LIFE OF JOHN STERLING

By Thomas Carlyle

Transcriber's Note: Italics in the text are indicated by the use of anunderscore as delimiter, _thusly_. All footnotes have been collected atthe end of the text, and numbered sequentially in brackets, [thusly]. One illustration has been omitted. The "pound" symbol has been replacedby the word "pounds". Otherwise, all spelling, punctuation, etc. , havebeen left as in the printed text. 

Taken from volume 2 of Carlyle's Complete Works, which additionallycontains the Latter-Day Pamphlets, to be provided as a separate etext. 

PART I. 

CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY. 

Near seven years ago, a short while before his death in 1844, JohnSterling committed the care of his literary Character and printedWritings to two friends, Archdeacon Hare and myself. His estimate of thebequest was far from overweening; to few men could the small sum-totalof his activities in this world seem more inconsiderable than, in thoselast solemn days, it did to him. He had burnt much; found much unworthy;looking steadfastly into the silent continents of Death and Eternity, abrave man's judgments about his own sorry work in the field of Time arenot apt to be too lenient. But, in fine, here was some portion of hiswork which the world had already got hold of, and which he could notburn. This too, since it was not to be abolished and annihilated, butmust still for some time live and act, he wished to be wisely settled, as the rest had been. And so it was left in charge to us, the survivors, to do for it what we judged fittest, if indeed doing nothing did notseem the fittest to us. This message, communicated after his decease, was naturally a sacred one to Mr. Hare and me. 

After some consultation on it, and survey of the difficulties anddelicate considerations involved in it, Archdeacon Hare and I agreedthat the whole task, of selecting what Writings were to be reprinted, and of drawing up a Biography to introduce them, should be left to himalone; and done without interference of mine:--as accordingly it was, [1]in a manner surely far superior to the common, in every good quality ofediting; and visibly everywhere bearing testimony to the friendliness, the piety, perspicacity and other gifts and virtues of that eminent andamiable man. 

In one respect, however, if in one only, the arrangement had beenunfortunate. Archdeacon Hare, both by natural tendency and by hisposition as a Churchman, had been led, in editing a Work not free fromecclesiastical heresies, and especially in writing a Life very full ofsuch, to dwell with preponderating emphasis on that part of his subject;by no means extenuating the fact, nor yet passing lightly over it (whicha layman could have done) as needing no extenuation; but carefullysearching into it, with the view of excusing and explaining it; dwellingon it, presenting all the documents of it, and as it were spreading itover the whole field of his delineation; as if religious heterodoxy hadbeen the grand fact of Sterling's life, which even to the Archdeacon'smind it could by no means seem to be. _Hinc illae lachrymae_. For theReligious Newspapers, and Periodical Heresy-hunters, getting very livelyin those years, were prompt to seize the cue; and have prosecutedand perhaps still prosecute it, in their sad way, to all lengths andbreadths. John Sterling's character and writings, which had littlebusiness to be spoken of in any Church-court, have hereby been carriedthither as if for an exclusive trial; and the mournfulest set ofpleadings, out of which nothing but a misjudgment _can_ be formed, prevail there ever since. The noble Sterling, a radiant child of theempyrean, clad in bright auroral hues in the memory of all that knewhim, --what is he doing here in inquisitorial _sanbenito_, with nothingbut ghastly spectralities prowling round him, and inarticulatelyscreeching and gibbering what they call their judgment on him!

"The sin of Hare's Book, " says one of my Correspondents in those years, "is easily defined, and not very condemnable, but it is neverthelessruinous to his task as Biographer. He takes up Sterling as a clergymanmerely. Sterling, I find, was a curate for exactly eight months; duringeight months and no more had he any special relation to the Church. Buthe was a man, and had relation to the Universe, for eight-and-thirtyyears: and it is in this latter character, to which all the others werebut features and transitory hues, that we wish to know him. His battlewith hereditary Church formulas was severe; but it was by no means hisone battle with things inherited, nor indeed his chief battle;neither, according to my observation of what it was, is it successfullydelineated or summed up in this Book. The truth is, nobody that hadknown Sterling would recognize a feature of him here; you would neverdream that this Book treated of _him_ at all. A pale sickly shadow intorn surplice is presented to us here; weltering bewildered amidheaps of what you call 'Hebrew Old-clothes;' wrestling, with impotentimpetuosity, to free itself from the baleful imbroglio, as if thathad been its one function in life: who in this miserable figure wouldrecognize the brilliant, beautiful and cheerful John Sterling, withhis ever-flowing wealth of ideas, fancies, imaginations; with his frankaffections, inexhaustible hopes, audacities, activities, and generalradiant vivacity of heart and intelligence, which made the presence ofhim an illumination and inspiration wherever he went? It is too bad. Let a man be honestly forgotten when his life ends; but let him not bemisremembered in this way. To be hung up as an ecclesiastical scarecrow, as a target for heterodox and orthodox to practice archery upon, is nofate that can be due to the memory of Sterling. It was not as a ghastlyphantasm, choked in Thirty-nine-article controversies, or miserableSemitic, Anti-Semitic street-riots, --in scepticisms, agonizedself-seekings, that this man appeared in life; nor as such, if the worldstill wishes to look at him should you suffer the world's memory of himnow to be. Once for all, it is unjust; emphatically untrue as an imageof John Sterling: perhaps to few men that lived along with him couldsuch an interpretation of their existence be more inapplicable. "

Whatever truth there might be in these rather passionaterepresentations, and to myself there wanted not a painful feeling oftheir truth, it by no means appeared what help or remedy any friend ofSterling's, and especially one so related to the matter as myself, couldattempt in the interim. Perhaps endure in patience till the dustlaid itself again, as all dust does if you leave it well alone? Muchobscuration would thus of its own accord fall away; and, in Mr. Hare'snarrative itself, apart from his commentary, many features of Sterling'strue character would become decipherable to such as sought them. Censure, blame of this Work of Mr. Hare's was naturally far from mythoughts. A work which distinguishes itself by human piety and candidintelligence; which, in all details, is careful, lucid, exact; and whichoffers, as we say, to the observant reader that will interpret facts, many traits of Sterling besides his heterodoxy. Censure of it, from meespecially, is not the thing due; from me a far other thing is due!--

On the whole, my private thought was: First, How happy it comparativelyis, for a man of any earnestness of life, to have no Biography writtenof him; but to return silently, with his small, sorely foiled bit ofwork, to the Supreme Silences, who alone can judge of it or him; and notto trouble the reviewers, and greater or lesser public, with attemptingto judge it! The idea of "fame, " as they call it, posthumous orother, does not inspire one with much ecstasy in these points ofview. --Secondly, That Sterling's performance and real or seemingimportance in this world was actually not of a kind to demand an expressBiography, even according to the world's usages. His character was notsupremely original; neither was his fate in the world wonderful. Whathe did was inconsiderable enough; and as to what it lay in him to havedone, this was but a problem, now beyond possibility of settlement. Whyhad a Biography been inflicted on this man; why had not No-biography, and the privilege of all the weary, been his lot?--Thirdly, That suchlot, however, could now no longer be my good Sterling's; a tumult havingrisen around his name, enough to impress some pretended likeness of him(about as like as the Guy-Fauxes are, on Gunpowder-Day) upon the mindsof many men: so that he could not be forgotten, and could only bemisremembered, as matters now stood. 

Whereupon, as practical conclusion to the whole, arose by degrees thisfinal thought, That, at some calmer season, when the theological dusthad well fallen, and both the matter itself, and my feelings on it, werein a suitabler condition, I ought to give my testimony about this friendwhom I had known so well, and record clearly what my knowledge of himwas. This has ever since seemed a kind of duty I had to do in the worldbefore leaving it. 

And so, having on my hands some leisure at this time, and being bound toit by evident considerations, one of which ought to be especiallysacred to me, I decide to fling down on paper some outline of whatmy recollections and reflections contain in reference to this mostfriendly, bright and beautiful human soul; who walked with me for aseason in this world, and remains to me very memorable while I continuein it. Gradually, if facts simple enough in themselves can be narratedas they came to pass, it will be seen what kind of man this was; to whatextent condemnable for imaginary heresy and other crimes, to whatextent laudable and lovable for noble manful _orthodoxy_ and othervirtues;--and whether the lesson his life had to teach us is not muchthe reverse of what the Religious Newspapers hitherto educe from it. 

Certainly it was not as a "sceptic" that you could define him, whateverhis definition might be. Belief, not doubt, attended him at all pointsof his progress; rather a tendency to too hasty and headlong belief. Of all men he was the least prone to what you could call scepticism:diseased self-listenings, self-questionings, impotently painfuldubitations, all this fatal nosology of spiritual maladies, so rifein our day, was eminently foreign to him. Quite on the other side laySterling's faults, such as they were. In fact, you could observe, inspite of his sleepless intellectual vivacity, he was not properly athinker at all; his faculties were of the active, not of the passive orcontemplative sort. A brilliant _improvisatore_; rapid in thought, inword and in act; everywhere the promptest and least hesitating of men. I likened him often, in my banterings, to sheet-lightning; andreproachfully prayed that he would concentrate himself into a bolt, andrive the mountain-barriers for us, instead of merely playing on them andirradiating them. 

