otherthan what befell there.

CHAPTER III.FALMOUTH:POEMS.

At Falmouth, as usual, he was soon at homein his new environment; resumed his labors;had his new small circle of acquaintance, theready and constant centre of which was theFox family, with whom he lived on an alto-gether intimate, honored and beloved foot-ing; realizing his best anticipations in that re-spect, which doubtless were among his firstinducements to settle in this new place. Opencheery heights, rather bare of wood: freshsouthwestern breezes; a brisk laughing sea,swept by industrious sails, and the nets of amost stalwart, wholesome, frank and interest-ing population: the clean little fishing, trad-ing and packet Town; hanging on its slopetowards the Eastern sun, close on the wa-ters of its basin and intricate bay,—with theminiature Pendennis Castle seaward on theright, the miniature St. Mawes landward toleft, and the mining world and the farmingworld open boundlessly to the rear:—all this

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made a pleasant outlook and environment.And in all this, as in the other new elementsof his position, Sterling, open beyond mostmen to the worth of things about him, tookhis frank share. From the first, he had likedthe general aspect of the population, and theirhealthy, lively ways; not to speak of the spe-cial friendships he had formed there, whichshed a charm over them all. “Men of strongcharacter, clear heads and genuine goodness,”writes he, “are by no means wanting.” Andlong after: “The common people here dressbetter than in most parts of England; and onSundays, if the weather be at all fine, theirappearance is very pleasant. One sees themall round the Town, especially towards Pen-dennis Castle, streaming in a succession oflittle groups, and seeming for the most partreally and quietly happy.” On the whole hereckoned himself lucky; and, so far as localitywent, found this a handsome shelter for thenext two years of his life. Two years, and notwithout an interruption; that was all. Herewe have no continuing city; he less than anyof us! One other flight for shelter; and thenit is ended, and he has found an inexpugnablerefuge. Let us trace his remote footsteps, aswe have opportunity:—

To Dr. Symonds, Clifton.

“FALMOUTH, JUNE 28TH,1841.—Newman writes to me thathe is gone to the Rhine. I wish I

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were! And yet the only ‘wish’ at thebottom of my heart, is to be ableto work vigorously in my own wayanywhere, were it in some Circleof Dante’s Inferno. This, however,is the secret of my soul, which Idisclose only to a few.”

To His Mother.

“FALMOUTH, JULY 6TH,1841.—I have at last my ownstudy made comfortable; the car-pet being now laid down, and mostof my appurtenances in tolerableorder. By and by I shall, unlessstopped by illness, get myself to-gether, and begin living an orderlylife and doing my daily task. I haveswung a cot in my dressing-room;partly as a convenience for myself,partly as a sort of memorial ofmy poor Uncle, in whose cot inhis dressing-room at LisworneyI remember to have slept whena child. I have put a good largebookcase in my drawing-room, andall the rest of my books fit verywell into the study.”

To Mr. Carlyle.

“JULY 6TH.—No books havecome in my way but Emerson’s,which I value full as much as you,though as yet I have read only some


corners of it. We have had anElection here, of the usual stamp;to me a droll ‘realized Ideal,’ aftermy late metrical adventures in thatline. But the oddest sign of theTimes I know, is a cheap Transla-tion of Strauss’s Leben Jesu, nowpublishing in numbers, and said tobe circulating far and wide. Whatdoes—or rather, what does not—this portend?”—

With the Poem called The Election, herealluded to, which had been more than oncerevised and reconsidered, he was still undersome hesitations; but at last had well-nigh re-solved, as from the first it was clear he woulddo, on publishing it. This occupied some occa-sional portion of his thoughts. But his grandprivate affair, I believe, was now Strafford; towhich, or to its adjuncts, all working hourswere devoted. Sterling’s notions of Tragedyare high enough. This is what he writes once,in reference to his own task in these weeks:“Few, I fancy, know how much harder it isto write a Tragedy than to realize or be one.Every man has in his heart and lot, if hepleases, and too many whether they pleaseor no, all the woes of OEdipus and Antigone.But it takes the One, the Sophocles of a thou-sand years, to utter these in the full depthand harmony of creative song. Curious, bythe way, how that Dramatic Form of the oldGreek, with only some superficial changes, re-mains a law not only for the stage, but for

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the thoughts of all Poets; and what a charm ithas even for the reader who never saw a the-atre. The Greek Plays and Shakspeare haveinterested a hundred as books, for one whohas seen their writings acted. How lightlydoes the mere clown, the idle school-girl, builda private theatre in the fancy, and laugh orweep with Falstaff and Macbeth: with howentire an oblivion of the artificial nature ofthe whole contrivance, which thus compelsthem to be their own architects, machinists,scene-painters, and actors! In fact, the arti-fice succeeds,—becomes grounded in the sub-stance of the soul: and every one loves to feelhow he is thus brought face to face with thebrave, the fair, the woful and the great of allpast ages; looks into their eyes, and feels thebeatings of their hearts; and reads, over theshoulder, the secret written tablets of the bus-iest and the largest brains; while the Juggler,by whose cunning the whole strange beauti-ful absurdity is set in motion, keeps himselfhidden; sings loud with a mouth unmoving asthat of a statue, and makes the human racecheat itself unanimously and delightfully bythe illusion that he preordains; while as anobscure Fate, he sits invisible, and hardly letshis being be divined by those who cannot fleehim. The Lyric Art is childish, and the Epicbarbarous, compared to this. But of the trueand perfect Drama it may be said, as of evenhigher mysteries, Who is sufficient for thesethings?”—On this Tragedy of Strafford, writ-ing it and again writing it, studying for it, andbending himself with his whole strength to do


his best on it, he expended many strenuousmonths,—“above a year of his life,” he com-putes, in all.

For the rest, what Falmouth has to givehim he is willing to take, and mingles freelyin it. In Hare’s Collection there is given a Lec-ture which he read in Autumn, 1841 (Mr. Haresays “1842,” by mistake), to a certain Pub-lic Institution in the place,—of which moreanon;—a piece interesting in this, if not muchin any other respect. Doubtless his friendsthe Foxes were at the heart of that lectur-ing enterprise, and had urged and solicitedhim. Something like proficiency in certainbranches of science, as I have understood,characterized one or more of this estimablefamily; love of knowledge, taste for art, wishto consort with wisdom and wise men, werethe tendencies of all; to opulent means su-peradd the Quaker beneficence, Quaker pu-rity and reverence, there is a circle in whichwise men also may love to be. Sterling madeacquaintance here with whatever of notablein worthy persons or things might be afootin those parts; and was led thereby, now andthen, into pleasant reunions, in new circles ofactivity, which might otherwise have contin-ued foreign to him. The good Calvert, too, wasnow here; and intended to remain;—which hemostly did henceforth, lodging in Sterling’sneighborhood, so long as lodging in this worldwas permitted him. Still good and clear andcheerful; still a lively comrade, within doorsor without,—a diligent rider always,—thoughnow wearing visibly weaker, and less able to

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exert himself.Among those accidental Falmouth re-

unions, perhaps the notablest for Sterling oc-curred in this his first season. There is inFalmouth an Association called the CornwallPolytechnic Society, established about twentyyears ago, and supported by the wealthy peo-ple of the Town and neighborhood, for the en-couragement of the arts in that region; it hasits Library, its Museum, some kind of AnnualExhibition withal; gives prizes, publishes re-ports: the main patrons, I believe, are SirCharles Lemon, a well-known country gen-tleman of those parts, and the Messrs. Fox.To this, so far as he liked to go in it, Ster-ling was sure to be introduced and solicited.The Polytechnic meeting of 1841 was unusu-ally distinguished; and Sterling’s part in itformed one of the pleasant occurrences forhim in Falmouth. It was here that, amongother profitable as well as pleasant things, hemade acquaintance with Professor Owen (anevent of which I too had my benefit in duetime, and still have): the bigger assemblagecalled British Association, which met at Ply-mouth this year, having now just finished itsaffairs there, Owen and other distinguishedpersons had taken Falmouth in their routefrom it. Sterling’s account of this Polytechnicgala still remains,—in three Letters to his Fa-ther, which, omitting the extraneous portions,I will give in one,—as a piece worth readingamong those still-life pictures:—


“To Edward Sterling, Esq.,Knightsbridge, London.

“FALMOUTH,“10TH AUGUST, 1841.

“MY DEAR FATHER,—I was notwell for a day or two after you went;and since, I have been busy aboutan annual show of the PolytechnicSociety here, in which my friendstake much interest, and for whichI have been acting as one of thejudges in the department of theFine Arts, and have written a lit-tle Report for them. As I have notsaid that Falmouth is as eminentas Athens or Florence, perhaps theCommittee will not adopt my state-ment. But if they do, it will beof some use; for I have hinted, asdelicately as possible, that peopleshould not paint historical picturesbefore they have the power of draw-ing a decent outline of a pig or acabbage. I saw Sir Charles Lemonyesterday, who was kind as well ascivil in his manner; and promisesto be a pleasant neighbor. Thereare several of the British Associa-tion heroes here; but not Whewell,or any one whom I know.”

“AUGUST 17TH.—At the Poly-technic Meeting here we had sev-eral very eminent men; among oth-ers, Professor Owen, said to be

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the first of comparative anatomists,and Conybeare the geologist. Bothof these gave evening Lectures; andafter Conybeare’s, at which I hap-pened to be present, I said I would,if they chose, make some remarkson the Busts which happened tobe standing there, intended forprizes in the department of theFine Arts. They agreed gladly. Theheads were Homer, Pericles, Au-gustus, Dante and Michael Angelo.I got into the box-like platform,with these on a shelf before me;and began a talk which must havelasted some three quarters of anhour; describing partly the charac-ters and circumstances of the men,illustrated by anecdotes and com-pared with their physiognomies,and partly the several styles ofsculpture exhibited in the Casts,referring these to what I consid-ered the true principles of the Art.The subject was one that interestsme, and I got on in famous style;and had both pit and galleries allapplauding, in a way that had hadno precedent during any other partof the meeting. Conybeare paidme high compliments; Owen lookedmuch pleased,—an honor well pur-chased by a year’s hard work;—and everybody, in short, seemeddelighted. Susan was not there,


and I had nothing to make me ner-vous; so that I worked away freely,and got vigorously over the ground.After so many years’ disuse ofrhetoric, it was a pleasant surpriseto myself to find that I could stillhandle the old weapons withoutawkwardness. More by good luckthan good guidance, it has done myhealth no harm. I have been atSir Charles Lemon’s, though onlyto pay a morning visit, having de-clined to stay there or dine, thehours not suiting me. They werevery civil. The person I saw most ofwas his sister, Lady Dunstanville;a pleasant, well-informed and well-bred woman. He seems a mostamiable, kindly man, of fair goodsense and cultivated tastes.—I hada letter to-day from my Mother [inScotland]; who says she sent youone which you were to forward me;which I hope soon to have.”

“AUGUST 29TH.—I returnedyesterday from Carclew, Sir C.Lemon’s fine place about five milesoff; where I had been staying acouple of days, with apparentlythe heartiest welcome. Susan wasasked; but wanting a Governess,could not leave home.

“Sir Charles is a widower (hisWife was sister to Lord Ilchester)

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without children; but had a niecestaying with him, and his sisterLady Dunstanville, a pleasant andvery civil woman. There werealso Mr. Bunbury, eldest son of SirHenry Bunbury, a man of much cul-tivation and strong talents; Mr. FoxTalbot, son, I think, of another Ilch-ester lady, and brother of the Tal-bot of Wales, but himself a man oflarge fortune, and known for pho-togenic and other scientific plans ofextracting sunbeams from cucum-bers. He also is a man of knownability, but chiefly employed in thatpeculiar department. Item Profes-sors Lloyd and Owen: the former,of Dublin, son of the late Provost, Ihad seen before and knew; a greatmathematician and optician, and adiscoverer in those matters; with aclever little Wife, who has a greatdeal of knowledge, quite free frompretension. Owen is a first-ratecomparative anatomist, they saythe greatest since Cuvier; lives inLondon, and lectures there. Onthe whole, he interested me morethan any of them,—by an apparentforce and downrightness of mind,combined with much simplicity andfrankness.

“Nothing could be pleasanterand easier than the habits of life,with what to me was a very un-


usual degree of luxury, thoughprobably nothing but what is com-mon among people of large for-tune. The library and pictures arenothing extraordinary. The generaltone of good nature, good sense andquiet freedom, was what struck memost; and I think besides this therewas a disposition to be cordiallycourteous towards me....