True, he had his "religion" to seek, and painfully shape together forhimself, out of the abysses of conflicting disbelief and sham-belief andbedlam delusion, now filling the world, as all men of reflection have;and in this respect too, --more especially as his lot in the battleappointed for us all was, if you can understand it, victory and notdefeat, --he is an expressive emblem of his time, and an instruction andpossession to his contemporaries. For, I say, it is by no means as avanquished _doubter_ that he figures in the memory of those who knewhim; but rather as a victorious _believer_, and under great difficultiesa victorious doer. An example to us all, not of lamed misery, helplessspiritual bewilderment and sprawling despair, or any kind of _drownage_in the foul welter of our so-called religious or other controversies andconfusions; but of a swift and valiant vanquisher of all these; a nobleasserter of himself, as worker and speaker, in spite of all these. Continually, so far as he went, he was a teacher, by act and word, ofhope, clearness, activity, veracity, and human courage and nobleness:the preacher of a good gospel to all men, not of a bad to any man. Theman, whether in priest's cassock or other costume of men, who is theenemy or hater of John Sterling, may assure himself that he does not yetknow him, --that miserable differences of mere costume and dialect stilldivide him, whatsoever is worthy, catholic and perennial in him, from abrother soul who, more than most in his day, was his brother and not hisadversary in regard to all that. 

Nor shall the irremediable drawback that Sterling was not current in theNewspapers, that he achieved neither what the world calls greatness norwhat intrinsically is such, altogether discourage me. What his naturalsize, and natural and accidental limits were, will gradually appear, ifmy sketching be successful. And I have remarked that a true delineationof the smallest man, and his scene of pilgrimage through life, iscapable of interesting the greatest man; that all men are to anunspeakable degree brothers, each man's life a strange emblem of everyman's; and that Human Portraits, faithfully drawn, are of all picturesthe welcomest on human walls. Monitions and moralities enough may liein this small Work, if honestly written and honestly read;--and, inparticular, if any image of John Sterling and his Pilgrimage throughour poor Nineteenth Century be one day wanted by the world, and they canfind some shadow of a true image here, my swift scribbling (which shallbe very swift and immediate) may prove useful by and by. 

CHAPTER II. BIRTH AND PARENTAGE. 

John Sterling was born at Kaimes Castle, a kind of dilapidated baronialresidence to which a small farm was then attached, rented by his Father, in the Isle of Bute, --on the 20th July, 1806. Both his parents wereIrish by birth, Scotch by extraction; and became, as he himself did, essentially English by long residence and habit. Of John himselfScotland has little or nothing to claim except the birth and genealogy, for he left it almost before the years of memory; and in his mature daysregarded it, if with a little more recognition and intelligence, yetwithout more participation in any of its accents outward or inward, than others natives of Middlesex or Surrey, where the scene of his chiefeducation lay. 

The climate of Bute is rainy, soft of temperature; with skies of unusualdepth and brilliancy, while the weather is fair. In that soft rainyclimate, on that wild-wooded rocky coast, with its gnarled mountains andgreen silent valleys, with its seething rain-storms and many-soundingseas, was young Sterling ushered into his first schooling in this world. I remember one little anecdote his Father told me of those firstyears: One of the cows had calved; young John, still in petticoats, waspermitted to go, holding by his father's hand, and look at the newlyarrived calf; a mystery which he surveyed with open intent eyes, and thesilent exercise of all the scientific faculties he had;--very strangemystery indeed, this new arrival, and fresh denizen of our Universe:"Wull't eat a-body?" said John in his first practical Scotch, inquiringinto the tendencies this mystery might have to fall upon a little fellowand consume him as provision: "Will it eat one, Father?"--Poor littleopen-eyed John: the family long bantered him with this anecdote; andwe, in far other years, laughed heartily on hearing it. --Simple peasantlaborers, ploughers, house-servants, occasional fisher-people too; andthe sight of ships, and crops, and Nature's doings where Art has littlemeddled with her: this was the kind of schooling our young friend had, first of all; on this bench of the grand world-school did he sit, forthe first four years of his life. 

Edward Sterling his Father, a man who subsequently came to considerablenotice in the world, was originally of Waterford in Munster; son of theEpiscopalian Clergyman there; and chief representative of a family ofsome standing in those parts. Family founded, it appears, by aColonel Robert Sterling, called also Sir Robert Sterling; a ScottishGustavus-Adolphus soldier, whom the breaking out of the Civil War hadrecalled from his German campaignings, and had before long, though nottill after some waverings on his part, attached firmly to the Dukeof Ormond and to the King's Party in that quarrel. A little bit ofgenealogy, since it lies ready to my hand, gathered long ago out ofwider studies, and pleasantly connects things individual and presentwith the dim universal crowd of things past, --may as well be insertedhere as thrown away. 

This Colonel Robert designates himself Sterling "of Glorat;" I believe, a younger branch of the well-known Stirlings of Keir in Stirlingshire. It appears he prospered in his soldiering and other business, inthose bad Ormond times; being a man of energy, ardor andintelligence, --probably prompt enough both with his word and with hisstroke. There survives yet, in the Commons Journals, [2] dim notice ofhis controversies and adventures; especially of one controversy he hadgot into with certain victorious Parliamentary official parties, while his own party lay vanquished, during what was called the OrmondCessation, or Temporary Peace made by Ormond with the Parliament in1646:--in which controversy Colonel Robert, after repeated applications, journeyings to London, attendances upon committees, and such like, findshimself worsted, declared to be in the wrong; and so vanishes from theCommons Journals. 

What became of him when Cromwell got to Ireland, and to Munster, Ihave not heard: his knighthood, dating from the very year of Cromwell'sInvasion (1649), indicates a man expected to do his best on theoccasion:--as in all probability he did; had not Tredah Storm provedruinous, and the neck of this Irish War been broken at once. Doubtlessthe Colonel Sir Robert followed or attended his Duke of Ormond intoforeign parts, and gave up his management of Munster, while it was yettime: for after the Restoration we find him again, safe, and as wasnatural, flourishing with new splendor; gifted, recompensed withlands;--settled, in short, on fair revenues in those Munster regions. He appears to have had no children; but to have left his property toWilliam, a younger brother who had followed him into Ireland. From thisWilliam descends the family which, in the years we treat of, had EdwardSterling, Father of our John, for its representative. And now enough ofgenealogy. 

Of Edward Sterling, Captain Edward Sterling as his title was, who in thelatter period of his life became well known in London political society, whom indeed all England, with a curious mixture of mockery and respectand even fear, knew well as "the Thunderer of the Times Newspaper, "there were much to be said, did the present task and its limits permit. As perhaps it might, on certain terms? What is indispensable let us notomit to say. The history of a man's childhood is the description of hisparents and environment: this is his inarticulate but highly importanthistory, in those first times, while of articulate he has yet none. 

Edward Sterling had now just entered on his thirty-fourth year; and wasalready a man experienced in fortunes and changes. A native of Waterfordin Munster, as already mentioned; born in the "Deanery House ofWaterford, 27th February, 1773, " say the registers. For his Father, aswe learn, resided in the Deanery House, though he was not himself Dean, but only "Curate of the Cathedral" (whatever that may mean); he waswithal rector of two other livings, and the Dean's friend, --friendindeed of the Dean's kinsmen the Beresfords generally; whose grand houseof Curraghmore, near by Waterford, was a familiar haunt of his and hischildren's. This reverend gentleman, along with his three livings andhigh acquaintanceships, had inherited political connections;--inheritedespecially a Government Pension, with survivorship for still one lifebeyond his own; his father having been Clerk of the Irish House ofCommons at the time of the Union, of which office the lost salary wascompensated in this way. The Pension was of two hundred pounds; and onlyexpired with the life of Edward, John's Father, in 1847. There were, and still are, daughters of the family; but Edward was the onlyson;--descended, too, from the Scottish hero Wallace, as the oldgentleman would sometimes admonish him; his own wife, Edward's mother, being of that name, and boasting herself, as most Scotch Wallaces do, tohave that blood in her veins. 

This Edward had picked up, at Waterford, and among the young Beresfordsof Curraghmore and elsewhere, a thoroughly Irish form of character: fireand fervor, vitality of all kinds, in genial abundance; but in a muchmore loquacious, ostentatious, much _louder_ style than is freelypatronized on this side of the Channel. Of Irish accent in speech he hadentirely divested himself, so as not to be traced by any vestige in thatrespect; but his Irish accent of character, in all manner of other moreimportant respects, was very recognizable. An impetuous man, fullof real energy, and immensely conscious of the same; who transactedeverything not with the minimum of fuss and noise, but with the maximum:a very Captain Whirlwind, as one was tempted to call him. 

In youth, he had studied at Trinity College, Dublin; visited the Innsof Court here, and trained himself for the Irish Bar. To the Bar hehad been duly called, and was waiting for the results, --when, in histwenty-fifth year, the Irish Rebellion broke out; whereupon the IrishBarristers decided to raise a corps of loyal Volunteers, and a completechange introduced itself into Edward Sterling's way of life. For, naturally, he had joined the array of Volunteers;--fought, I haveheard, "in three actions with the rebels" (Vinegar Hill, for one); anddoubtless fought well: but in the mess-rooms, among the young militaryand civil officials, with all of whom he was a favorite, he had acquireda taste for soldier life, and perhaps high hopes of succeeding in it: atall events, having a commission in the Lancashire Militia offeredhim, he accepted that; altogether quitted the Bar, and became CaptainSterling thenceforth. From the Militia, it appears, he had volunteeredwith his Company into the Line; and, under some disappointments, andofficial delays of expected promotion, was continuing to serve asCaptain there, "Captain of the Eighth Battalion of Reserve, " say theMilitary Almanacs of 1803, --in which year the quarters happened to beDerry, where new events awaited him. At a ball in Derry he met with MissHester Coningham, the queen of the scene, and of the fair world in Derryat that time. The acquaintance, in spite of some Opposition, grew withvigor, and rapidly ripened: and "at Fehan Church, Diocese of Derry, "where the Bride's father had a country-house, "on Thursday 5th April, 1804, Hester Coningham, only daughter of John Coningham, Esquire, Merchant in Derry, and of Elizabeth Campbell his wife, " was wedded toCaptain Sterling; she happiest to him happiest, --as by Nature's kind lawit is arranged. 

Mrs. Sterling, even in her later days, had still traces of the oldbeauty: then and always she was a woman of delicate, pious, affectionatecharacter; exemplary as a wife, a mother and a friend. A refined femalenature; something tremulous in it, timid, and with a certain ruralfreshness still unweakened by long converse with the world. The tallslim figure, always of a kind of quaker neatness; the innocent anxiousface, anxious bright hazel eyes; the timid, yet gracefully cordialways, the natural intelligence, instinctive sense and worth, were verycharacteristic. Her voice too; with its something of soft querulousness, easily adapting itself to a light thin-flowing style of mirth onoccasion, was characteristic: she had retained her Ulster intonations, and was withal somewhat copious in speech. A fine tremulously sensitivenature, strong chiefly on the side of the affections, and the gracefulinsights and activities that depend on these:--truly a beautiful, much-suffering, much-loving house-mother. From her chiefly, as one coulddiscern, John Sterling had derived the delicate _aroma_ of his nature, its piety, clearness, sincerity; as from his Father, the ready practicalgifts, the impetuosities and the audacities, were also (though instrange new form) visibly inherited. A man was lucky to have such aMother; to have such Parents as both his were. 

Meanwhile the new Wife appears to have had, for the present, nomarriage-portion; neither was Edward Sterling rich, --according tohis own ideas and aims, far from it. Of course he soon found thatthe fluctuating barrack-life, especially with no outlooks of speedypromotion, was little suited to his new circumstances: but how changeit? His father was now dead; from whom he had inherited the SpeakerPension of two hundred pounds; but of available probably little ornothing more. The rents of the small family estate, I suppose, and otherproperty, had gone to portion sisters. Two hundred pounds, and the payof a marching captain: within the limits of that revenue all plans ofhis had to restrict themselves at present. 

He continued for some time longer in the Army; his wife undivided fromhim by the hardships, of that way of life. Their first son Anthony(Captain Anthony Sterling, the only child who now survives) was bornto them in this position, while lying at Dundalk, in January, 1805. Twomonths later, some eleven months after their marriage, the regiment wasbroken; and Captain Sterling, declining to serve elsewhere on theterms offered, and willingly accepting such decision of his doubts, wasreduced to half-pay. This was the end of his soldiering: some fiveor six years in all; from which he had derived for life, among otherthings, a decided military bearing, whereof he was rather proud; anincapacity for practicing law;--and considerable uncertainty as to whathis next course of life was now to be. 

For the present, his views lay towards farming: to establish himself, if not as country gentleman, which was an unattainable ambition, thenat least as some kind of gentleman-farmer which had a flatteringresemblance to that. Kaimes Castle with a reasonable extent of land, which, in his inquiries after farms, had turned up, was his first placeof settlement in this new capacity; and here, for some few months, hehad established himself when John his second child was born. This wasCaptain Sterling's first attempt towards a fixed course of life; nota very wise one, I have understood:--yet on the whole, who, then andthere, could have pointed out to him a wiser?

A fixed course of life and activity he could never attain, or not tillvery late; and this doubtless was among the important points of hisdestiny, and acted both on his own character and that of those who hadto attend him on his wayfarings. 

CHAPTER III. SCHOOLS: LLANBLETHIAN; PARIS; LONDON. 

Edward Sterling never shone in farming; indeed I believe he never tookheartily to it, or tried it except in fits. His Bute farm was, atbest, a kind of apology for some far different ideal of a countryestablishment which could not be realized; practically a temporarylanding-place from which he could make sallies and excursions in searchof some more generous field of enterprise. Stormy brief efforts atenergetic husbandry, at agricultural improvement and rapid field-labor, alternated with sudden flights to Dublin, to London, whithersoever anyflush of bright outlook which he could denominate practical, or anygleam of hope which his impatient ennui could represent as such, allured him. This latter was often enough the case. In wet hay-times andharvest-times, the dripping outdoor world, and lounging indoor one, inthe absence of the master, offered far from a satisfactory appearance!Here was, in fact, a man much imprisoned; haunted, I doubt not, bydemons enough; though ever brisk and brave withal, --iracund, butcheerfully vigorous, opulent in wise or unwise hope. A fiery energeticsoul consciously and unconsciously storming for deliverance into betterarenas; and this in a restless, rapid, impetuous, rather than in astrong, silent and deliberate way. 

In rainy Bute and the dilapidated Kaimes Castle, it was evident, therelay no Goshen for such a man. The lease, originally but for some threeyears and a half, drawing now to a close, he resolved to quit Bute; hadheard, I know not where, of an eligible cottage without farm attached, in the pleasant little village of Llanblethian close by Cowbridge inGlamorganshire; of this he took a lease, and thither with his family hemoved in search of new fortunes. Glamorganshire was at least a betterclimate than Bute; no groups of idle or of busy reapers could here standwaiting on the guidance of a master, for there was no farm here;--andamong its other and probably its chief though secret advantages, Llanblethian was much more convenient both for Dublin and London thanKaimes Castle had been. 

The removal thither took place in the autumn of 1809. Chief part of thejourney (perhaps from Greenock to Swansea or Bristol) was by sea: John, just turned of three years, could in after-times remember nothing ofthis voyage; Anthony, some eighteen months older, has still a vividrecollection of the gray splashing tumult, and dim sorrow, uncertainty, regret and distress he underwent: to him a "dissolving-view" which notonly left its effect on the _plate_ (as all views and dissolving-viewsdoubtless do on that kind of "plate"), but remained consciously presentthere. John, in the close of his twenty-first year, professes notto remember anything whatever of Bute; his whole existence, in thatearliest scene of it, had faded away from him: Bute also, with itsshaggy mountains, moaning woods, and summer and winter seas, had beenwholly a dissolving-view for him, and had left no conscious impression, but only, like this voyage, an effect. 

Llanblethian hangs pleasantly, with its white cottages, and orchard andother trees, on the western slope of a green hill looking far and wideover green meadows and little or bigger hills, in the pleasant plain ofGlamorgan; a short mile to the south of Cowbridge, to which smart littletown it is properly a kind of suburb. Plain of Glamorgan, some tenmiles wide and thirty or forty long, which they call the Vale ofGlamorgan;--though properly it is not quite a Vale, there being only onerange of mountains to it, if even one: certainly the central Mountainsof Wales do gradually rise, in a miscellaneous manner, on the northside of it; but on the south are no mountains, not even land, onlythe Bristol Channel, and far off, the Hills of Devonshire, forboundary, --the "English Hills, " as the natives call them, visible fromevery eminence in those parts. On such wide terms is it called Vale ofGlamorgan. But called by whatever name, it is a most pleasant fruitfulregion: kind to the native, interesting to the visitor. A waving grassyregion; cut with innumerable ragged lanes; dotted with sleepy unswepthuman hamlets, old ruinous castles with their ivy and their daws, graysleepy churches with their ditto ditto: for ivy everywhere abounds; andgenerally a rank fragrant vegetation clothes all things; hanging, inrude many-colored festoons and fringed odoriferous tapestries, on yourright and on your left, in every lane. A country kinder to the sluggardhusbandman than any I have ever seen. For it lies all on limestone, needs no draining; the soil, everywhere of handsome depth and finestquality, will grow good crops for you with the most imperfect tilling. At a safe distance of a day's riding lie the tartarean copper-forges ofSwansea, the tartarean iron-forges of Merthyr; their sooty battle faraway, and not, at such safe distance, a defilement to the face ofthe earth and sky, but rather an encouragement to the earth at least;encouraging the husbandman to plough better, if he only would. 