“I took Edward a ride of twohours yesterday on Calvert’s pony,and he is improving fast in horse-manship. The school appears to an-swer very well. We shall have theGoverness in a day or two, whichwill be a great satisfaction. Willyou send my Mother this scribblewith my love; and believe me,


One other little event dwells with me,out of those Falmouth times, exact datenow forgotten; a pleasant little matter, inwhich Sterling, and principally the MissesFox, bright cheery young creatures, were con-cerned; which, for the sake of its human in-terest, is worth mention. In a certain Cor-nish mine, said the Newspapers duly specify-ing it, two miners deep down in the shaft wereengaged putting in a shot for blasting: theyhad completed their affair, and were about togive the signal for being hoisted up,—one at atime was all their coadjutor at the top could

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manage, and the second was to kindle thematch, and then mount with all speed. Nowit chanced while they were both still below,one of them thought the match too long; triedto break it shorter, took a couple of stones, aflat and a sharp, to cut it shorter; did cut itof the due length, but, horrible to relate, kin-dled it at the same time, and both were stillbelow! Both shouted vehemently to the coad-jutor at the windlass, both sprang at the bas-ket; the windlass man could not move it withthem both. Here was a moment for poor minerJack and miner Will! Instant horrible deathhangs over both,—when Will generously re-signs himself: “Go aloft, Jack,” and sits down;“away; in one minute I shall be in Heaven!”Jack bounds aloft, the explosion instantly fol-lows, bruises his face as he looks over; he issafe above ground: and poor Will? Descend-ing eagerly they find Will too, as if by miracle,buried under rocks which had arched them-selves over him, and little injured: he too isbrought up safe, and all ends joyfully, say theNewspapers.

Such a piece of manful promptitude, andsalutary human heroism, was worth investi-gating. It was investigated; found to be ac-curate to the letter,—with this addition andexplanation, that Will, an honest, ignorantgood man, entirely given up to Methodism,had been perfect in the “faith of assurance,”certain that he should get to Heaven if hedied, certain that Jack would not, which hadbeen the ground of his decision in that greatmoment;—for the rest, that he much wished


to learn reading and writing, and find someway of life above ground instead of below. Byaid of the Misses Fox and the rest of that fam-ily, a subscription (modest Anti-Hudson tes-timonial) was raised to this Methodist hero:he emerged into daylight with fifty poundsin his pocket; did strenuously try, for certainmonths, to learn reading and writing; foundhe could not learn those arts or either of them;took his money and bought cows with it, wed-ding at the same time some religious likelymilkmaid; and is, last time I heard of him,a prosperous modest dairyman, thankful forthe upper light and safety from the wrath tocome. Sterling had some hand in this affair:but, as I said, it was the two young ladies ofthe family that mainly did it.

In the end of 1841, after many hesitationsand revisals, The Election came out; a tinyDuodecimo without name attached;24 againinquiring of the public what its suffrage was;again to little purpose. My vote had neverbeen loud for this step, but neither was itquite adverse; and now, in reading the poorlittle Poem over again, after ten years’ space,I find it, with a touching mixture of pleasureand repentance, considerably better than itthen seemed to me. My encouragement, if notto print this poem, yet to proceed with Poetry,since there was such a resolution for it, mighthave been a little more decided!

24The Election: a Poem, in Seven Books. London,Murray, 1841.

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This is a small Piece, but aims at con-taining great things; a multum in parvo af-ter its sort; and is executed here and therewith undeniable success. The style is free andflowing, the rhyme dances along with a cer-tain joyful triumph; everything of due brevitywithal. That mixture of mockery on the sur-face, which finely relieves the real earnest-ness within, and flavors even what is notvery earnest and might even be insipid oth-erwise, is not ill managed: an amalgam diffi-cult to effect well in writing; nay, impossible inwriting,—unless it stand already done and ef-fected, as a general fact, in the writer’s mindand character; which will betoken a certainripeness there.

As I said, great things are intended inthis little Piece; the motto itself foreshadow-ing them:—

“FLUELLEN. Ancient Pistol, Ido partly understand your mean-ing.

PISTOL. Why, then, rejoicetherefor.”

A stupid commonplace English Borough haslost its Member suddenly, by apoplexy orotherwise; resolves, in the usual explosivetemper of mind, to replace him by one oftwo others; whereupon strange stirring-up ofrival-attorney and other human interests andcatastrophes. “Frank Vane” (Sterling him-self), and “Peter Mogg,” the pattern Englishblockhead of elections: these are the candi-


dates. There are, of course, fierce rival at-torneys; electors of all creeds and complex-ions to be canvassed: a poor stupid Boroughthrown all into red or white heat; into blazingparoxysms of activity and enthusiasm, whichrender the inner life of it (and of Englandand the world through it) luminously trans-parent, so to speak;—of which opportunity ourfriend and his “Muse” take dexterous advan-tage, to delineate the same. His pictures areuncommonly good; brief, joyous, sometimesconclusively true: in rigorously compressedshape; all is merry freshness and exuberance:we have leafy summer embowering red bricksand small human interests, presented as inglowing miniature; a mock-heroic action fitlyinterwoven;—and many a clear glance is care-lessly given into the deepest things by theway. Very happy also is the little love-episode;and the absorption of all the interest intothat, on the part of Frank Vane and of us,when once this gallant Frank,—having fairlyfrom his barrel-head stated his own (and JohnSterling’s) views on the aspects of the world,and of course having quite broken down withhis attorney and his public,—handsomely, bystratagem, gallops off with the fair Anne; andleaves free field to Mogg, free field to the Hip-popotamus if it like. This portrait of Moggmay be considered to have merit:—

“Though short of days, how large the mind of man;A godlike force enclosed within a span!To climb the skies we spurn our nature’s clog,And toil as Titans to elect a Mogg.

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“And who was Mogg? O Muse! the man declare,How excellent his worth, his parts how rare.A younger son, he learnt in Oxford’s hallsThe spheral harmonies of billiard-balls,Drank, hunted, drove, and hid from Virtue’s frownHis venial follies in Decorum’s gown.Too wise to doubt on insufficient cause,He signed old Cranmer’s lore without a pause;And knew that logic’s cunning rules are taughtTo guard our creed, and not invigorate thought,As those bronze steeds at Venice, kept for pride,Adorn a Town where not one man can ride.

“From Isis sent with all her loud acclaims,The Laws he studied on the banks of Thames.Park, race and play, in his capacious plan,Combined with Coke to form the finished man,Until the wig’s ambrosial influence shedIts last full glories on the lawyer’s head.

“But vain are mortal schemes. The eldest sonAt Harrier Hall had scarce his stud begun,When Death’s pale courser took the Squire awayTo lands where never dawns a hunting day:And so, while Thomas vanished ’mid the fog,Bright rose the morning-star of Peter Mogg.”25

And this little picture, in a quite oppositeway:—

25Pp. 7, 8.


“Now, in her chamber all alone, the maidHer polished limbs and shoulders disarrayed;One little taper gave the only light,One little mirror caught so dear a sight;’Mid hangings dusk and shadows wide she stood,Like some pale Nymph in dark-leafed solitudeOf rocks and gloomy waters all alone,Where sunshine scarcely breaks on stump or stoneTo scare the dreamy vision. Thus did she,A star in deepest night, intent but free,Gleam through the eyeless darkness, heeding notHer beauty’s praise, but musing o’er her lot.

“Her garments one by one she laid aside,And then her knotted hair’s long locks untiedWith careless hand, and down her cheeks they fell,And o’er her maiden bosom’s blue-veined swell.The right-hand fingers played amidst her hair,And with her reverie wandered here and there:The other hand sustained the only dressThat now but half concealed her loveliness;And pausing, aimlessly she stood and thought,In virgin beauty by no fear distraught.”

Manifold, and beautiful of their sort, areAnne’s musings, in this interesting attitude,in the summer midnight, in the crisis of herdestiny now near;—at last:—

“But Anne, at last her mute devotions o’er,Perceived the feet she had forgot beforeOf her too shocking nudity; and shameFlushed from her heart o’er all the snowy frame:And, struck from top to toe with burning dread,She blew the light out, and escaped to bed.”26

—which also is a very pretty movement.26Pp. 89-93.

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It must be owned withal, the Piece is crudein parts, and far enough from perfect. Ourgood painter has yet several things to learn,and to unlearn. His brush is not always ofthe finest; and dashes about, sometimes, in arecognizably sprawling way: but it hits manya feature with decisive accuracy and felicity;and on the palette, as usual, lie the richestcolors. A grand merit, too, is the brevity of ev-erything; by no means a spontaneous, or quitecommon merit with Sterling.

This new poetic Duodecimo, as the last haddone and as the next also did, met with lit-tle or no recognition from the world: whichwas not very inexcusable on the world’s part;though many a poem with far less proof ofmerit than this offers, has run, when the ac-cidents favored it, through its tens of editions,and raised the writer to the demigods for ayear or two, if not longer. Such as it is, wemay take it as marking, in its small way, in anoticed or unnoticed manner, a new height ar-rived at by Sterling in his Poetic course; andalmost as vindicating the determination hehad formed to keep climbing by that method.Poor Poem, or rather Promise of a Poem! InSterling’s brave struggle, this little Electionis the highest point he fairly lived to see at-tained, and openly demonstrated in print. Hisnext public adventure in this kind was of in-ferior worth; and a third, which had perhapsintrinsically gone much higher than any ofits antecessors, was cut off as a fragment,and has not hitherto been published. Steadycourage is needed on the Poetic course, as on


all courses!—Shortly after this Publication, in the begin-

ning of 1842, poor Calvert, long a hopeless suf-ferer, was delivered by death: Sterling’s faith-ful fellow-pilgrim could no more attend him inhis wayfarings through this world. The wearyand heavy-laden man had borne his burdenwell. Sterling says of him to Hare: “Since Iwrote last, I have lost Calvert; the man withwhom, of all others, I have been during lateyears the most intimate. Simplicity, benevo-lence, practical good sense and moral earnest-ness were his great unfailing characteristics;and no man, I believe, ever possessed themmore entirely. His illness had latterly so pros-trated him, both in mind and body, that thosewho most loved him were most anxious forhis departure.” There was something touch-ing in this exit; in the quenching of so kindand bright a little life under the dark billowsof death. To me he left a curious old Print ofJames Nayler the Quaker, which I still affec-tionately preserve.

Sterling, from this greater distance, cameperhaps rather seldomer to London; but wesaw him still at moderate intervals; and,through his family here and other direct andindirect channels, were kept in lively commu-nication with him. Literature was still hisconstant pursuit; and, with encouragementor without, Poetic composition his chosen de-partment therein. On the ill success of TheElection, or any ill success with the world,nobody ever heard him utter the least mur-mur; condolence upon that or any such sub-

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ject might have been a questionable opera-tion, by no means called for! Nay, my ownapproval, higher than this of the world, hadbeen languid, by no means enthusiastic. Butour valiant friend took all quietly; and was notto be repulsed from his Poetics either by theworld’s coldness or by mine; he labored at hisStrafford;—determined to labor, in all ways,till he felt the end of his tether in this direc-tion.

He sometimes spoke, with a certain zeal, ofmy starting a Periodical: Why not lift up somekind of war-flag against the obese platitudes,and sickly superstitious aperies and impos-tures of the time? But I had to answer, “Whowill join it, my friend?” He seemed to say, “I,for one;” and there was occasionally a tran-sient temptation in the thought, but transientonly. No fighting regiment, with the smallestattempt towards drill, co-operation, commis-sariat, or the like unspeakable advantages,could be raised in Sterling’s time or mine;which truly, to honest fighters, is a rathergrievous want. A grievous, but not quite a fa-tal one. For, failing this, failing all things andall men, there remains the solitary battle (andwere it by the poorest weapon, the tongueonly, or were it even by wise abstinence and si-lence and without any weapon), such as eachman for himself can wage while he has life:an indubitable and infinitely comfortable factfor every man! Said battle shaped itself forSterling, as we have long since seen, chieflyin the poetic form, in the singing or hymningrather than the speaking form; and in that


he was cheerfully assiduous according to hislight. The unfortunate Strafford is far on to-wards completion; a Coeur-de-Lion, of whichwe shall hear farther, “Coeur-de-Lion, greatlythe best of all his Poems,” unluckily not com-pleted, and still unpublished, already hangsin the wind.

His Letters to friends continue copious;and he has, as always, a loyally interestedeye on whatsoever of notable is passing inthe world. Especially on whatsoever indicatesto him the spiritual condition of the world.Of “Strauss,” in English or in German, wenow hear nothing more; of Church matters,and that only to special correspondents, lessand less. Strauss, whom he used to men-tion, had interested him only as a sign of thetimes; in which sense alone do we find, for ayear or two back, any notice of the Church,or its affairs by Sterling; and at last eventhis as good as ceases: “Adieu, O Church;thy road is that way, mine is this: in God’sname, adieu!” “What we are going to,” sayshe once, “is abundantly obscure; but what allmen are going from, is very plain.”—Sifted outof many pages, not of sufficient interest, hereare one or two miscellaneous sentences, aboutthe date we are now arrived at:—

To Dr. Symonds.“FALMOUTH, 3D NOVEM-

BER, 1841.—Yesterday was myWedding-day: eleven years ofmarriage; and on the whole myverdict is clear for matrimony. I

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solemnized the day by readingJohn Gilpin to the children, whowith their Mother are all prettywell.... There is a trick of shamElizabethan writing now preva-lent, that looks plausible, but inmost cases means nothing at all.Darley has real (lyrical) genius;Taylor, wonderful sense, clearnessand weight of purpose; Tennyson,a rich and exquisite fancy. All theother men of our tiny generationthat I know of are, in Poetry,either feeble or fraudulent. I knownothing of the Reviewer you askabout.”