The peasantry seem indolent and stagnant, but peaceable andwell-provided; much given to Methodism when they have anycharacter;--for the rest, an innocent good-humored people, who all drinkhome-brewed beer, and have brown loaves of the most excellent home-bakedbread. The native peasant village is not generally beautiful, thoughit might be, were it swept and trimmed; it gives one rather the ideaof sluttish stagnancy, --an interesting peep into the Welsh Paradise ofSleepy Hollow. Stones, old kettles, naves of wheels, all kinds of brokenlitter, with live pigs and etceteras, lie about the street: for, asa rule, no rubbish is removed, but waits patiently the action of merenatural chemistry and accident; if even a house is burnt or falls, youwill find it there after half a century, only cloaked by the ever-readyivy. Sluggish man seems never to have struck a pick into it; his new hutis built close by on ground not encumbered, and the old stones are stillleft lying. 

This is the ordinary Welsh village; but there are exceptions, where people of more cultivated tastes have been led to settle, andLlanblethian is one of the more signal of these. A decidedly cheerfulgroup of human homes, the greater part of them indeed belonging topersons of refined habits; trimness, shady shelter, whitewash, neitherconveniency nor decoration has been neglected here. Its effect fromthe distance on the eastward is very pretty: you see it like a littlesleeping cataract of white houses, with trees overshadowing and fringingit; and there the cataract hangs, and does not rush away from you. 

John Sterling spent his next five years in this locality. He did notagain see it for a quarter of a century; but retained, all his life, alively remembrance of it; and, just in the end of his twenty-first year, among his earliest printed pieces, we find an elaborate and diffusedescription of it and its relations to him, --part of which piece, inspite of its otherwise insignificant quality, may find place here:--

"The fields on which I first looked, and the sands which were marked bymy earliest footsteps, are completely lost to my memory; and of thoseancient walls among which I began to breathe, I retain no recollectionmore clear than the outlines of a cloud in a moonless sky. But of L----, the village where I afterwards lived, I persuade myself that every lineand hue is more deeply and accurately fixed than those of any spotI have since beheld, even though borne in upon the heart by theassociation of the strongest feelings. 

"My home was built upon the slope of a hill, with a little orchardstretching down before it, and a garden rising behind. At a considerabledistance beyond and beneath the orchard, a rivulet flowed throughmeadows and turned a mill; while, above the garden, the summit ofthe hill was crowned by a few gray rocks, from which a yew-tree grew, solitary and bare. Extending at each side of the orchard, towardthe brook, two scattered patches of cottages lay nestled among theirgardens; and beyond this streamlet and the little mill and bridge, another slight eminence arose, divided into green fields, tufted andbordered with copsewood, and crested by a ruined castle, contemporary, as was said, with the Conquest. I know not whether these things in truthmade up a prospect of much beauty. Since I was eight years old, I havenever seen them; but I well know that no landscape I have since beheld, no picture of Claude or Salvator, gave me half the impression of living, heartfelt, perfect beauty which fills my mind when I think of that greenvalley, that sparkling rivulet, that broken fortress of dark antiquity, and that hill with its aged yew and breezy summit, from which I haveso often looked over the broad stretch of verdure beneath it, and thecountry-town, and church-tower, silent and white beyond. 

"In that little town there was, and I believe is, a school where theelements of human knowledge were communicated to me, for some hours ofevery day, during a considerable time. The path to it lay across therivulet and past the mill; from which point we could either journeythrough the fields below the old castle, and the wood which surroundedit, or along a road at the other side of the ruin, close to the gatewayof which it passed. The former track led through two or three beautifulfields, the sylvan domain of the keep on one hand, and the brook on theother; while an oak or two, like giant warders advanced from the wood, broke the sunshine of the green with a soft and graceful shadow. Howoften, on my way to school, have I stopped beneath the tree to collectthe fallen acorns; how often run down to the stream to pluck a branch ofthe hawthorn which hung over the water! The road which passed the castlejoined, beyond these fields, the path which traversed them. It took, Iwell remember, a certain solemn and mysterious interest from the ruin. The shadow of the archway, the discolorizations of time on all thewalls, the dimness of the little thicket which encircled it, thetraditions of its immeasurable age, made St. Quentin's Castle awonderful and awful fabric in the imagination of a child; and long afterI last saw its mouldering roughness, I never read of fortresses, orheights, or spectres, or banditti, without connecting them with the oneruin of my childhood. 

"It was close to this spot that one of the few adventures occurredwhich marked, in my mind, my boyish days with importance. When loiteringbeyond the castle, on the way to school, with a brother somewhat olderthan myself, who was uniformly my champion and protector, we espied around sloe high up in the hedge-row. We determined to obtain it; andI do not remember whether both of us, or only my brother, climbed thetree. However, when the prize was all but reached, --and no alchemistever looked more eagerly for the moment of projection which was to givehim immortality and omnipotence, --a gruff voice startled us with anoath, and an order to desist; and I well recollect looking back, forlong after, with terror to the vision of an old and ill-temperedfarmer, armed with a bill-hook, and vowing our decapitation; nor did Isubsequently remember without triumph the eloquence whereby alone, in myfirm belief, my brother and myself had been rescued from instant death. 

"At the entrance of the little town stood an old gateway, with a pointedarch and decaying battlements. It gave admittance to the street whichcontained the church, and which terminated in another street, theprincipal one in the town of C----. In this was situated the school towhich I daily wended. I cannot now recall to mind the face of its goodconductor, nor of any of his scholars; but I have before me a stronggeneral image of the interior of his establishment. I remember thereverence with which I was wont to carry to his seat a well-thumbedduodecimo, the _History of Greece_ by Oliver Goldsmith. I remember themental agonies I endured in attempting to master the art and mystery ofpenmanship; a craft in which, alas, I remained too short a time underMr. R---- to become as great a proficient as he made his other scholars, and which my awkwardness has prevented me from attaining in anyconsiderable perfection under my various subsequent pedagogues. But thatwhich has left behind it a brilliant trait of light was the exhibitionof what are called 'Christmas pieces;' things unknown in aristocraticseminaries, but constantly used at the comparatively humble academywhich supplied the best knowledge of reading, writing, and arithmetic tobe attained in that remote neighborhood. 

"The long desks covered from end to end with those painted masterpieces, the Life of Robinson Crusoe, the Hunting of Chevy-Chase, the Historyof Jack the Giant-Killer, and all the little eager faces and tremblinghands bent over these, and filling them up with some choice quotation, sacred or profane;--no, the galleries of art, the theatricalexhibitions, the reviews and processions, --which are only not childishbecause they are practiced and admired by men instead of children, --allthe pomps and vanities of great cities, have shown me no revelation ofglory such as did that crowded school-room the week before the Christmasholidays. But these were the splendors of life. The truest and thestrongest feelings do not connect themselves with any scenes of gorgeousand gaudy magnificence; they are bound up in the remembrances of home. 

"The narrow orchard, with its grove of old apple-trees against one ofwhich I used to lean, and while I brandished a beanstalk, roar out withFitzjames, --

 'Come one, come all; this rock shall fly From its firm base as soon as I!'--

while I was ready to squall at the sight of a cur, and run valorouslyaway from a casually approaching cow; the field close beside it, whereI rolled about in summer among the hay; the brook in which, despiteof maid and mother, I waded by the hour; the garden where I sowedflower-seeds, and then turned up the ground again and planted potatoes, and then rooted out the potatoes to insert acorns and apple-pips, andat last, as may be supposed, reaped neither roses, nor potatoes, noroak-trees, nor apples; the grass-plots on which I played among thosewith whom I never can play nor work again: all these are places andemployments, --and, alas, playmates, --such as, if it were worth while toweep at all, it would be worth weeping that I enjoy no longer. 

"I remember the house where I first grew familiar with peacocks; and themill-stream into which I once fell; and the religious awe wherewith Iheard, in the warm twilight, the psalm-singing around the house of theMethodist miller; and the door-post against which I discharged my brazenartillery; I remember the window by which I sat while my mother taughtme French; and the patch of garden which I dug for-- But her name isbest left blank; it was indeed writ in water. These recollections areto me like the wealth of a departed friend, a mournful treasure. But thepublic has heard enough of them; to it they are worthless: they area coin which only circulates at its true value between the differentperiods of an individual's existence, and good for nothing but to keepup a commerce between boyhood and manhood. I have for years lookedforward to the possibility of visiting L----; but I am told that it isa changed village; and not only has man been at work, but the old yew onthe hill has fallen, and scarcely a low stump remains of the tree whichI delighted in childhood to think might have furnished bows for theNorman archers. " [3]

In Cowbridge is some kind of free school, or grammar-school, of acertain distinction; and this to Captain Sterling was probably a motivefor settling in the neighborhood of it with his children. Of thishowever, as it turned out, there was no use made: the Sterling family, during its continuance in those parts, did not need more than a primaryschool. The worthy master who presided over these Christmas galas, andhad the honor to teach John Sterling his reading and writing, was anelderly Mr. Reece of Cowbridge, who still (in 1851) survives, or latelydid; and is still remembered by his old pupils as a worthy, ingeniousand kindly man, "who wore drab breeches and white stockings. " Beyond theReece sphere of tuition John Sterling did not go in this locality. 