TO HIS MOTHER

“DECEMBER 11TH.—I haveseen no new books; but am readingyour last. I got hold of the twofirst Numbers of the HoggartyDiamond; and read them withextreme delight. What is therebetter in Fielding or Goldsmith?The man is a true genius; and,with quiet and comfort, mightproduce masterpieces that wouldlast as long as any we have, anddelight millions of unborn readers.There is more truth and naturein one of these papers than in all——’s Novels together.”

—Thackeray, always a close friend of the Ster-ling house, will observe that this is dated


1841, not 1851, and have his own reflectionson the matter!

To the Same.

“DECEMBER 17TH.—I am notmuch surprised at Lady ——’sviews of Coleridge’s little Book onInspiration.—Great part of the ob-scurity of the Letters arises fromhis anxiety to avoid the difficul-ties and absurdities of the commonviews, and his panic terror of say-ing anything that bishops and goodpeople would disapprove. He paida heavy price, viz. all his own can-dor and simplicity, in hope of gain-ing the favor of persons like Lady——; and you see what his rewardis! A good lesson for us all.”

To the Same.

“FEBRUARY 1ST, 1842.—English Toryism has, even in myeyes, about as much to say foritself as any other form of doctrine;but Irish Toryism is the downrightproclamation of brutal injustice,and all in the name of God and theBible! It is almost enough to makeone turn Mahometan, but for thefear of the four wives.”

To his Father.

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“MARCH 12TH, 1842.—... Im-portant to me as these mattersare, it almost seems as if therewere something unfeeling in writ-ing of them, under the pressure ofsuch news as ours from India. Ifthe Cabool Troops have perished,England has not received such ablow from an enemy, nor any-thing approaching it, since Buck-ingham’s Expedition to the Isle ofRhe. Walcheren destroyed us byclimate; and Corunna, with all itslosses, had much of glory. But herewe are dismally injured by mereBarbarians, in a War on our partshamefully unjust as well as fool-ish: a combination of disgrace andcalamity that would have shockedAugustus even more than the de-feat of Varus. One of the four offi-cers with Macnaghten was GeorgeLawrence, a brother-in-law of NatBarton; a distinguished man, andthe father of five totally unprovidedchildren. He is a prisoner, if notsince murdered. Macnaghten I donot pity; he was the prime authorof the whole mad War. But Burnes;and the women; and our regiments!India, however, I feel sure, is safe.”

So roll the months at Falmouth; such is theticking of the great World-Horologe as heardthere by a good ear. “I willingly add,” so ends


he, once, “that I lately found somewhere thisfragment of an Arab’s love-song: ‘O Ghalia!If my father were a jackass, I would sell himto purchase Ghalia!’ A beautiful parallel tothe French ‘Avec cette sauce on mangerait sonpere.”’

CHAPTER IV.NAPLES: POEMS.

In the bleak weather of this spring, 1842, hewas again abroad for a little while; partlyfrom necessity, or at least utility; and partly,as I guess, because these circumstances fa-vored, and he could with a good countenanceindulge a little wish he had long had. In theItalian Tour, which ended suddenly by Mrs.Sterling’s illness recalling him, he had missedNaples; a loss which he always thought to beconsiderable; and which, from time to time,he had formed little projects, failures hitherto,for supplying. The rigors of spring were al-ways dangerous to him in England, and it wasalways of advantage to get out of them: andthen the sight of Naples, too; this, always athing to be done some day, was now possible.Enough, with the real or imaginary hope ofbettering himself in health, and the certainone of seeing Naples, and catching a glance ofItaly again, he now made a run thither. It wasnot long after Calvert’s death. The Tragedyof Strafford lay finished in his desk. Severalthings, sad and bright, were finished. A little

347


intermezzo of ramble was not unadvisable.His tour by water and by land was brief

and rapid enough; hardly above two monthsin all. Of which the following Letters will,with some abridgment, give us what detailsare needful:—

To Charles Barton, Esq.,Leamington.

“FALMOUTH,“25TH MARCH, 1842.

“MY DEAR CHARLES,—My attempts to shoot you fly-

ing with my paper pellets turnedout very ill. I hope young ladiessucceed better when they happento make appointments with you.Even now, I hardly know whetheryou have received a Letter I wroteon Sunday last, and addressed toThe Cavendish. I sent it thither bySusan’s advice.

“In this missive,—happily for usboth, it did not contain a hundred-pound note or any trifle of thatkind,—I informed you that I wascompelled to plan an expedition to-wards the South Pole; stopping,however, in the Mediterranean;and that I designed leaving this onMonday next for Cadiz or Gibral-tar, and then going on to Malta,whence Italy and Sicily would be

CHAPTER IV 349

accessible. Of course your com-pany would be a great pleasure,if it were possible for you to joinme. The delay in hearing from you,through no fault of yours, has nat-urally put me out a little; but, onthe whole, my plan still holds, andI shall leave this on Monday forGibraltar, where the Great Liver-pool will catch me, and carry me toMalta. The Great Liverpool leavesSouthampton on the 1st of April,and Falmouth on the 2d; and willreach Gibraltar in from four to fivedays.

“Now, if you should be able anddisposed to join me, you have onlyto embark in that sumptuous tea-kettle, and pick me up under theguns of the Rock. We could thencruise on to Malta, Sicily, Naples,Rome, &c., a discretion. It is justpossible, though extremely improb-able, that my steamer of Monday(most likely the Montrose) may notreach Gibraltar so soon as the Liv-erpool. If so, and if you should ac-tually be on board, you must stopat Gibraltar. But there are ninety-nine chances to one against this.Write at all events to Susan, to lether know what you propose.

“I do not wait till the Great Liv-erpool goes, because the object forme is to get into a warm climate


as soon as possible. I am decidedlybetter.

“Your affectionate Brother,“JOHN STERLING.”

Barton did not go with him, none went; buthe arrives safe, and not hurt in health, whichis something.


“MALTA,“14TH APRIL, 1842.

“DEAREST MOTHER,—-I am writing to Susan through

France, by to-morrow’s mail; andwill also send you a line, instead ofwaiting for the longer English con-veyance.

“We reached this the day beforeyesterday, in the evening; havinghad a strong breeze against us for aday or two before; which made meextremely uncomfortable,—and in-deed my headache is hardly goneyet. From about the 4th to the9th of the month, we had beau-tiful weather, and I was happyenough. You will see by themap that the straightest line fromGibraltar to this place goes closealong the African coast; which ac-cordingly we saw with the utmost

CHAPTER IV 351

clearness; and found it generally aline of mountains, the higher peaksand ridges covered with snow. Wewent close in to Algiers; whichlooks strong, but entirely from art.The town lies on the slope of astraight coast; and is not at all em-bayed, though there is some lit-tle shelter for shipping within themole. It is a square patch of whitebuildings huddled together; fringedwith batteries; and commanded bylarge forts on the ridge above: amost uncomfortable-looking place;though, no doubt, there are cafesand billiard-rooms and a theatrewithin,—for the French like tohave their Houris, &c., on this sideof Paradise, if possible.

“Our party of fifty people (wehad taken some on board at Gibral-tar) broke up, on reaching this;never, of course, to meet again.The greater part do not proceed toAlexandria. Considering that therewas a bundle of midshipmen, en-signs, &c., we had as much rea-son among us as could perhapsbe looked for; and from severalI gained bits of information andtraits of character, though nothingvery remarkable....

“I have established myself inan inn, rather than go to Lady


Louis’s;27 I not feeling quite equalto company, except in moderatedoses. I have, however, seen hera good deal; and dine there to-day, very privately, for Sir John isnot quite well, and they will haveno guests. The place, however, isfull of official banqueting, for var-ious unimportant reasons. Whenhere before, I was in much distressand anxiety, on my way from Rome;and I suppose this it was that pre-vented its making the same im-pression on me as now, when itseems really the stateliest town Ihave ever seen. The architectureis generally of a corrupt Romankind; with something of the variedand picturesque look, though muchmore massive, of our Elizabethanbuildings. We have the finest En-glish summer and a pellucid sky....Your affectionate


At Naples next, for three weeks, was dueadmiration of the sceneries and antiquities,Bay and Mountain, by no means forgettingArt and the Museum: “to Pozzuoli, to Baiae,round the Promontory of Sorrento;”—aboveall, “twice to Pompeii,” where the eleganceand classic simplicity of Ancient Housekeep-ing strikes us much; and again to Paestum,

27Sister of Mrs. Strachey and Mrs. Buller: Sir JohnLouis was now in a high Naval post at Malta.

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where “the Temple of Neptune is far the no-blest building I have ever seen; and makesboth Greek and Revived Roman seem quitebarbaric.... Lord Ponsonby lodges in the samehouse with me;—but, of course, I do not coun-tenance an adherent of a beaten Party!”28—Or let us take this more compendious account,which has much more of human in it, from anonward stage, ten days later:—


“ROME,“13TH MAY, 1842,

“MY DEAR CARLYLE,—I hope I wrote to you before

leaving England, to tell you of thenecessity for my doing so. Thoughcoming to Italy, there was littlecomfort in the prospect of being di-vided from my family, and pursuitswhich grew on me every day. How-ever, I tried to make the best of it,and have gained both health andpleasure.

“In spite of scanty communica-tions from England (owing to theuncertainty of my position), a wordor two concerning you and yourdear Wife have reached me. Latelyit has often occurred to me, that

28Long Letter to his Father: Naples, 3d May, 1842.


the sight of the Bay of Naples, ofthe beautiful coast from that to thisplace, and of Rome itself, all bathedin summer sunshine, and greenwith spring foliage, would be someconsolation to her.29 Pray give hermy love.

“I have been two days here; andalmost the first thing I did was tovisit the Protestant burial-ground,and the graves of those I knewwhen here before. But much as be-ing now alone here, I feel the differ-ence, there is no scene where Deathseems so little dreadful and mis-erable as in the lonelier neighbor-hoods of this old place. All one’s im-pressions, however, as to that andeverything else, appear to me, onreflection, more affected than I hadfor a long time any notion of, byone’s own isolation. All the feel-ings and activities which family,friends and occupation commonlyengage, are turned, here in one’ssolitude, with strange force into thechannels of mere observation andcontemplation; and the objects oneis conversant with seem to gain atenfold significance from the abun-dance of spare interest one now hasto bestow on them. This explains to

29Death of her Mother, four mouths before. (Note of1870.]

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me a good deal of the peculiar ef-fect that Italy has always had onme: and something of that artis-tic enthusiasm which I rememberyou used to think so singular inGoethe’s Travels. Darley, who isas much a brooding hermit in Eng-land as here, felt nothing but dis-appointment from a country whichfills me with childish wonder anddelight.

“Of you I have received someslight notice from Mrs. Strachey;who is on her way hither; and will(she writes) be at Florence on the15th, and here before the end ofthe month. She notices havingreceived a Letter of yours whichhad pleased her much. She nowproposes spending the summer atSorrento, or thereabouts; and ifmere delight of landscape and cli-mate were enough, Adam and Eve,had their courier taken them tothat region, might have done wellenough without Paradise,—and notbeen tempted, either, by any Treeof Knowledge; a kind that does notflourish in the Two Sicilies.

“The ignorance of the Neapoli-tans, from the highest to the low-est, is very eminent; and excitesthe admiration of all the rest ofItaly. In the great building contain-ing all the Works of Art, and a Li-


brary of 150,000 volumes, I askedfor the best existing Book (a Ger-man one published ten years ago)on the Statues in that very Collec-tion; and, after a rabble of clerksand custodes, got up to a dirtypriest, who bowing to the groundregretted ‘they did not possess it,’but at last remembered that ‘theyhad entered into negotiations onthe subject, which as yet had beenunsuccessful.’—The favorite deviceon the walls at Naples is a vermil-ion Picture of a Male and FemaleSoul respectively up to the waist(the waist of a soul) in fire, and anAngel above each, watering the suf-ferers from a watering-pot. This isintended to gain alms for Masses.The same populace sit for hours onthe Mole, listening to rhapsodistswho recite Ariosto. I have seen Ithink five of them all within a hun-dred yards of each other, and somesets of fiddlers to boot. Yet thereare few parts of the world where Ihave seen less laughter than there.The Miracle of Januarius’s Blood is,on the whole, my most curious ex-perience. The furious entreaties,shrieks and sobs, of a set of oldwomen, yelling till the Miracle wassuccessfully performed, are thingsnever to be forgotten.

“I spent three weeks in this

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most glittering of countries, andsaw most of the usual wonders,—the Paestan Temples being to memuch the most valuable. But Pom-peii and all that it has yielded, es-pecially the Fresco Paintings, havealso an infinite interest. When oneconsiders that this prodigious se-ries of beautiful designs suppliedthe place of our common room-papers,—the wealth of poetic im-agery among the Ancients, andthe corresponding traditional vari-ety and elegance of pictorial treat-ment, seem equally remarkable.The Greek and Latin Books do notgive one quite so fully this sortof impression; because they affordno direct measure of the extent oftheir own diffusion. But these areornaments from the smaller classof decent houses in a little Coun-try Town; and the greater numberof them, by the slightness of the ex-ecution, show very clearly that theywere adapted to ordinary taste,and done by mere artisans. In gen-eral clearness, symmetry and sim-plicity of feeling, I cannot say that,on the whole, the works of Raf-faelle equal them; though of coursehe has endless beauties such as wecould not find unless in the greatoriginal works from which thesesketches at Pompeii were taken.