In fact the Sterling household was still fluctuating; the problem of atask for Edward Sterling's powers, and of anchorage for his affairs inany sense, was restlessly struggling to solve itself, but was still agood way from being solved. Anthony, in revisiting these scenes withJohn in 1839, mentions going to the spot "where we used to stand withour Father, looking out for the arrival of the London mail:" a littlechink through which is disclosed to us a big restless section of a humanlife. The Hill of Welsh Llanblethian, then, is like the mythic Caucasusin its degree (as indeed all hills and habitations where men sojournare); and here too, on a small scale, is a Prometheus Chained! EdwardSterling, I can well understand, 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 remorse, so much as in hope, locomotivespeculation, and ever-new adventure and attempt, Is there no task nearermy own natural size, then? So he looks out from the Hill-side "forthe arrival of the London mail;" thence hurries into Cowbridge to thePost-office; and has a wide web, of threads and gossamers, upon hisloom, and many shuttles flying, in this world. 

By the Marquis of Bute's appointment he had, very shortly after hisarrival in that region, become Adjutant of the Glamorganshire Militia, "Local Militia, " I suppose; and was, in this way, turning his militarycapabilities to some use. The office involved pretty frequent absences, in Cardiff and elsewhere. This doubtless was a welcome outlet, thougha small one. He had also begun to try writing, especially on publicsubjects; a much more copious outlet, --which indeed, gradually wideningitself, became the final solution for him. Of the year 1811 we have aPamphlet of his, entitled _Military Reform_; this is the second edition, "dedicated to the Duke of Kent;" the first appears to have come out theyear before, and had thus attained a certain notice, which of course wasencouraging. He now furthermore opened a correspondence with the _Times_Newspaper; wrote to it, in 1812, a series of Letters under the signature_Vetus_: voluntary Letters I suppose, without payment or pre-engagement, one successful Letter calling out another; till _Vetus_ and hisdoctrines came to be a distinguishable entity, and the business amountedto something. Out of my own earliest Newspaper reading, I can rememberthe name _Vetus_, as a kind of editorial hacklog on which able-editorswere wont to chop straw now and then. Nay the Letters were collected andreprinted; both this first series, of 1812, and then a second of nextyear: two very thin, very dim-colored cheap octavos; stray copies ofwhich still exist, and may one day become distillable into a drop ofHistory (should such be wanted of our poor "Scavenger Age" intime coming), though the reading of them has long ceased in thisgeneration. [4] The first series, we perceive, had even gone to a secondedition. The tone, wherever one timidly glances into this extinctcockpit, is trenchant and emphatic: the name of _Vetus_, strenuouslyfighting there, had become considerable in the talking political world;and, no doubt, was especially of mark, as that of a writer who mightotherwise be important, with the proprietors of the _Times_. Theconnection continued: widened and deepened itself, --in a slow tentativemanner; passing naturally from voluntary into remunerated: and indeedproving more and more to be the true ultimate arena, and battle-fieldand seed-field, for the exuberant impetuosities and faculties of thisman. 

What the _Letters of Vetus_ treated of I do not know; doubtless they ranupon Napoleon, Catholic Emancipation, true methods of national defence, of effective foreign Anti-gallicism, and of domestic ditto; whichformed the staple of editorial speculation at that time. I have heardin general that Captain Sterling, then and afterwards, advocated "theMarquis of Wellesley's policy;" but that also, what it was, I haveforgotten, and the world has been willing to forget. Enough, the headsof the _Times_ establishment, perhaps already the Marquis of Wellesleyand other important persons, had their eye on this writer; and it beganto be surmised by him that here at last was the career he had beenseeking. 

Accordingly, in 1814, when victorious Peace unexpectedly arrived; andthe gates of the Continent after five-and-twenty years of fierce closurewere suddenly thrown open; and the hearts of all English and Europeanmen awoke staggering as if from a nightmare suddenly removed, and ranhither and thither, --Edward Sterling also determined on a new adventure, that of crossing to Paris, and trying what might lie in store for him. For curiosity, in its idler sense, there was evidently pabulum enough. But he had hopes moreover of learning much that might perhaps avail himafterwards;--hopes withal, I have understood, of getting to be ForeignCorrespondent of the _Times_ Newspaper, and so adding to his income inthe mean while. He left Llanblethian in May; dates from Dieppe the 27thof that month. He lived in occasional contact with Parisian notabilities(all of them except Madame de Stael forgotten now), all summer, diligently surveying his ground;--returned for his family, who werestill in Wales but ready to move, in the beginning of August; took themimmediately across with him; a house in the neighborhood of Paris, inthe pleasant village of Passy at once town and country, being now ready;and so, under foreign skies, again set up his household there. 

Here was a strange new "school" for our friend John now in his eighthyear! Out of which the little Anthony and he drank doubtless at allpores, vigorously as they had done in no school before. A change totaland immediate. Somniferous green Llanblethian has suddenly been blottedout; presto, here are wakeful Passy and the noises of paved Parisinstead. Innocent ingenious Mr. Reece in drab breeches and whitestockings, he with his mild Christmas galas and peaceable rules ofDilworth and Butterworth, has given place to such a saturnalia ofpanoramic, symbolic and other teachers and monitors, addressing all thefive senses at once. Who John's express tutors were, at Passy, I neverheard; nor indeed, especially in his case, was it much worth inquiring. To him and to all of us, the expressly appointed schoolmasters andschoolings we get are as nothing, compared with the unappointedincidental and continual ones, whose school-hours are all the days andnights of our existence, and whose lessons, noticed or unnoticed, streamin upon us with every breath we draw. Anthony says they attended aFrench school, though only for about three months; and he well remembersthe last scene of it, "the boys shouting _Vive l'Empereur_ when Napoleoncame back. "

Of John Sterling's express schooling, perhaps the most importantfeature, and by no means a favorable one to him, was the excessivefluctuation that prevailed in it. Change of scene, change of teacher, _both_ express and implied, was incessant with him; and gave hisyoung life a nomadic character, --which surely, of all the adventitioustendencies that could have been impressed upon him, so volatile, swift and airy a being as him, was the one he needed least. His gentlepious-hearted Mother, ever watching over him in all outward changes, andassiduously keeping human pieties and good affections alive in him, wasprobably the best counteracting element in his lot. And on the whole, have we not all to run our chance in that respect; and take, the mostvictoriously we can, such schooling as pleases to be attainable inour year and place? Not very victoriously, the most of us! A wisewell-calculated breeding of a young genial soul in this world, oralas of any young soul in it, lies fatally over the horizon in theseepochs!--This French scene of things, a grand school of its sort, andalso a perpetual banquet for the young soul, naturally captivated JohnSterling; he said afterwards, "New things and experiences here werepoured upon his mind and sense, not in streams, but in a Niagaracataract. " This too, however, was but a scene; lasted only some six orseven months; and in the spring of the next year terminated as abruptlyas any of the rest could do. 

For in the spring of the next year, Napoleon abruptly emerged fromElba; and set all the populations of the world in motion, in a strangemanner;--set the Sterling household afloat, in particular; the bigEuropean tide rushing into all smallest creeks, at Passy and elsewhere. In brief, on the 20th of March, 1815, the family had to shift, almostto fly, towards home and the sea-coast; and for a day or two were underapprehension of being detained and not reaching home. Mrs. Sterling, with her children and effects, all in one big carriage with two horses, made the journey to Dieppe; in perfect safety, though in continualtremor: here they were joined by Captain Sterling, who had stayed behindat Paris to see the actual advent of Napoleon, and to report whatthe aspect of affairs was, "Downcast looks of citizens, with fiercesaturnalian acclaim of soldiery:" after which they proceeded together toLondon without farther apprehension;--there to witness, in due time, thetar-barrels of Waterloo, and other phenomena that followed. 

Captain Sterling never quitted London as a residence any more; andindeed was never absent from it, except on autumnal or other excursionsof a few weeks, till the end of his life. Nevertheless his course therewas as yet by no means clear; nor had his relations with the heads ofthe _Times_, or with other high heads, assumed a form which could becalled definite, but were hanging as a cloudy maze of possibilities, firm substance not yet divided from shadow. It continued so for someyears. The Sterling household shifted twice or thrice to new streetsor localities, --Russell Square or Queen Square, Blackfriars Road, and longest at the Grove, Blackheath, --before the vapors of Wellesleypromotions and such like slowly sank as useless precipitate, andthe firm rock, which was definite employment, ending in lucrativeco-proprietorship and more and more important connection with the_Times_ Newspaper, slowly disclosed itself. 