Yet with all my much increasedreverence for the Greeks, it seemsmore plain than ever that they hadhardly anything of the peculiar de-votional feeling of Christianity.

“Rome, which I loved beforeabove all the earth, now delightsme more than ever;—though atthis moment there is rain fallingthat would not discredit OxfordStreet. The depth, sincerity andsplendor that there once was in thesemi-paganism of the old Catholicscomes out in St. Peter’s and its de-pendencies, almost as grandly asdoes Greek and Roman Art in theForum and the Vatican Galleries.I wish you were here: but, at allevents, hope to see you and yourWife once more during this sum-mer.


At Paris, where he stopped a day andnight, and generally through his whole jour-ney from Marseilles to Havre, one thing at-tended him: the prevailing epidemic of theplace and year; now gone, and nigh forgotten,as other influenzas are. He writes to his Fa-ther: “I have not yet met a single Frenchman,who could give me any rational explanationwhy they were all in such a confounded rageagainst us. Definite causes of quarrel a states-man may know how to deal with, inasmuch

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as the removal of them may help to settle thedispute. But it must be a puzzling task to ne-gotiate about instincts; to which class, as itseems to me, we must have recourse for an un-derstanding of the present abhorrence whicheverybody on the other side of the Channelnot only feels, but makes a point to boast of,against the name of Britain. France is slowlyarming, especially with Steam, en attendanta more than possible contest, in which theyreckon confidently on the eager co-operationof the Yankees; as, vice versa, an Americantold me that his countrymen do on that ofFrance. One person at Paris (M. —— whomyou know) provoked me to tell him that ‘Eng-land did not want another battle of Trafal-gar; but if France did, she might compel Eng-land to gratify her.”’—After a couple of pleas-ant and profitable months, he was safe homeagain in the first days of June; and saw Fal-mouth not under gray iron skies, and whirlsof March dust, but bright with summer opu-lence and the roses coming out.

It was what I call his “fifth peregrinity;”his fifth and last. He soon afterwards cameup to London; spent a couple of weeks, withall his old vivacity, among us here. The Æs-culapian oracles, it would appear, gave alto-gether cheerful prophecy; the highest medicalauthority “expresses the most decided opinionthat I have gradually mended for some years;and in truth I have not, for six or seven, beenso free from serious symptoms of illness as atpresent.” So uncertain are all oracles, AEscu-lapian and other!


During this visit, he made one new ac-quaintance which he much valued; drawnthither, as I guess, by the wish to take coun-sel about Strafford. He writes to his Cliftonfriend, under date, 1st July 1842: “Lockhart,of the Quarterly Review, I made my first oralacquaintance with; and found him as neat,clear and cutting a brain as you would expect;but with an amount of knowledge, good na-ture and liberal anti-bigotry, that would muchsurprise many. The tone of his children to-wards him seemed to me decisive of his realkindness. He quite agreed with me as to thethreatening seriousness of our present socialperplexities, and the necessity and difficultyof doing something effectual for so satisfyingthe manual multitude as not to overthrow alllegal security....

“Of other persons whom I saw in Lon-don,” continues he, “there are several thatwould much interest you,—though I missedTennyson, by a mere chance.... John Millhas completely finished, and sent to the book-seller, his great work on Logic; the labor ofmany years of a singularly subtle, patient andcomprehensive mind. It will be our chief spec-ulative monument of this age. Mill and I couldnot meet above two or three times; but it waswith the openness and freshness of school-boyfriends, though our friendship only dates fromthe manhood of both.”

He himself was busier than ever; occupiedcontinually with all manner of Poetic inter-ests. Coeur-de-Lion, a new and more elabo-rate attempt in the mock-heroic or comico-

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didactic vein, had been on hand for some time,the scope of it greatly deepening and expand-ing itself since it first took hold of him; andnow, soon after the Naples journey, it rose intoshape on the wider plan; shaken up probablyby this new excitement, and indebted to Cal-abria, Palermo and the Mediterranean scenesfor much of the vesture it had. With this,which opened higher hopes for him than anyof his previous efforts, he was now employingall his time and strength;—and continued todo so, this being the last effort granted himamong us.

Already, for some months, Strafford laycomplete: but how to get it from the stocks; inwhat method to launch it? The step was ques-tionable. Before going to Italy he had sentme the Manuscript; still loyal and friendly;and willing to hear the worst that could besaid of his poetic enterprise. I had to afflicthim again, the good brave soul, with the de-liberate report that I could not accept thisDrama as his Picture of the Life of Strafford,or as any Picture of that strange Fact. Towhich he answered, with an honest manful-ness, in a tone which is now pathetic enoughto me, that he was much grieved yet muchobliged, and uncertain how to decide. On theother hand, Mr. Hare wrote, warmly eulogiz-ing. Lockhart too spoke kindly, though tak-ing some exceptions. It was a questionablecase. On the whole, Strafford remained, forthe present, unlaunched; and Coeur de-Lionwas getting its first timbers diligently laiddown. So passed, in peaceable seclusion, in


wholesome employment and endeavor, the au-tumn and winter of 1842-43. On Christmas-day, he reports to his Mother:—

“I wished to write to you yes-terday; but was prevented by theimportant business of preparing aTree, in the German fashion, forthe children. This project answeredperfectly, as it did last year; andgave them the greatest pleasure. Iwish you and my Father could havebeen here to see their merry faces.Johnny was in the thick of the fun,and much happier than Lord An-son on capturing the galleon. Weare all going on well and quietly,but with nothing very new amongus.... The last book I have lightedon is Moffat’s Missionary Laborsin South Africa; which is worthreading. There is the best col-lection of lion stories in it thatI have ever seen. But the manis, also, really a very good fellow;and fit for something much betterthan most lions are. He is veryignorant, and mistaken in somethings; but has strong sense andheart; and his Narrative adds an-other to the many proofs of theenormous power of Christianity onrude minds. Nothing can be morechaotic, that is human at all, thanthe notions of these poor Blacks,

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even after what is called their con-version; but the effect is produced.They do adopt pantaloons, andabandon polygamy; and I supposewill soon have newspapers and lit-erary soirees.”

CHAPTER V.DISASTER ONDISASTER.

During all these years of struggle and way-faring, his Father’s household at Knights-bridge had stood healthful, happy, increasingin wealth, free diligence, solidity and honestprosperity: a fixed sunny islet, towards which,in all his voyagings and overclouded roam-ings, he could look with satisfaction, as to anever-open port of refuge.

The elder Sterling, after many battles, hadreached his field of conquest in these years;and was to be regarded as a victorious man.Wealth sufficient, increasing not diminishing,had rewarded his labors in the Times, whichwere now in their full flower; he had influ-ence of a sort; went busily among busy publicmen; and enjoyed, in the questionable form at-tached to journalism and anonymity, a socialconsideration and position which were abun-dantly gratifying to him. A singular figure ofthe epoch; and when you came to know him,which it was easy to fail of doing if you had

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not eyes and candid insight, a gallant, trulygifted, and manful figure, of his kind. We sawmuch of him in this house; much of all hisfamily; and had grown to love them all rightwell,—him too, though that was the difficultpart of the feat. For in his Irish way he playedthe conjurer very much,—“three hundred andsixty-five opinions in the year upon every sub-ject,” as a wag once said. In fact his talk, everingenious, emphatic and spirited in detail,was much defective in earnestness, at leastin clear earnestness, of purport and outcome;but went tumbling as if in mere welters ofexplosive unreason; a volcano heaving undervague deluges of scoriae, ashes and imponder-ous pumice-stones, you could not say in whatdirection, nor well whether in any. Not till af-ter good study did you see the deep moltenlava-flood, which simmered steadily enough,and showed very well by and by whither it wasbound. For I must say of Edward Sterling, af-ter all his daily explosive sophistries, and fal-lacies of talk, he had a stubborn instinctivesense of what was manful, strong and worthy;recognized, with quick feeling, the charlatanunder his solemnest wig; knew as clearly asany man a pusillanimous tailor in buckram,an ass under the lion’s skin, and did with hiswhole heart despise the same.

The sudden changes of doctrine in theTimes, which failed not to excite loud censureand indignant amazement in those days, werefirst intelligible to you when you came to in-terpret them as his changes. These suddenwhirls from east to west on his part, and to-

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tal changes of party and articulate opinionat a day’s warning, lay in the nature of theman, and could not be helped; products of hisfiery impatience, of the combined impetuosityand limitation of an intellect, which did nev-ertheless continually gravitate towards whatwas loyal, true and right on all manner ofsubjects. These, as I define them, were themere scoriae and pumice wreck of a steadycentral lava-flood, which truly was volcanicand explosive to a strange degree, but did restas few others on the grand fire-depths of theworld. Thus, if he stormed along, ten thou-sand strong, in the time of the Reform Bill,indignantly denouncing Toryism and its ob-solete insane pretensions; and then if, aftersome experience of Whig management, he dis-cerned that Wellington and Peel, by whatevername entitled, were the men to be dependedon by England,—there lay in all this, visibleenough, a deeper consistency far more impor-tant than the superficial one, so much clam-ored after by the vulgar. Which is the lion’s-skin; which is the real lion? Let a man, if he isprudent, ascertain that before speaking;—butabove and beyond all things, let him ascertainit, and stand valiantly to it when ascertained!In the latter essential part of the operationEdward Sterling was honorably successful toa really marked degree; in the former, or pru-dential part, very much the reverse, as his his-tory in the Journalistic department at least,was continually teaching him.

An amazingly impetuous, hasty, explosiveman, this “Captain Whirlwind,” as I used to


call him! Great sensibility lay in him, too; areal sympathy, and affectionate pity and soft-ness, which he had an over-tendency to ex-press even by tears,—a singular sight in soleonine a man. Enemies called them maudlinand hypocritical, these tears; but that was no-wise the complete account of them. On thewhole, there did conspicuously lie a dash of os-tentation, a self-consciousness apt to becomeloud and braggart, over all he said and didand felt: this was the alloy of the man, andyou had to be thankful for the abundant goldalong with it.

Quizzing enough he got among us for allthis, and for the singular chiaroscuro man-ner of procedure, like that of an Archima-gus Cagliostro, or Kaiser Joseph Incognito,which his anonymous known-unknown thun-derings in the Times necessitated in him;and much we laughed,—not without explosivecounter-banterings on his part;—but, in fine,one could not do without him; one knew himat heart for a right brave man. “By Jove,sir!” thus he would swear to you, with radi-ant face; sometimes, not often, by a deeperoath. With persons of dignity, especially withwomen, to whom he was always very gallant,he had courtly delicate manners, verging to-wards the wire-drawn and elaborate; on com-mon occasions, he bloomed out at once intojolly familiarity of the gracefully boisterouskind, reminding you of mess-rooms and oldDublin days. His off-hand mode of speechwas always precise, emphatic, ingenious: hislaugh, which was frequent rather than oth-

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erwise, had a sincerity of banter, but no realdepth of sense for the ludicrous; and soonended, if it grew too loud, in a mere disso-nant scream. He was broad, well-built, stoutof stature; had a long lowish head, sharp grayeyes, with large strong aquiline face to match;and walked, or sat, in an erect decisive man-ner. A remarkable man; and playing, espe-cially in those years 1830-40, a remarkablepart in the world.

For it may be said, the emphatic, big-voiced, always influential and often stronglyunreasonable Times Newspaper was the ex-press emblem of Edward Sterling; he, morethan any other man or circumstance, was theTimes Newspaper, and thundered through itto the shaking of the spheres. And let usassert withal that his and its influence, inthose days, was not ill grounded but ratherwell; that the loud manifold unreason, oftenenough vituperated and groaned over, was ofthe surface mostly; that his conclusions, un-reasonable, partial, hasty as they might atfirst be, gravitated irresistibly towards theright: in virtue of which grand quality indeed,the root of all good insight in man, his Timesoratory found acceptance and influential au-dience, amid the loud whirl of an England it-self logically very stupid, and wise chiefly byinstinct.

England listened to this voice, as all mightobserve; and to one who knew England andit, the result was not quite a strange one,and was honorable rather than otherwise toboth parties. A good judge of men’s talents


has been heard to say of Edward Sterling:“There is not a faculty of improvising equalto this in all my circle. Sterling rushes outinto the clubs, into London society, rolls aboutall day, copiously talking modish nonsenseor sense, and listening to the like, with themultifarious miscellany of men; comes homeat night; redacts it into a Times Leader,—and is found to have hit the essential pur-port of the world’s immeasurable babblementthat day, with an accuracy beyond all othermen. This is what the multifarious Babelsound did mean to say in clear words; this,more nearly than anything else. Let the mostgifted intellect, capable of writing epics, try towrite such a Leader for the Morning Newspa-pers! No intellect but Edward Sterling’s cando it. An improvising faculty without parallelin my experience.”—In this “improvising fac-ulty,” much more nobly developed, as well asin other faculties and qualities with unexpect-edly new and improved figure, John Sterling,to the accurate observer, showed himself verymuch the son of Edward.

Connected with this matter, a remarkableNote has come into my hands; honorable tothe man I am writing of, and in some sort toanother higher man; which, as it may now(unhappily for us all) be published withoutscruple, I will not withhold here. The sup-port, by Edward Sterling and the Times, of SirRobert Peel’s first Ministry, and generally ofPeel’s statesmanship, was a conspicuous factin its day; but the return it met with from theperson chiefly interested may be considered

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well worth recording. The following Letter, af-ter meandering through I know not what in-tricate conduits, and consultations of the Mys-terious Entity whose address it bore, came toEdward Sterling as the real flesh-and-bloodproprietor, and has been found among his pa-pers. It is marked Private:—

(Private)To the Editor of the Times.

“WHITEHALL,“18TH APRIL, 1835.

“SIR,—Having this day delivered into

the hands of the King the Sealsof Office, I can, without any im-putation of an interested motive,or any impediment from scrupu-lous feelings of delicacy, express mydeep sense of the powerful supportwhich that Government over whichI had the honor to preside receivedfrom the Times Newspaper.

“If I do not offer the expres-sions of personal gratitude, it is be-cause I feel that such expressionswould do injustice to the characterof a support which was given exclu-sively on the highest and most in-dependent grounds of public prin-ciple. I can say this with per-fect truth, as I am addressing onewhose person even is unknown to


me, and who during my tenureof power studiously avoided everyspecies of intercourse which couldthrow a suspicion upon the mo-tives by which he was actuated.I should, however, be doing injus-tice to my own feelings, if I wereto retire from Office without oneword of acknowledgment; withoutat least assuring you of the admi-ration with which I witnessed, dur-ing the arduous contest in whichI was engaged, the daily exhibi-tion of that extraordinary abilityto which I was indebted for a sup-port, the more valuable because itwas an impartial and discriminat-ing support.—I have the honor tobe, Sir,

“Ever your most obedient andfaithful servant,

“ROBERT PEEL.”

To which, with due loftiness and diplomaticgravity and brevity, there is Answer, Draughtof Answer in Edward Sterling’s hand, fromthe Mysterious Entity so honored, in the fol-lowing terms:—

To the Right Hon. Sir Robert Peel,Bart., &c. &c. &c.

“SIR,—

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It gives me sincere satisfactionto learn from the Letter with whichyou have honored me, bearing yes-terday’s date, that you estimateso highly the efforts which havebeen made during the last fivemonths by the Times Newspaper tosupport the cause of rational andwholesome Government which hisMajesty had intrusted to your guid-ance; and that you appreciate fairlythe disinterested motive, of regardto the public welfare, and to thatalone, through which this Journalhas been prompted to pursue a pol-icy in accordance with that of yourAdministration. It is, permit meto say, by such motives only, thatthe Times, ever since I have knownit, has been influenced, whether indefence of the Government of theday, or in constitutional resistanceto it: and indeed there exist noother motives of action for a Jour-nalist, compatible either with thesafety of the press, or with the po-litical morality of the great bulk ofits readers.—With much respect, Ihave the honor to be, Sir, &c. &c.&c.

“The Editor of the ‘Times.”’

Of this Note I do not think there was theleast whisper during Edward Sterling’s life-time; which fact also one likes to remember


of him, so ostentatious and little-reticent aman. For the rest, his loyal admiration ofSir Robert Peel,—sanctioned, and as it werealmost consecrated to his mind, by the greatexample of the Duke of Wellington, whom hereverenced always with true hero-worship,—was not a journalistic one, but a most inti-mate authentic feeling, sufficiently apparentin the very heart of his mind. Among themany opinions “liable to three hundred andsixty-five changes in the course of the year,”this in reference to Peel and Wellington wasone which ever changed, but was the sameall days and hours. To which, equally gen-uine, and coming still oftener to light in thosetimes, there might one other be added, oneand hardly more: fixed contempt, not unmin-gled with detestation, for Daniel O’Connell.This latter feeling, we used often laughinglyto say, was his grand political principle, theone firm centre where all else went revolving.But internally the other also was deep andconstant; and indeed these were properly histwo centres,—poles of the same axis, negativeand positive, the one presupposing the other.

O’Connell he had known in young Dublindays;—and surely no man could well vener-ate another less! It was his deliberate, un-alterable opinion of the then Great O, thatgood would never come of him; that only mis-chief, and this in huge measure, would come.That however showy, and adroit in rhetoricand management, he was a man of incurablycommonplace intellect, and of no characterbut a hollow, blustery, pusillanimous and un-

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sound one; great only in maudlin patriotisms,in speciosities, astucities,—in the miserablegifts for becoming Chief Demagogos, Leaderof a deep-sunk Populace towards its Lands ofPromise; which trade, in any age or country,and especially in the Ireland of this age, ourindignant friend regarded (and with reason)as an extremely ugly one for a man. He hadhimself zealously advocated Catholic Eman-cipation, and was not without his Irish pa-triotism, very different from the Orange sort;but the “Liberator” was not admirable to him,and grew daily less so to an extreme degree.Truly, his scorn of the said Liberator, now rid-ing in supreme dominion on the wings of blar-ney, devil-ward of a surety, with the Liberatedall following and huzzaing; his fierce gusts ofwrath and abhorrence over him,—rose occa-sionally almost to the sublime. We laughed of-ten at these vehemences:—and they were notwholly laughable; there was something veryserious, and very true, in them! This creedof Edward Sterling’s would not now, in eitherpole of its axis, look so strange as it then didin many quarters.

During those ten years which might bedefined as the culminating period of Ed-ward Sterling’s life, his house at South Place,Knights bridge, had worn a gay and solid as-pect, as if built at last on the high table-landof sunshine and success, the region of stormsand dark weather now all victoriously tra-versed and lying safe below. Health, work,wages, whatever is needful to a man, he had,in rich measure; and a frank stout heart to


guide the same: he lived in such style aspleased him; drove his own chariot up anddown (himself often acting as Jehu, and re-minding you a little of Times thunder evenin driving); consorted, after a fashion, withthe powerful of the world; saw in due vicissi-tude a miscellany of social faces round him,—pleasant parties, which he liked well enoughto garnish by a lord; “Irish lord, if no bettermight be,” as the banter went. For the rest, heloved men of worth and intellect, and recog-nized them well, whatever their title: this washis own patent of worth which Nature hadgiven him; a central light in the man, which il-luminated into a kind of beauty, serious or hu-morous, all the artificialities he had accumu-lated on the surface of him. So rolled his days,not quietly, yet prosperously, in manifold com-merce with men. At one in the morning, whenall had vanished into sleep, his lamp was kin-dled in his library; and there, twice or thricea week, for a three-hours’ space, he launchedhis bolts, which next morning were to shakethe high places of the world.

John’s relation to his Father, when one sawJohn here, was altogether frank, joyful andamiable: he ignored the Times thunder formost part, coldly taking the Anonymous fornon-extant; spoke of it floutingly, if he spokeat all: indeed a pleasant half-bantering di-alect was the common one between Fatherand Son; and they, especially with the gen-tle, simple-hearted, just-minded Mother fortreble-voice between them, made a very prettyglee-harmony together.

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So had it lasted, ever since poor John’svoyagings began; his Father’s house stand-ing always as a fixed sunny islet with safeharbor for him. So it could not always last.This sunny islet was now also to break and godown: so many firm islets, fixed pillars in hisfluctuating world, pillar after pillar, were tobreak and go down; till swiftly all, so to speak,were sunk in the dark waters, and he withthem! Our little History is now hastening to aclose.

In the beginning of 1843 news reached usthat Sterling had, in his too reckless way, en-countered a dangerous accident: maids, in theroom where he was, were lifting a heavy ta-ble; he, seeing them in difficulty, had snatchedat the burden; heaved it away,—but had bro-ken a blood-vessel by the business; and wasnow, after extensive hemorrhage, lying dan-gerously ill. The doctors hoped the worstwas over; but the case was evidently seri-ous. In the same days, too, his Mother hadbeen seized here by some painful disease,which from its continuance grew alarming.Sad omens for Edward Sterling, who by thistime had as good as ceased writing or work-ing in the Times, having comfortably windedup his affairs there; and was looking forwardto a freer idle life befitting his advanced yearshenceforth. Fatal eclipse had fallen over thathousehold of his; never to be lifted off againtill all darkened into night.

By dint of watchful nursing, John Ster-ling got on foot once more: but his Motherdid not recover, quite the contrary. Her case


too grew very questionable. Disease of theheart, said the medical men at last; not im-mediately, not perhaps for a length of years,dangerous to life, said they; but without hopeof cure. The poor lady suffered much; and,though affecting hope always, grew weakerand weaker. John ran up to Town in March;I saw him, on the morrow or next day after, inhis own room at Knightsbridge: he had caughtfresh cold overnight, the servant having lefthis window up, but I was charged to say noth-ing of it, not to flutter the already troubledhouse: he was going home again that veryday, and nothing ill would come of it. We un-derstood the family at Falmouth, his Wife be-ing now near her confinement again, could atany rate comport with no long absence. Hewas cheerful, even rudely merry; himself paleand ill, his poor Mother’s cough audible occa-sionally through the wall. Very kind, too, andgracefully affectionate; but I observed a cer-tain grimness in his mood of mind, and un-der his light laughter lay something unusual,something stern, as if already dimmed in thecoming shadows of Fate. “Yes, yes, you are agood man: but I understand they mean to ap-point you to Rhadamanthus’s post, which hasbeen vacant for some time; and you will seehow you like that!” This was one of the thingshe said; a strange effulgence of wild drolleryflashing through the ice of earnest pain andsorrow. He looked paler than usual: almostfor the first time, I had myself a twinge of mis-giving as to his own health; for hitherto I hadbeen used to blame as much as pity his fits

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of dangerous illness, and would often angrilyremonstrate with him that he might have ex-cellent health, would he but take reasonablecare of himself, and learn the art of sittingstill. Alas, as if he could learn it; as if Na-ture had not laid her ban on him even there,and said in smiles and frowns manifoldly, “No,that thou shalt not learn!”

He went that day; he never saw his goodtrue Mother more. Very shortly afterwards, inspite of doctors’ prophecies, and affectionateillusions, she grew alarmingly and soon hope-lessly worse. Here are his last two Letters toher:—


“FALMOUTH“8TH APRIL, 1843.

“DEAREST MOTHER,—I could do you no good, but it

would be the greatest comfort tome if I could be near you. Nothingwould detain me but Susan’s con-dition. I feel that until her con-finement is over, I ought to remainhere,—unless you wished me to goto you; in which case she would bethe first to send me off. Happilyshe is doing as well as possible, andseems even to gain strength everyday. She sends her love to you.


“The children are all doing well.I rode with Edward to-day throughsome of the pleasant lanes in theneighborhood; and was delighted,as I have often been at the sameseason, to see the primroses un-der every hedge. It is pleasant tothink that the Maker of them canmake other flowers for the gardensof his other mansions. We havehere a softness in the air, a smooth-ness of the clouds, and a mild sun-shine, that combine in lovely peacewith the first green of spring andthe mellow whiteness of the sailsupon the quiet sea. The whole as-pect of the world is full of a quietharmony, that influences even one’sbodily frame, and seems to makeone’s very limbs aware of some-thing living, good and immortal inall around us. Knowing how yousuffer, and how weak you are, any-thing is a blessing to me that helpsme to rise out of confusion and griefinto the sense of God and joy. Icould not indeed but feel how muchhappier I should have been, thismorning, had you been with me,and delighting as you would havedone in all the little as well as thelarge beauty of the world. But itwas still a satisfaction to feel howmuch I owe to you of the powerof perceiving meaning, reality and

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sweetness in all healthful life. Andthus I could fancy that you werestill near me; and that I could seeyou, as I have so often seen you,looking with earnest eyes at way-side flowers.

“I would rather not have writ-ten what must recall your thoughtsto your present sufferings: but,dear Mother, I wrote only what Ifelt; and perhaps you would ratherhave it so, than that I should try tofind other topics. I still hope to bewith you before long. Meanwhileand always, God bless you, is theprayer of


To the Same.

“FALMOUTH,“12TH APRIL, 1843.

“DEAREST MOTHER,—I have just received my Father’s

Letter; which gives me at least thecomfort of believing that you do notsuffer very much pain. That yourmind has remained so clear andstrong, is an infinite blessing.

“I do not know anything in theworld that would make up to meat all for wanting the recollectionof the days I spent with you lately,when I was amazed at the fresh-ness and life of all your thoughts.


It brought back far-distant years,in the strangest, most peacefulway. I felt myself walking withyou in Greenwich Park, and on theseashore at Sandgate; almost evenI seemed a baby, with you bend-ing over me. Dear Mother, thereis surely something uniting us thatcannot perish. I seem so sure ofa love which shall last and reuniteus, that even the remembrance,painful as that is, of all my own fol-lies and ill tempers, cannot shakethis faith. When I think of you,and know how you feel towards me,and have felt for every moment ofalmost forty years, it would be toodark to believe that we shall nevermeet again. It was from you thatI first learnt to think, to feel, toimagine, to believe; and these pow-ers, which cannot be extinguished,will one day enter anew into com-munion with you. I have boughtit very dear by the prospect of los-ing you in this world,—but sinceyou have been so ill, everythinghas seemed to me holier, loftier andmore lasting, more full of hope andfinal joy.