These changes of place naturally brought changes in John Sterling'sschoolmasters: nor were domestic tragedies wanting, still more importantto him. New brothers and sisters had been born; two little brothersmore, three little sisters he had in all; some of whom came to theireleventh year beside him, some passed away in their second or fourth:but from his ninth to his sixteenth year they all died; and in 1821 onlyAnthony and John were left. [5] How many tears, and passionate pangs, and soft infinite regrets; such as are appointed to all mortals! In oneyear, I find, indeed in one half-year, he lost three little playmates, two of them within one month. His own age was not yet quite twelve. Forone of these three, for little Edward, his next younger, who died nowat the age of nine, Mr. Hare records that John copied out, in largeschool-hand, a _History of Valentine and Orson_, to beguile the poorchild's sickness, which ended in death soon, leaving a sad cloud onJohn. 

Of his grammar and other schools, which, as I said, are hardly worthenumerating in comparison, the most important seems to have been a Dr. Burney's at Greenwich; a large day-school and boarding-school, whereAnthony and John gave their attendance for a year or two (1818-19) fromBlackheath. "John frequently did themes for the boys, " says Anthony, "and for myself when I was aground. " His progress in all school learningwas certain to be rapid, if he even moderately took to it. A lean, tallish, loose-made boy of twelve; strange alacrity, rapidity and joyouseagerness looking out of his eyes, and of all his ways and movements. I have a Picture of him at this stage; a little portrait, which carriesits verification with it. In manhood too, the chief expression of hiseyes and physiognomy was what I might call alacrity, cheerful rapidity. You could see, here looked forth a soul which was winged; which dweltin hope and action, not in hesitation or fear. Anthony says, he was "anaffectionate and gallant kind of boy, adventurous and generous, daringto a singular degree. " Apt enough withal to be "petulant now and then;"on the whole, "very self-willed;" doubtless not a little discursive inhis thoughts and ways, and "difficult to manage. "

I rather think Anthony, as the steadier, more substantial boy, wasthe Mother's favorite; and that John, though the quicker and cleverer, perhaps cost her many anxieties. Among the Papers given me, is an oldbrowned half-sheet in stiff school hand, unpunctuated, occasionally illspelt, --John Sterling's earliest remaining Letter, --which gives recordof a crowning escapade of his, the first and the last of its kind; andso may be inserted here. A very headlong adventure on the boy's part; sohasty and so futile, at once audacious and impracticable; emblematic ofmuch that befell in the history of the man!

 "_To Mrs. Sterling, Blackheath_. "21st September, 1818. 

"DEAR MAMMA, --I am now at Dover, where I arrived this morning aboutseven o'clock. When you thought I was going to church, I went down theKent Road, and walked on till I came to Gravesend, which is upwards oftwenty miles from Blackheath; at about seven o'clock in the evening, without having eat anything the whole time. I applied to an inkeeper(_sic_) there, pretending that I had served a haberdasher in London, wholeft of (_sic_) business, and turned me away. He believed me; and gotme a passage in the coach here, for I said that I had an Uncle here, andthat my Father and Mother were dead;--when I wandered about the quaysfor some time, till I met Captain Keys, whom I asked to give me apassage to Boulogne; which he promised to do, and took me home tobreakfast with him: but Mrs. Keys questioned 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. Captain Keys says that he will keep me at hishouse till you answer my letter. 

 "J. STERLING. "

Anthony remembers the business well; but can assign no origin toit, --some penalty, indignity or cross put suddenly on John, which thehasty John considered unbearable. His Mother's inconsolable weeping, andthen his own astonishment at such a culprit's being forgiven, are allthat remain with Anthony. The steady historical style of the youngrunaway of twelve, narrating merely, not in the least apologizing, isalso noticeable. 

This was some six months after his little brother Edward's death; threemonths after that of Hester, his little sister next in the family seriesto him: troubled days for the poor Mother in that small household onBlackheath, as there are for mothers in so many households in thisworld! I have heard that Mrs. Sterling passed much of her time alone, atthis period. Her husband's pursuits, with his Wellesleys and the like, often carrying him into Town and detaining him late there, she wouldsit among her sleeping children, such of them as death had still spared, perhaps thriftily plying her needle, full of mournful affectionatenight-thoughts, --apprehensive too, in her tremulous heart, that the headof the house might have fallen among robbers in his way homeward. 

CHAPTER IV. UNIVERSITIES: GLASGOW; CAMBRIDGE. 

At a later stage, John had some instruction from a Dr. Waite atBlackheath; and lastly, the family having now removed into Town, toSeymour Street in the fashionable region there, he "read for a whilewith Dr. Trollope, Master of Christ's Hospital;" which ended his schoolhistory. 

In this his ever-changing course, from Reece at Cowbridge to Trollopein Christ's, which was passed so nomadically, under ferulas of variouscolor, the boy had, on the whole, snatched successfully a fair shareof what was going. Competent skill in construing Latin, I think also anelementary knowledge of Greek; add ciphering to a small extent, Euclidperhaps in a rather imaginary condition; a swift but not very legible orhandsome penmanship, and the copious prompt habit of employing it in allmanner of unconscious English prose composition, or even occasionallyin verse itself: this, or something like this, he had gained from hisgrammar-schools: this is the most of what they offer to the poor youngsoul in general, in these indigent times. The express schoolmaster isnot equal to much at present, --while the _un_express, for good orfor evil, is so busy with a poor little fellow! Other departments ofschooling had been infinitely more productive, for our young friend, than the gerund-grinding one. A voracious reader I believe he all alongwas, --had "read the whole Edinburgh Review" in these boyish years, andout of the circulating libraries one knows not what cartloads; wadinglike Ulysses towards his palace "through infinite dung. " A voraciousobserver and participator in all things he likewise all along was; andhad had his sights, and reflections, and sorrows and adventures, fromKaimes Castle onward, --and had gone at least to Dover on his own score. _Puer bonae spei_, as the school-albums say; a boy of whom much may behoped? Surely, in many senses, yes. A frank veracity is in him, truthand courage, as the basis of all; and of wild gifts and graces there isabundance. I figure him a brilliant, swift, voluble, affectionate andpleasant creature; out of whom, if it were not that symptoms of delicatehealth already show themselves, great things might be made. Promotionsat least, especially in this country and epoch of parliaments andeloquent palavers, are surely very possible for such a one!

Being now turned of sixteen, and the family economics getting yearlymore propitious and flourishing, he, as his brother had alreadybeen, was sent to Glasgow University, in which city their Mother hadconnections. His brother and he were now all that remained of theyoung family; much attached to one another in their College years asafterwards. Glasgow, however, was not properly their College scene:here, except that they had some tuition from Mr. Jacobson, then a seniorfellow-student, now (1851) the learned editor of St. Basil, and RegiusProfessor of Divinity in Oxford, who continued ever afterwards a valuedintimate of John's, I find nothing special recorded of them. The Glasgowcurriculum, for John especially, lasted but one year; who, after somefarther tutorage from Mr. Jacobson or Dr. Trollope, was appointed for amore ambitious sphere of education. 

In the beginning of his nineteenth year, "in the autumn of 1824, " hewent to Trinity College, Cambridge. His brother Anthony, who had alreadybeen there a year, had just quitted this Establishment, and entered ona military life under good omens; I think, at Dublin under the LordLieutenant's patronage, to whose service he was, in some capacity, attached. The two brothers, ever in company hitherto, parted roadsat this point; and, except on holiday visits and by frequentcorrespondence, did not again live together; but they continued in atrue fraternal attachment while life lasted, and I believe never hadany even temporary estrangement, or on either side a cause for such. Thefamily, as I said, was now, for the last three years, reduced to thesetwo; the rest of the young ones, with their laughter and theirsorrows, all gone. The parents otherwise were prosperous in outwardcircumstances; the Father's position more and more developing itselfinto affluent security, an agreeable circle of acquaintance, and acertain real influence, though of a peculiar sort, according to hisgifts for work in this world. 

Sterling's Tutor at Trinity College was Julius Hare, now thedistinguished Archdeacon of Lewes:--who soon conceived a great esteemfor him, and continued ever afterwards, in looser or closer connection, his loved and loving friend. As the Biographical and Editorial workabove alluded to abundantly evinces. Mr. Hare celebrates the wonderfuland beautiful gifts, the sparkling ingenuity, ready logic, eloquentutterance, and noble generosities and pieties of his pupil;--recordsin particular how once, on a sudden alarm of fire in some neighboringCollege edifice while his lecture was proceeding, all hands rushed outto help; how the undergraduates instantly formed themselves in linesfrom the fire to the river, and in swift continuance kept passingbuckets as was needful, till the enemy was visibly fast yielding, --whenMr. Hare, going along the line, was astonished to find Sterling, at theriver-end of it, standing up to his waist in water, deftly dealing withthe buckets as they came and went. You in the river, Sterling; you withyour coughs, and dangerous tendencies of health!--"Somebody must bein it, " answered Sterling; "why not I, as well as another?" Sterling'sfriends may remember many traits of that kind. The swiftest in allthings, he was apt to be found at the head of the column, whithersoeverthe march might be; if towards any brunt of danger, there was he surestto be at the head; and of himself and his peculiar risks or impedimentshe was negligent at all times, even to an excessive and plainlyunreasonable degree. 