“It would be a very great hap-piness to see you once more evenhere; but I do not know if that willbe granted to me. But for Susan’sstate, I should not hesitate an in-

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stant; as it is, my duty seems to beto remain, and I have no right torepine. There is no sacrifice thatshe would not make for me, andit would be too cruel to endangerher by mere anxiety on my account.Nothing can exceed her sympathywith my sorrow. But she cannotknow, no one can, the recollectionsof all you have been and done forme; which now are the most sacredand deepest, as well as most beau-tiful, thoughts that abide with me.May God bless you, dearest Mother.It is much to believe that He feelsfor you all that you have ever feltfor your children.


A day or two after this, “on Good Friday,1843,” his Wife got happily through her con-finement, bringing him, he writes, “a stoutlittle girl, who and the Mother are doing aswell as possible.” The little girl still lives anddoes well; but for the Mother there was an-other lot. Till the Monday following she toodid altogether well, he affectionately watchingher; but in the course of that day, some changefor the worse was noticed, though nothing toalarm either the doctors or him; he watchedby her bedside all night, still without alarm;but sent again in the morning, Tuesday morn-ing, for the doctors,—Who did not seem able tomake much of the symptoms. She appearedweak and low, but made no particular com-


plaint. The London post meanwhile was an-nounced; Sterling went into another room tolearn what tidings of his Mother it broughthim. Returning speedily with a face whichin vain strove to be calm, his Wife asked,How at Knightsbridge? “My Mother is dead,”answered Sterling; “died on Sunday: She isgone.” “Poor old man!” murmured the other,thinking of old Edward Sterling now left alonein the world; and these were her own lastwords: in two hours more she too was dead.In two hours Mother and Wife were suddenlyboth snatched away from him.

“It came with awful suddenness!” writes heto his Clifton friend. “Still for a short time Ihad my Susan: but I soon saw that the medi-cal men were in terror; and almost within halfan hour of that fatal Knightsbridge news, Ibegan to suspect our own pressing danger. Ireceived her last breath upon my lips. Hermind was much sunk, and her perceptionsslow; but a few minutes before the last, shemust have caught the idea of dissolution; andsigned that I should kiss her. She falteredpainfully, ‘Yes! yes!’—returned with fervencythe pressure of my lips; and in a few momentsher eyes began to fix, her pulse to cease. Shetoo is gone from me!” It was Tuesday morning,April 18th, 1843. His Mother had died on theSunday before.

He had loved his excellent kind Mother, ashe ought and well might: in that good heart,in all the wanderings of his own, there hadever been a shrine of warm pity, of mother’slove and blessed soft affections for him; and

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now it was closed in the Eternities forever-more. His poor Life-partner too, his other self,who had faithfully attended him so long in allhis pilgrimings, cheerily footing the heavy tor-tuous ways along with him, can follow himno farther; sinks now at his side: “The restof your pilgrimings alone, O Friend,—adieu,adieu!” She too is forever hidden from hiseyes; and he stands, on the sudden, very soli-tary amid the tumult of fallen and fallingthings. “My little baby girl is doing well; poorlittle wreck cast upon the sea-beach of life. Mychildren require me tenfold now. What I shalldo, is all confusion and darkness.”

The younger Mrs. Sterling was a true goodwoman; loyal-hearted, willing to do well, andstruggling wonderfully to do it amid her lan-guors and infirmities; rescuing, in many ways,with beautiful female heroism and adroitness,what of fertility their uncertain, wandering,unfertile way of life still left possible, andcheerily making the most of it. A genial, pi-ous and harmonious fund of character was inher; and withal an indolent, half-unconsciousforce of intellect, and justness and delicacyof perception, which the casual acquaintancescarcely gave her credit for. Sterling much re-spected her decision in matters literary; of-ten altering and modifying where her feel-ing clearly went against him; and in versesespecially trusting to her ear, which was ex-cellent, while he knew his own to be worthlittle. I remember her melodious rich plain-tive tone of voice; and an exceedingly brightsmile which she sometimes had, effulgent


with sunny gayety and true humor, amongother fine qualities.

Sterling has lost much in these two hours;how much that has long been can never againbe for him! Twice in one morning, so to speak,has a mighty wind smitten the corners of hishouse; and much lies in dismal ruins roundhim.

CHAPTER VI.VENTNOR:DEATH.

In this sudden avalanche of sorrows Sterling,weak and worn as we have seen, bore up man-fully, and with pious valor fronted what hadcome upon him. He was not a man to yield tovain wailings, or make repinings at the unal-terable: here was enough to be long mournedover; but here, for the moment, was verymuch imperatively requiring to be done. Thatevening, he called his children round him;spoke words of religious admonition and affec-tion to them; said, “He must now be a Motheras well as Father to them.” On the eveningof the funeral, writes Mr. Hare, he bade themgood-night, adding these words, “If I am takenfrom you, God will take care of you.” He hadsix children left to his charge, two of them in-fants; and a dark outlook ahead of them andhim. The good Mrs. Maurice, the children’syoung Aunt, present at this time and often af-terwards till all ended, was a great consola-tion.

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Falmouth, it may be supposed, had growna sorrowful place to him, peopled withhaggard memories in his weak state; andnow again, as had been usual with him,change of place suggested itself as a desirablealleviation;—and indeed, in some sort, as anecessity. He has “friends here,” he admits tohimself, “whose kindness is beyond all price,all description;” but his little children, if any-thing befell him, have no relative within twohundred miles. He is now sole watcher overthem; and his very life is so precarious; nay,at any rate, it would appear, he has to leaveFalmouth every spring, or run the hazard ofworse. Once more, what is to be done? Oncemore,—and now, as it turned out, for the lasttime.

A still gentler climate, greater proximity toLondon, where his Brother Anthony now wasand most of his friends and interests were:these considerations recommended Ventnor,in the beautiful Southeastern corner of theIsle of Wight; where on inquiry an eligiblehouse was found for sale. The house andits surrounding piece of ground, improvableboth, were purchased; he removed thither inJune of this year 1843; and set about im-provements and adjustments on a frank scale.By the decease of his Mother, he had be-come rich in money; his share of the West-India properties having now fallen to him,which, added to his former incomings, madea revenue he could consider ample and abun-dant. Falmouth friends looked lovingly to-wards him, promising occasional visits; old

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Herstmonceux, which he often spoke of revis-iting but never did, was not far off; and Lon-don, with all its resources and remembrances,was now again accessible. He resumed hiswork; and had hopes of again achieving some-thing.

The Poem of Coeur-de-Lion has been al-ready mentioned, and the wider form and aimit had got since he first took it in hand. It wasabove a year before the date of these tragediesand changes, that he had sent me a Canto,or couple of Cantos, of Coeur-de-Lion; loyallyagain demanding my opinion, harsh as it hadoften been on that side. This time I felt rightglad to answer in another tone: “That herewas real felicity and ingenuity, on the pre-scribed conditions; a decisively rhythmic qual-ity in this composition; thought and phrase-ology actually dancing, after a sort. Whatthe plan and scope of the Work might be, hehad not said, and I could not judge; but herewas a light opulence of airy fancy, picturesqueconception, vigorous delineation, all marchingon as with cheerful drum and fife, if withoutmore rich and complicated forms of melody: ifa man would write in metre, this sure enoughwas the way to try doing it.” For such en-couragement from that stinted quarter, Ster-ling, I doubt not, was very thankful; and ofcourse it might co-operate with the inspira-tions from his Naples Tour to further him alittle in this his now chief task in the way ofPoetry; a thought which, among my many al-most pathetic remembrances of contradictionsto his Poetic tendency, is pleasant for me.


But, on the whole, it was no matter. Withor without encouragement, he was resolute topersevere in Poetry, and did persevere. WhenI think now of his modest, quiet steadfast-ness in this business of Poetry; how, in spiteof friend and foe, he silently persisted, with-out wavering, in the form of utterance hehad chosen for himself; and to what lengthhe carried it, and vindicated himself againstus all;—his character comes out in a newlight to me, with more of a certain centralinflexibility and noble silent resolution thanI had elsewhere noticed in it. This summer,moved by natural feelings, which were sanc-tioned, too, and in a sort sanctified to him, bythe remembered counsel of his late Wife, heprinted the Tragedy of Strafford. But therewas in the public no contradiction to the hardvote I had given about it: the little Book felldead-born; and Sterling had again to take hisdisappointment;—which it must be owned hecheerfully did; and, resolute to try it againand ever again, went along with his Coeur-de-Lion, as if the public had been all with him.An honorable capacity to stand single againstthe whole world; such as all men need, fromtime to time! After all, who knows whether,in his overclouded, broken, flighty way of life,incapable of long hard drudgery, and so shutout from the solid forms of Prose, this PoeticForm, which he could well learn as he couldall forms, was not the suitablest for him?

This work of Coeur-de-Lion he prosecutedsteadfastly in his new home; and indeed em-ployed on it henceforth all the available days

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that were left him in this world. As was al-ready said, he did not live to complete it; butsome eight Cantos, three or four of which Iknow to possess high worth, were finished, be-fore Death intervened, and there he had toleave it. Perhaps it will yet be given to thepublic; and in that case be better receivedthan the others were, by men of judgment;and serve to put Sterling’s Poetic pretensionson a much truer footing. I can say, that toreaders who do prefer a poetic diet, this oughtto be welcome: if you can contrive to love thething which is still called “poetry” in thesedays, here is a decidedly superior article inthat kind,—richer than one of a hundred thatyou smilingly consume.

In this same month of June, 1843, whilethe house at Ventnor was getting ready, Ster-ling was again in London for a few days.Of course at Knightsbridge, now fallen un-der such sad change, many private mattersneeded to be settled by his Father and Brotherand him. Captain Anthony, now minded to re-move with his family to London and quit themilitary way of life, had agreed to purchasethe big family house, which he still occupies;the old man, now rid of that encumbrance, re-tired to a smaller establishment of his own;came ultimately to be Anthony’s guest, andspent his last days so. He was much lamedand broken, the half of his old life suddenlytorn away;—and other losses, which he yetknew not of, lay close ahead of him. In ayear or two, the rugged old man, borne downby these pressures, quite gave way; sank into


paralytic and other infirmities; and was re-leased from life’s sorrows, under his son An-thony’s roof, in the fall of 1847.—The house inKnightsbridge was, at the time we now speakof, empty except of servants; Anthony havingreturned to Dublin, I suppose to conclude hisaffairs there, prior to removal. John lodged ina Hotel.

We had our fair share of his company inthis visit, as in all the past ones; but the in-tercourse, I recollect, was dim and broken,a disastrous shadow hanging over it, not tobe cleared away by effort. Two Americangentlemen, acquaintances also of mine, hadbeen recommended to him, by Emerson mostlikely: one morning Sterling appeared herewith a strenuous proposal that we shouldcome to Knightsbridge, and dine with him andthem. Objections, general dissuasions werenot wanting: The empty dark house, suchneedless trouble, and the like;—but he an-swered in his quizzing way, “Nature herselfprompts you, when a stranger comes, to givehim a dinner. There are servants yonder; it isall easy; come; both of you are bound to come.”And accordingly we went. I remember it asone of the saddest dinners; though Sterlingtalked copiously, and our friends, TheodoreParker one of them, were pleasant and dis-tinguished men. All was so haggard in one’smemory, and half consciously in one’s antici-pations; sad, as if one had been dining in awill, in the crypt of a mausoleum. Our con-versation was waste and logical, I forget quiteon what, not joyful and harmoniously effu-

CHAPTER VI 393

sive: Sterling’s silent sadness was painfullyapparent through the bright mask he hadbound himself to wear. Withal one could no-tice now, as on his last visit, a certain stern-ness of mood, unknown in better days; as ifstrange gorgon-faces of earnest Destiny weremore and more rising round him, and the timefor sport were past. He looked always hurried,abrupt, even beyond wont; and indeed was, Isuppose, overwhelmed in details of business.

One evening, I remember, he came downhither, designing to have a freer talk with us.We were all sad enough; and strove rather toavoid speaking of what might make us sad-der. Before any true talk had been got into,an interruption occurred, some unwelcome ar-rival; Sterling abruptly rose; gave me the sig-nal to rise; and we unpolitely walked away,adjourning to his Hotel, which I recollect wasin the Strand, near Hungerford Market; someancient comfortable quaint-looking place, offthe street; where, in a good warm queer oldroom, the remainder of our colloquy was dulyfinished. We spoke of Cromwell, among otherthings which I have now forgotten; on whichsubject Sterling was trenchant, positive, andin some essential points wrong,—as I said Iwould convince him some day. “Well, well!”answered he, with a shake of the head.—Weparted before long; bedtime for invalids beingcome: he escorted me down certain carpetedbackstairs, and would not be forbidden: wetook leave under the dim skies;—and alas, lit-tle as I then dreamt of it, this, so far as I cancalculate, must have been the last time I ever


saw him in the world. Softly as a commonevening, the last of the evenings had passedaway, and no other would come for me forever-more.

Through the summer he was occupied withfitting up his new residence, selecting gov-ernesses, servants; earnestly endeavoring toset his house in order, on the new footing ithad now assumed. Extensive improvementsin his garden and grounds, in which he tookdue interest to the last, were also going on.His Brother, and Mr. Maurice his brother-in-law,—especially Mrs. Maurice the kind sister,faithfully endeavoring to be as a mother toher poor little nieces,—were occasionally withhim. All hours available for labor on his lit-erary tasks, he employed, almost exclusivelyI believe, on Coeur-de-Lion; with what energy,the progress he had made in that Work, and inthe art of Poetic composition generally, amidso many sore impediments, best testifies. Iperceive, his life in general lay heavier on himthan it had done before; his mood of mindis grown more sombre;—indeed the very soli-tude of this Ventnor as a place, not to speakof other solitudes, must have been new anddepressing. But he admits no hypochondria,now or ever; occasionally, though rarely, evenflashes of a kind of wild gayety break through.He works steadily at his task, with all thestrength left him; endures the past as he may,and makes gallant front against the world. “Iam going on quietly here, rather than hap-pily,” writes he to his friend Newman; “some-times quite helpless, not from distinct illness,

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but from sad thoughts and a ghastly dreami-ness. The heart is gone out of my life. My chil-dren, however, are doing well; and the place ischeerful and mild.”

From Letters of this period I might selectsome melancholy enough; but will prefer togive the following one (nearly the last I cangive), as indicative of a less usual temper:—


“VENTNOR,“7TH DECEMBER, 1843.

“MY DEAR CARLYLE,—My Irish Newspaper was not

meant as a hint that I wanted aLetter. It contained an absurdlong Advertisement,—some projectfor regenerating human knowl-edge, &c. &c.; to which I prefixedmy private mark (a blot), thinkingthat you might be pleased to knowof a fellow-laborer somewhere inTipperary.

“Your Letter, like the Scripturaloil,—(they had no patent lampsthen, and used the best oil, 7s.per gallon),—has made my face toshine. There is but one person inthe world, I shall not tell you who,from whom a Letter would give meso much pleasure. It would be


nearly as good at Pekin, in the cen-tre of the most enlightened Man-darins; but here at Ventnor, wherethere are few Mandarins and noenlightenment,—fountains in thewilderness, even were they mirac-ulous, are nothing compared withyour handwriting. Yet it is sad thatyou should be so melancholy. I of-ten think that though Mercury wasthe pleasanter fellow, and proba-bly the happier, Saturn was thegreater god;—rather cannibal or so,but one excuses it in him, as insome other heroes one knows of.

“It is, as you say, your des-tiny to write about Cromwell: andyou will make a book of him, atwhich the ears of our grandchil-dren will tingle;—and as one mayhope that the ears of human naturewill be growing longer and longer,the tingling will be proportionatelygreater than we are accustomedto. Do what you can, I fear therewill be little gain from the Royal-ists. There is something very smallabout the biggest of them that Ihave ever fallen in with, unless youcount old Hobbes a Royalist.

“Curious to see that you havethem exactly preserved in theCountry Gentlemen of our day;while of the Puritans not a trace re-mains except in History. Squirism

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had already, in that day, becomethe caput mortuum that it is now;and has therefore, like other mum-mies, been able to last. Whatwas opposed to it was the Lifeof Puritanism,—then on the pointof disappearing; and it too hasleft its mummy at Exeter Hall onthe platform and elsewhere. Onemust go back to the Middle Agesto see Squirism as rampant andvivacious as Biblicism was in theSeventeenth Century: and I sup-pose our modern Country Gentle-men are about as near to what theold Knights and Barons were whofought the Crusades, as our mod-ern Evangelicals to the fellows whosought the Lord by the light of theirown pistol-shots.

“Those same Crusades are nowpleasant matter for me. You re-member, or perhaps you do not, athing I once sent you about Coeur-de-Lion. Long since, I settled tomake the Cantos you saw part ofa larger Book; and worked at it,last autumn and winter, till I had abad illness. I am now at work on itagain; and go full sail, like my hero.There are six Cantos done, roughly,besides what you saw. I havestruck out most of the absurdestcouplets, and given the whole ahigher though still sportive tone. It


is becoming a kind of Odyssey, witha laughing and Christian Achillesfor hero. One may manage to wrap,in that chivalrous brocade, manythings belonging to our Time, andcapable of interesting it. The thingis not bad; but will require greatlabor. Only it is labor that I thor-oughly like; and which keeps themaggots out of one’s brain, untiltheir time.

“I have never spoken to you,never been able to speak to you,of the change in my life,—almostas great, one fancies, as one’s owndeath. Even now, although it seemsas if I had so much to say, I can-not. If one could imagine—... Butit is no use; I cannot write wiselyon this matter. I suppose no hu-man being was ever devoted to an-other more entirely than she; andthat makes the change not less butmore bearable. It seems as if shecould not be gone quite; and thatindeed is my faith.

“Mr. James, your New-Englandfriend, was here only for a fewdays; I saw him several times, andliked him. They went, on the 24thof last month, back to London,—orso purposed,—because there is nopavement here for him to walk on.I want to know where he is, andthought I should be able to learn

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from you. I gave him a Note forMill, who perhaps may have seenhim. I think this is all at presentfrom,


Of his health, all this while, we had heard lit-tle definite; and understood that he was veryquiet and careful; in virtue of which grandimprovement we vaguely considered all oth-ers would follow. Once let him learn well tobe slow as the common run of men are, wouldnot all be safe and well? Nor through the win-ter, or the cold spring months, did bad newsreach us; perhaps less news of any kind thanhad been usual, which seemed to indicate astill and wholesome way of life and work. Nottill “April 4th, 1844,” did the new alarm oc-cur: again on some slight accident, the break-ing of a blood-vessel; again prostration underdangerous sickness, from which this time henever rose.

There had been so many sudden failingsand happy risings again in our poor Sterling’slate course of health, we had grown so ac-customed to mingle blame of his impetuositywith pity for his sad overthrows, we did notfor many weeks quite realize to ourselves thestern fact that here at length had the pecu-liar fall come upon us,—the last of all thesefalls! This brittle life, which had so often heldtogether and victoriously rallied under pres-sures and collisions, could not rally always,and must one time be shivered. It was not till


the summer came and no improvement; andnot even then without lingering glimmers ofhope against hope, that I fairly had to ownwhat had now come, what was now day byday sternly advancing with the steadiness ofTime.

From the first, the doctors spoke despon-dently; and Sterling himself felt well thatthere was no longer any chance of life. Hehad often said so, in his former illnesses, andthought so, yet always till now with some tacitgrain of counter-hope; he had never clearlyfelt so as now: Here is the end; the greatchange is now here!—Seeing how it was, then,he earnestly gathered all his strength to dothis last act of his tragedy, as he had strivento do the others, in a pious and manful man-ner. As I believe we can say he did; few menin any time more piously or manfully. Forabout six months he sat looking steadfastly,at all moments, into the eyes of Death; hetoo who had eyes to see Death and the Ter-rors and Eternities; and surely it was withperfect courage and piety, and valiant simplic-ity of heart, that he bore himself, and did andthought and suffered, in this trying predica-ment, more terrible than the usual death ofmen. All strength left to him he still employedin working: day by day the end came nearer,but day by day also some new portion of hisadjustments was completed, by some smallstage his task was nearer done. His domes-tic and other affairs, of all sorts, he settledto the last item. Of his own Papers he saveda few, giving brief pertinent directions about

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them; great quantities, among which a cer-tain Autobiography begun some years ago atClifton, he ruthlessly burnt, judging that thebest. To his friends he left messages, memori-als of books: I have a Gough’s Camden, andother relics, which came to me in that way,and are among my sacred possessions. Thevery Letters of his friends he sorted and re-turned; had each friend’s Letters made into apacket, sealed with black, and duly addressedfor delivery when the time should come.

At an early period of his illness, all visi-tors had of course been excluded, except hismost intimate ones: before long, so soon asthe end became apparent, he took leave evenof his Father, to avoid excitements and intol-erable emotions; and except his Brother andthe Maurices, who were generally about himcoming and going, none were admitted. Thislatter form of life, I think, continued for abovethree months. Men were still working abouthis grounds, of whom he took some charge;needful works, great and small, let them notpause on account of him. He still rose frombed; had still some portion of his day which hecould spend in his Library. Besides businessthere, he read a good deal,—earnest books;the Bible, most earnest of books, his chief fa-vorite. He still even wrote a good deal. Tohis eldest Boy, now Mr. Newman’s ward, whohad been removed to the Maurices’ since thebeginning of this illness, he addressed, ev-ery day or two, sometimes daily, for eight ornine weeks, a Letter, of general paternal ad-vice and exhortation; interspersing sparingly,


now and then, such notices of his own feelingsand condition as could be addressed to a boy.These Letters, I have lately read: they give,beyond any he has written, a noble image ofthe intrinsic Sterling;—the same face we hadlong known; but painted now as on the azureof Eternity, serene, victorious, divinely sad;the dusts and extraneous disfigurements im-printed on it by the world, now washed away.One little Excerpt, not the best, but the fittestfor its neighborhood here, will be welcome tothe reader:—

To Master Edward C. Sterling,London.

“HILLSIDE, VENTNOR,“29TH JUNE, 1844.

“MY DEAR BOY,—We have been going on here as

quietly as possible, with no eventthat I know of. There is nothingexcept books to occupy me. Butyou may suppose that my thoughtsoften move towards you, and thatI fancy what you may be doingin the great City,—the greatest onthe Earth,—where I spent so manyyears of my life. I first saw Lon-don when I was between eight andnine years old, and then lived inor near it for the whole of the nextten, and more there than anywhereelse for seven years longer. Since

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then I have hardly ever been a yearwithout seeing the place, and haveoften lived in it for a considerabletime. There I grew from childhoodto be a man. My little Brothersand Sisters, and since, my Mother,died and are buried there. ThereI first saw your Mamma, and wasthere married. It seems as if, insome strange way, London were apart of Me or I of London. I thinkof it often, not as full of noise anddust and confusion, but as some-thing silent, grand and everlasting.

“When I fancy how you arewalking in the same streets, andmoving along the same river, thatI used to watch so intently, as ifin a dream, when younger thanyou are,—I could gladly burst intotears, not of grief, but with a feel-ing that there is no name for. Ev-erything is so wonderful, great andholy, so sad and yet not bitter, sofull of Death and so bordering onHeaven. Can you understand any-thing of this? If you can, youwill begin to know what a seriousmatter our Life is; how unworthyand stupid it is to trifle it awaywithout heed; what a wretched, in-significant, worthless creature anyone comes to be, who does not assoon as possible bend his wholestrength, as in stringing a stiff bow,


to doing whatever task lies first be-fore him....

“We have a mist here to-dayfrom the sea. It reminds me ofthat which I used to see from myhouse in St, Vincent, rolling overthe great volcano and the moun-tains round it. I used to lookat it from our windows with yourMamma, and you a little baby inher arms.

“This Letter is not so well writ-ten as I could wish, but I hope youwill be able to read it.

“Your affectionate Papa,“JOHN STERLING.”

These Letters go from June 9th to August2d, at which latter date vacation-time arrived,and the Boy returned to him. The Letters arepreserved; and surely well worth preserving.

In this manner he wore the slow doomedmonths away. Day after day his little pe-riod of Library went on waning, shrinking intoless and less; but I think it never altogetherended till the general end came.—For courage,for active audacity we had all known Ster-ling; but such a fund of mild stoicism, of de-vout patience and heroic composure, we didnot hitherto know in him. His sufferings, hissorrows, all his unutterabilities in this slowagony, he held right manfully down; marchedloyally, as at the bidding of the Eternal, intothe dread Kingdoms, and no voice of weak-ness was heard from him. Poor noble Sterling,

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he had struggled so high and gained so littlehere! But this also he did gain, to be a braveman; and it was much.

Summer passed into Autumn: Sterling’searthly businesses, to the last detail of them,were now all as good as done: his strength toowas wearing to its end, his daily turn in theLibrary shrunk now to a span. He had to holdhimself as if in readiness for the great voyageat any moment. One other Letter I must give;not quite the last message I had from Ster-ling, but the last that can be inserted here: abrief Letter, fit to be forever memorable to thereceiver of it:—


“HILLSIDE, VENTNOR,“10TH AUGUST, 1844.

MY DEAR CARLYLE,—For the first time for many

months it seems possible to sendyou a few words; merely, however,for Remembrance and Farewell.On higher matters there is noth-ing to say. I tread the commonroad into the great darkness, with-out any thought of fear, and withvery much of hope. Certainty in-deed I have none. With regard toYou and Me I cannot begin to write;having nothing for it but to keepshut the lid of those secrets with


all the iron weights that are in mypower. Towards me it is still moretrue than towards England that noman has been and done like you.Heaven bless you! If I can lend ahand when there, that will not bewanting. It is all very strange, butnot one hundredth part so sad as itseems to the standers-by.

“Your Wife knows my mind to-wards her, and will believe it with-out asseverations.

“Yours to the last,“JOHN STERLING.”