Mr. Hare justly refuses him the character of an exact scholar, ortechnical proficient at any time in either of the ancient literatures. But he freely read in Greek and Latin, as in various modern languages;and in all fields, in the classical as well, his lively faculty ofrecognition and assimilation had given him large booty in proportion tohis labor. One cannot under any circumstances conceive of Sterling asa steady dictionary philologue, historian, or archaeologist; nor did hehere, nor could he well, attempt that course. At the same time, Greekand the Greeks being here before him, he could not fail to gathersomewhat from it, to take some hue and shape from it. Accordingly thereis, to a singular extent, especially in his early writings, acertain tinge of Grecism and Heathen classicality traceable inhim;--Classicality, indeed, which does not satisfy one's sense as realor truly living, but which glitters with a certain genial, if perhapsalmost meretricious half-_japannish_ splendor, --greatly distinguishablefrom mere gerund-grinding, and death in longs and shorts. IfClassicality mean the practical conception, or attempt to conceive, whathuman life was in the epoch called classical, --perhaps few or none ofSterling's contemporaries in that Cambridge establishment carried awaymore of available Classicality than even he. 

But here, as in his former schools, his studies and inquiries, diligently prosecuted I believe, were of the most discursivewide-flowing character; not steadily advancing along beaten roadstowards College honors, but pulsing out with impetuous irregularitynow on this tract, now on that, towards whatever spiritual Delphi mightpromise to unfold the mystery of this world, and announce to himwhat was, in our new day, the authentic message of the gods. Hisspeculations, readings, inferences, glances and conclusions weredoubtless sufficiently encyclopedic; his grand tutors the multifariousset of Books he devoured. And perhaps, --as is the singular case in mostschools and educational establishments of this unexampled epoch, --itwas not the express set of arrangements in this or any extant Universitythat could essentially forward him, but only the implied and silentones; less in the prescribed "course of study, " which seems to tendno-whither, than--if you will consider it--in the generous (notungenerous) rebellion against said prescribed course, and the voluntaryspirit of endeavor and adventure excited thereby, does help lie fora brave youth in such places. Curious to consider. The fagging, theillicit boating, and the things _forbidden_ by the schoolmaster, --these, I often notice in my Eton acquaintances, are the things that have donethem good; these, and not their inconsiderable or considerable knowledgeof the Greek accidence almost at all! What is Greek accidence, comparedto Spartan discipline, if it can be had? That latter is a real and grandattainment. Certainly, if rebellion is unfortunately needful, and youcan rebel in a generous manner, several things may be acquired in thatoperation, --rigorous mutual fidelity, reticence, steadfastness, mildstoicism, and other virtues far transcending your Greek accidence. Nor can the unwisest "prescribed course of study" be considered quiteuseless, if it have incited you to try nobly on all sides for a courseof your own. A singular condition of Schools and High-schools, whichhave come down, in their strange old clothes and "courses of study, "from the monkish ages into this highly unmonkish one;--tragicalcondition, at which the intelligent observer makes deep pause!

One benefit, not to be dissevered from the most obsolete Universitystill frequented by young ingenuous living souls, is that of manifoldcollision and communication with the said young souls; which, to everyone of these coevals, is undoubtedly the most important branch ofbreeding for him. In this point, as the learned Huber has insisted, [6]the two English Universities, --their studies otherwise being granted tobe nearly useless, and even ill done of their kind, --far excel all otherUniversities: so valuable are the rules of human behavior which from ofold have tacitly established themselves there; so manful, with all itssad drawbacks, is the style of English character, "frank, simple, rugged and yet courteous, " which has tacitly but imperatively got itselfsanctioned and prescribed there. Such, in full sight of Continental andother Universities, is Huber's opinion. Alas, the question of UniversityReform goes deep at present; deep as the world;--and the real Universityof these new epochs is yet a great way from us! Another judge in whomI have confidence declares further, That of these two Universities, Cambridge is decidedly the more catholic (not Roman catholic, but Humancatholic) in its tendencies and habitudes; and that in fact, of all themiserable Schools and High-schools in the England of these years, he, if reduced to choose from them, would choose Cambridge as a placeof culture for the young idea. So that, in these bad circumstances, Sterling had perhaps rather made a hit than otherwise?

Sterling at Cambridge had undoubtedly a wide and rather genial circle ofcomrades; and could not fail to be regarded and beloved by many of them. Their life seems to have been an ardently speculating and talking one;by no means excessively restrained within limits; and, in the moreadventurous heads like Sterling's, decidedly tending towards thelatitudinarian in most things. They had among them a Debating Societycalled The Union; where on stated evenings was much logic, and otherspiritual fencing and ingenuous collision, --probably of a reallysuperior quality in that kind; for not a few of the then disputants havesince proved themselves men of parts, and attained distinction in theintellectual walks of life. Frederic Maurice, Richard Trench, JohnKemble, Spedding, Venables, Charles Buller, Richard Milnes andothers:--I have heard that in speaking and arguing, Sterling was theacknowledged chief in this Union Club; and that "none even came nearhim, except the late Charles Buller, " whose distinction in this andhigher respects was also already notable. 

The questions agitated seem occasionally to have touched on thepolitical department, and even on the ecclesiastical. I have heard onetrait of Sterling's eloquence, which survived on the wings of grinningrumor, and had evidently borne upon Church Conservatism in some form:"Have they not, "--or perhaps it was, Has she (the Church) not, --"ablack dragoon in every parish, on good pay and rations, horse-meat andman's-meat, to patrol and battle for these things?" The "black dragoon, "which naturally at the moment ruffled the general young imaginationinto stormy laughter, points towards important conclusions in respectto Sterling at this time. I conclude he had, with his usual alacrity andimpetuous daring, frankly adopted the anti-superstitious side of things;and stood scornfully prepared to repel all aggressions or pretensionsfrom the opposite quarter. In short, that he was already, whatafterwards there is no doubt about his being, at all points a Radical, as the name or nickname then went. In other words, a young ardent soullooking with hope and joy into a world which was infinitely beautiful tohim, though overhung with falsities and foul cobwebs as world never wasbefore; overloaded, overclouded, to the zenith and the nadir of it, by incredible uncredited traditions, solemnly sordid hypocrisies, andbeggarly deliriums old and new; which latter class of objects it wasclearly the part of every noble heart to expend all its lightnings andenergies in burning up without delay, and sweeping into their nativeChaos out of such a Cosmos as this. Which process, it did not then seemto him could be very difficult; or attended with much other than heroicjoy, and enthusiasm of victory or of battle, to the gallant operator, inhis part of it. This was, with modifications such as might be, thehumor and creed of College Radicalism five-and-twenty years ago. Ratherhorrible at that time; seen to be not so horrible now, at least to havegrown very universal, and to need no concealment now. The naturalhumor and attitude, we may well regret to say, --and honorable notdishonorable, for a brave young soul such as Sterling's, in those yearsin those localities!

I do not find that Sterling had, at that stage, adopted the thenprevalent Utilitarian theory of human things. But neither, apparently, had he rejected it; still less did he yet at all denounce it with thedamnatory vehemence we were used to in him at a later period. Probablyhe, so much occupied with the negative side of things, had not yetthought seriously of any positive basis for his world; or asked himself, too earnestly, What, then, is the noble rule of living for a man?In this world so eclipsed and scandalously overhung with fable andhypocrisy, what is the eternal fact, on which a man may front theDestinies and the Immensities? The day for such questions, sure enoughto come in his case, was still but coming. Sufficient for this daybe the work thereof; that of blasting into merited annihilation theinnumerable and immeasurable recognized deliriums, and extirpating orcoercing to the due pitch those legions of "black dragoons, " of allvarieties and purposes, who patrol, with horse-meat and man's-meat, thisafflicted earth, so hugely to the detriment of it. 

Sterling, it appears, after above a year of Trinity College, followedhis friend Maurice into Trinity Hall, with the intention of takinga degree in Law; which intention, like many others with him, came tonothing; and in 1827 he left Trinity Hall and Cambridge altogether; hereending, after two years, his brief University life. 

CHAPTER V. A PROFESSION. 

Here, then, is a young soul, brought to the years of legal majority, furnished from his training-schools with such and such shiningcapabilities, and ushered on the scene of things to inquire practically, What he will do there? Piety is in the man, noble human valor, brightintelligence, ardent proud veracity; light and fire, in none of theirmany senses, wanting for him, but abundantly bestowed: a kingly kind ofman;--whose "kingdom, " however, in this bewildered place and epoch ofthe world will probably be difficult to find and conquer!