It was a bright Sunday morning when this let-ter came to me: if in the great Cathedral ofImmensity I did no worship that day, the faultsurely was my own. Sterling affectionatelyrefused to see me; which also was kind andwise. And four days before his death, thereare some stanzas of verse for me, written asif in star-fire and immortal tears; which areamong my sacred possessions, to be kept formyself alone.

His business with the world was done; theone business now to await silently what maylie in other grander worlds. “God is great,” hewas wont to say: “God is great.” The Mauriceswere now constantly near him; Mrs. Mau-rice assiduously watching over him. On theevening of Wednesday the 18th of September,his Brother, as he did every two or three days,came down; found him in the old temper, weakin strength but not very sensibly weaker; they

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talked calmly together for an hour; then An-thony left his bedside, and retired for thenight, not expecting any change. But sud-denly, about eleven o’clock, there came a sum-mons and alarm: hurrying to his Brother’sroom, he found his Brother dying; and in ashort while more the faint last struggle wasended, and all those struggles and strenu-ous often-foiled endeavors of eight-and-thirtyyears lay hushed in death.

CHAPTER VII.CONCLUSION.

Sterling was of rather slim but well-bonedwiry figure, perhaps an inch or two from sixfeet in height; of blonde complexion, withoutcolor, yet not pale or sickly; dark-blonde hair,copious enough, which he usually wore short.The general aspect of him indicated freedom,perfect spontaneity, with a certain carelessnatural grace. In his apparel, you couldnotice, he affected dim colors, easy shapes;cleanly always, yet even in this not fastidi-ous or conspicuous: he sat or stood, oftenest,in loose sloping postures; walked with longstrides, body carelessly bent, head flung ea-gerly forward, right hand perhaps grasping acane, and rather by the middle to swing it,than by the end to use it otherwise. An atti-tude of frank, cheerful impetuosity, of hopefulspeed and alacrity; which indeed his physiog-nomy, on all sides of it, offered as the chiefexpression. Alacrity, velocity, joyous ardor,dwelt in the eyes too, which were of brown-ish gray, full of bright kindly life, rapid andfrank rather than deep or strong. A smile, half

409


of kindly impatience, half of real mirth, oftensat on his face. The head was long; high overthe vertex; in the brow, of fair breadth, but nothigh for such a man.

In the voice, which was of good tenorsort, rapid and strikingly distinct, powerfultoo, and except in some of the higher notesharmonious, there was a clear-ringing metal-lic tone,—which I often thought was won-derfully physiognomic. A certain splendor,beautiful, but not the deepest or the soft-est, which I could call a splendor as of bur-nished metal,—fiery valor of heart, swift de-cisive insight and utterance, then a turn forbrilliant elegance, also for ostentation, rash-ness, &c. &c.,—in short, a flash as of clear-glancing sharp-cutting steel, lay in the wholenature of the man, in his heart and in his in-tellect, marking alike the excellence and thelimits of them both. His laugh, which on lightoccasions was ready and frequent, had in itno great depth of gayety, or sense for the lu-dicrous in men or things; you might call itrather a good smile become vocal than a deepreal laugh: with his whole man I never sawhim laugh. A clear sense of the humorous hehad, as of most other things; but in himselflittle or no true humor;—nor did he attemptthat side of things. To call him deficient insympathy would seem strange, him whose ra-diances and resonances went thrilling over allthe world, and kept him in brotherly contactwith all: but I may say his sympathies dweltrather with the high and sublime than withthe low or ludicrous; and were, in any field,

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rather light, wide and lively, than deep, abid-ing or great.

There is no Portrait of him which tolera-bly resembles. The miniature Medallion, ofwhich Mr. Hare has given an Engraving, of-fers us, with no great truth in physical de-tails, one, and not the best, superficial ex-pression of his face, as if that with vacuityhad been what the face contained; and eventhat Mr. Hare’s engraver has disfigured intothe nearly or the utterly irrecognizable. TwoPencil-sketches, which no artist could approveof, hasty sketches done in some social hour,one by his friend Spedding, one by Banimthe Novelist, whom he slightly knew and hadbeen kind to, tell a much truer story so far asthey go: of these his Brother has engravings;but these also I must suppress as inadequatefor strangers.

Nor in the way of Spiritual Portraituredoes there, after so much writing and excerpt-ing, anything of importance remain for me tosay. John Sterling and his Life in this worldwere—such as has been already said. In pu-rity of character, in the so-called moralities, inall manner of proprieties of conduct, so as tea-tables and other human tribunals rule them,he might be defined as perfect, according tothe world’s pattern: in these outward tangi-ble respects the world’s criticism of him musthave been praise and that only. An honorableman, and good citizen; discharging, with un-blamable correctness, all functions and dutieslaid on him by the customs (mores) of the so-ciety he lived in,—with correctness and some-


thing more. In all these particulars, a manperfectly moral, or of approved virtue accord-ing to the rules.

Nay in the far more essential tacit virtues,which are not marked on stone tables, or soapt to be insisted on by human creatures overtea or elsewhere,—in clear and perfect fidelityto Truth wherever found, in childlike andsoldier-like, pious and valiant loyalty to theHighest, and what of good and evil that mightsend him,—he excelled among good men. Thejoys and the sorrows of his lot he took withtrue simplicity and acquiescence. Like a trueson, not like a miserable mutinous rebel, hecomported himself in this Universe. Extrem-ity of distress—and surely his fervid temperhad enough of contradiction in this world—could not tempt him into impatience at anytime. By no chance did you ever hear fromhim a whisper of those mean repinings, miser-able arraignings and questionings of the Eter-nal Power, such as weak souls even well dis-posed will sometimes give way to in the pres-sure of their despair; to the like of this henever yielded, or showed the least tendencyto yield;—which surely was well on his part.For the Eternal Power, I still remark, will notanswer the like of this, but silently and ter-ribly accounts it impious, blasphemous anddamnable, and now as heretofore will visit itas such. Not a rebel but a son, I said; will-ing to suffer when Heaven said, Thou shalt;—and withal, what is perhaps rarer in such acombination, willing to rejoice also, and rightcheerily taking the good that was sent, when-

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soever or in whatever form it came.A pious soul we may justly call him; de-

voutly submissive to the will of the Supremein all things: the highest and sole essentialform which Religion can assume in man, andwithout which all forms of religion are a mock-ery and a delusion in man. Doubtless, inso clear and filial a heart there must havedwelt the perennial feeling of silent worship;which silent feeling, as we have seen, he waseager enough to express by all good ways ofutterance; zealously adopting such appointedforms and creeds as the dignitaries of theWorld had fixed upon and solemnly namedrecommendable; prostrating his heart in suchChurch, by such accredited rituals and seem-ingly fit or half-fit methods, as his poor timeand country had to offer him,—not rejectingthe said methods till they stood convicted ofpalpable unfitness and then doing it right gen-tly withal, rather letting them drop as pitiablydead for him, than angrily hurling them out ofdoors as needing to be killed. By few English-men of his epoch had the thing called Churchof England been more loyally appealed to as aspiritual mother.

And yet, as I said before, it may be ques-tioned whether piety, what we call devotionor worship, was the principle deepest in him.In spite of his Coleridge discipleship, and hisonce headlong operations following thereon, Iused to judge that his piety was prompt andpure rather than great or intense; that, on thewhole, religious devotion was not the deepestelement of him. His reverence was ardent and


just, ever ready for the thing or man that de-served revering, or seemed to deserve it: buthe was of too joyful, light and hoping a natureto go to the depths of that feeling, much moreto dwell perennially in it. He had no fear inhis composition; terror and awe did not blendwith his respect of anything. In no scene orepoch could he have been a Church Saint, afanatic enthusiast, or have worn out his lifein passive martyrdom, sitting patient in hisgrim coal-mine, looking at the “three ells” ofHeaven high overhead there. In sorrow hewould not dwell; all sorrow he swiftly sub-dued, and shook away from him. How couldyou have made an Indian Fakir of the GreekApollo, “whose bright eye lends brightness,and never yet saw a shadow”?—I should say,not religious reverence, rather artistic admi-ration was the essential character of him: afact connected with all other facts in the phys-iognomy of his life and self, and giving a tragicenough character to much of the history hehad among us.

Poor Sterling, he was by nature appointedfor a Poet, then,—a Poet after his sort, or rec-ognizer and delineator of the Beautiful; andnot for a Priest at all? Striving towards thesunny heights, out of such a level and throughsuch an element as ours in these days is,he had strange aberrations appointed him,and painful wanderings amid the miserablegaslights, bog-fires, dancing meteors and pu-trid phosphorescences which form the guid-ance of a young human soul at present! Nottill after trying all manner of sublimely il-

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luminated places, and finding that the ba-sis of them was putridity, artificial gas andquaking bog, did he, when his strength wasall done, discover his true sacred hill, andpassionately climb thither while life was fastebbing!—A tragic history, as all histories are;yet a gallant, brave and noble one, as notmany are. It is what, to a radiant son of theMuses, and bright messenger of the harmo-nious Wisdoms, this poor world—if he himselfhave not strength enough, and inertia enough,and amid his harmonious eloquences silenceenough—has provided at present. Many ahigh-striving, too hasty soul, seeking guid-ance towards eternal excellence from the of-ficial Black-artists, and successful Professorsof political, ecclesiastical, philosophical, com-mercial, general and particular Legerdemain,will recognize his own history in this image ofa fellow-pilgrim’s.

Over-haste was Sterling’s continual fault;over-haste, and want of the due strength,—alas, mere want of the due inertia chiefly;which is so common a gift for most part; andproves so inexorably needful withal! But hewas good and generous and true; joyful wherethere was joy, patient and silent where en-durance was required of him; shook innu-merable sorrows, and thick-crowding forms ofpain, gallantly away from him; fared franklyforward, and with scrupulous care to treadon no one’s toes. True, above all, onemay call him; a man of perfect veracity inthought, word and deed. Integrity towardsall men,—nay integrity had ripened with him


into chivalrous generosity; there was no guileor baseness anywhere found in him. Trans-parent as crystal; he could not hide anythingsinister, if such there had been to hide. Amore perfectly transparent soul I have neverknown. It was beautiful, to read all thoseinterior movements; the little shades of af-fectations, ostentations; transient spurts ofanger, which never grew to the length of set-tled spleen: all so naive, so childlike, the veryfaults grew beautiful to you.

And so he played his part among us, andhas now ended it: in this first half of the Nine-teenth Century, such was the shape of humandestinies the world and he made out betweenthem. He sleeps now, in the little burying-ground of Bonchurch; bright, ever-young inthe memory of others that must grow old; andwas honorably released from his toils beforethe hottest of the day.

All that remains, in palpable shape, ofJohn Sterling’s activities in this world arethose Two poor Volumes; scattered fragmentsgathered from the general waste of forgottenephemera by the piety of a friend: an incon-siderable memorial; not pretending to haveachieved greatness; only disclosing, mourn-fully, to the more observant, that a promiseof greatness was there. Like other such lives,like all lives, this is a tragedy; high hopes, no-ble efforts; under thickening difficulties andimpediments, ever-new nobleness of valianteffort;—and the result death, with conquestsby no means corresponding. A life which can-not challenge the world’s attention; yet which

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does modestly solicit it, and perhaps on clearstudy will be found to reward it.

On good evidence let the world understandthat here was a remarkable soul born intoit; who, more than others, sensible to its in-fluences, took intensely into him such tintand shape of feature as the world had to of-fer there and then; fashioning himself eagerlyby whatsoever of noble presented itself; par-ticipating ardently in the world’s battle, andsuffering deeply in its bewilderments;—whoseLife-pilgrimage accordingly is an emblem, un-usually significant, of the world’s own duringthose years of his. A man of infinite susceptiv-ity; who caught everywhere, more than oth-ers, the color of the element he lived in, theinfection of all that was or appeared honor-able, beautiful and manful in the tendenciesof his Time;—whose history therefore is, be-yond others, emblematic of that of his Time.

In Sterling’s Writings and Actions, werethey capable of being well read, we considerthat there is for all true hearts, and espe-cially for young noble seekers, and strivers to-wards what is highest, a mirror in which someshadow of themselves and of their immeasur-ably complex arena will profitably present it-self. Here also is one encompassed and strug-gling even as they now are. This man alsohad said to himself, not in mere Catechism-words, but with all his instincts, and the ques-tion thrilled in every nerve of him, and pulsedin every drop of his blood: “What is the chiefend of man? Behold, I too would live and workas beseems a denizen of this Universe, a child


of the Highest God. By what means is a no-ble life still possible for me here? Ye Heav-ens and thou Earth, oh, how?”—The history ofthis long-continued prayer and endeavor, last-ing in various figures for near forty years, maynow and for some time coming have some-thing to say to men!

Nay, what of men or of the world? Here,visible to myself, for some while, was a bril-liant human presence, distinguishable, honor-able and lovable amid the dim common pop-ulations; among the million little beautiful,once more a beautiful human soul: whom I,among others, recognized and lovingly walkedwith, while the years and the hours were. Sit-ting now by his tomb in thoughtful mood, thenew times bring a new duty for me. “Whywrite the Life of Sterling?” I imagine I had acommission higher than the world’s, the dic-tate of Nature herself, to do what is now done.Sic prosit.

the life of john sterling...some portion of his work which the world had already got hold of, and...

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