For, alas, the world, as we said, already stands convicted to this youngsoul of being an untrue, unblessed world; its high dignitaries manyof them phantasms and players'-masks; its worthships and worshipsunworshipful: from Dan to Beersheba, a mad world, my masters. And surelywe may say, and none will now gainsay, this his idea of the world atthat epoch was nearer to the fact than at most other epochs it has been. Truly, in all times and places, the young ardent soul that enters onthis world with heroic purpose, with veracious insight, and theyet unclouded "inspiration of the Almighty" which has given us ourintelligence, will find this world a very mad one: why else is he, withhis little outfit of heroisms and inspirations, come hither into it, except to make it diligently a little saner? Of him there would havebeen no need, had it been quite sane. This is true; this will, in allcenturies and countries, be true. 

And yet perhaps of no time or country, for the last two thousand years, was it _so_ true as here in this waste-weltering epoch of Sterling's andours. A world all rocking and plunging, like that old Roman one when themeasure of its iniquities was full; the abysses, and subterranean andsupernal deluges, plainly broken loose; in the wild dim-lighted chaosall stars of Heaven gone out. No star of Heaven visible, hardly now toany man; the pestiferous fogs, and foul exhalations grown continual, have, except on the highest mountaintops, blotted out all stars:will-o'-wisps, of various course and color, take the place of stars. Over the wild-surging chaos, in the leaden air, are only sudden glaresof revolutionary lightning; then mere darkness, with philanthropisticphosphorescences, empty meteoric lights; here and there anecclesiastical luminary still hovering, hanging on to its old quakingfixtures, pretending still to be a Moon or Sun, --though visibly it isbut a Chinese lantern made of _paper_ mainly, with candle-end foullydying in the heart of it. Surely as mad a world as you could wish!

If you want to make sudden fortunes in it, and achieve the temporaryhallelujah of flunkies for yourself, renouncing the perennial esteemof wise men; if you can believe that the chief end of man is to collectabout him a bigger heap of gold than ever before, in a shorter time thanever before, you will find it a most handy and every way furthersome, blessed and felicitous world. But for any other human aim, I think youwill find it not furthersome. If you in any way ask practically, How anoble life is to be led in it? you will be luckier than Sterling or I ifyou get any credible answer, or find any made road whatever. Alas, it iseven so. Your heart's question, if it be of that sort, most things andpersons will answer with a "Nonsense! Noble life is in Drury Lane, and wears yellow boots. You fool, compose yourself to yourpudding!"--Surely, in these times, if ever in any, the young heroic soulentering on life, so opulent, full of sunny hope, of noble valor anddivine intention, is tragical as well as beautiful to us. 

Of the three learned Professions none offered any likelihood forSterling. From the Church his notions of the "black dragoon, " had therebeen no other obstacle, were sufficient to exclude him. Law he had justrenounced, his own Radical philosophies disheartening him, in face ofthe ponderous impediments, continual up-hill struggles and formidabletoils inherent in such a pursuit: with Medicine he had never been inany contiguity, that he should dream of it as a course for him. Clearlyenough the professions were unsuitable; they to him, he to them. Professions, built so largely on speciosity instead of performance;clogged, in this bad epoch, and defaced under such suspicions of fatalimposture, were hateful not lovable to the young radical soul, scornfulof gross profit, and intent on ideals and human noblenesses. Again, theprofessions, were they never so perfect and veracious, will require slowsteady pulling, to which this individual young radical, with his swift, far-darting brilliancies, and nomadic desultory ways, is of all men themost averse and unfitted. No profession could, in any case, have wellgained the early love of Sterling. And perhaps withal the most tragicelement of his life is even this, That there now was none to whichhe could fitly, by those wiser than himself, have been bound andconstrained, that he might learn to love it. So swift, light-limbed andfiery an Arab courser ought, for all manner of reasons, to havebeen trained to saddle and harness. Roaming at full gallop over theheaths, --especially when your heath was London, and English andEuropean life, in the nineteenth century, --he suffered much, and didcomparatively little. I have known few creatures whom it was morewasteful to send forth with the bridle thrown up, and to set tosteeple-hunting instead of running on highways! But it is the lot ofmany such, in this dislocated time, --Heaven mend it! In a better timethere will be other "professions" than those three extremely cramp, confused and indeed almost obsolete ones: professions, if possible, that are true, and do _not_ require you at the threshold to constituteyourself an impostor. Human association, --which will mean discipline, vigorous wise subordination and co-ordination, --is so unspeakablyimportant. Professions, "regimented human pursuits, " how many ofhonorable and manful might be possible for men; and which should _not_, in their results to society, need to stumble along, in such an unwieldyfutile manner, with legs swollen into such enormous elephantiasis and nogo at all in them! Men will one day think of the force they squander inevery generation, and the fatal damage they encounter, by this neglect. 

The career likeliest for Sterling, in his and the world's circumstances, would have been what is called public life: some secretarial, diplomaticor other official training, to issue if possible in Parliament as thetrue field for him. And here, beyond question, had the gross materialconditions been allowed, his spiritual capabilities were first-rate. In any arena where eloquence and argument was the point, this manwas calculated to have borne the bell from all competitors. In lucidingenious talk and logic, in all manner of brilliant utterance andtongue-fence, I have hardly known his fellow. So ready lay his store ofknowledge round him, so perfect was his ready utterance of the same, --incoruscating wit, in jocund drollery, in compact articulated clearnessor high poignant emphasis, as the case required, --he was a match for anyman in argument before a crowd of men. One of the most supple-wristed, dexterous, graceful and successful fencers in that kind. A man, as Mr. Hare has said, "able to argue with four or five at once;" could do theparrying all round, in a succession swift as light, and plant his hitswherever a chance offered. In Parliament, such a soul put into a body ofthe due toughness might have carried it far. If ours is to be called, asI hear some call it, the Talking Era, Sterling of all men had the talentto excel in it. 

Probably it was with some vague view towards chances in this directionthat Sterling's first engagement was entered upon; a brief connection asSecretary to some Club or Association into which certain public men, ofthe reforming sort, Mr. Crawford (the Oriental Diplomatist and Writer), Mr. Kirkman Finlay (then Member for Glasgow), and other politicalnotabilities had now formed themselves, --with what specific objects I donot know, nor with what result if any. I have heard vaguely, it was "toopen the trade to India. " Of course they intended to stir up the publicmind into co-operation, whatever their goal or object was: Mr. Crawford, an intimate in the Sterling household, recognized the fine literarygift of John; and might think it a lucky hit that he had caught such aSecretary for three hundred pounds a year. That was the salary agreedupon; and for some months actually worked for and paid; Sterlingbecoming for the time an intimate and almost an inmate in Mr. Crawford'scircle, doubtless not without results to himself beyond the secretarialwork and pounds sterling: so much is certain. But neither theSecretaryship nor the Association itself had any continuance; nor canI now learn accurately more of it than what is here stated;--in whichvague state it must vanish from Sterling's history again, as it in greatmeasure did from his life. From himself in after-years I never heardmention of it; nor were his pursuits connected afterwards with those ofMr. Crawford, though the mutual good-will continued unbroken. 

In fact, however splendid and indubitable Sterling's qualifications fora parliamentary life, there was that in him withal which flatly puta negative on any such project. He had not the slow steady-pullingdiligence which is indispensable in that, as in all important pursuitsand strenuous human competitions whatsoever. In every sense, hismomentum depended on velocity of stroke, rather than on weight of metal;"beautifulest sheet-lightning, " as I often said, "not to be condensedinto thunder-bolts. " Add to this, --what indeed is perhaps but the samephenomenon in another form, --his bodily frame was thin, excitable, already manifesting pulmonary symptoms; a body which the tear and wearof Parliament would infallibly in few months have wrecked and ended. By this path there was clearly no mounting. The far-darting, restlesslycoruscating soul, equips beyond all others to shine in the TalkingEra, and lead National Palavers with their _spolia opima_ captive, isimprisoned in a fragile hectic body which quite forbids the adventure. "_Es ist dafur gesorgt_, " says Goethe, "Provision has been made that thetrees do not grow into the sky;"--means are always there to stop themshort of the sky. 

CHAPTER VI. LITERATURE: THE ATHENAEUM. 

Of all forms of public life, in the Talking Era, it was clear that onlyone completely suited Sterling, --the anarchic, nomadic, entirely aerialand unconditional one, called Literature. To this all his tendencies, and fine gifts positive and negative, were evidently pointing; and here, after such brief attempting 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 and times. This is the chaotic haven of so manyfrustrate activities; where all manner of good gifts go up in far-seensmoke or conflagration; and whole fleets, that might have beenwar-fleets to conquer kingdoms, are _consumed_ (too truly, often), amid"fame" enough, and the admiring shouts of the vulgar, which is alwaysfond to see fire going on. The true Canaan and Mount Zion of aTalking Era must ever be Literature: the extraneous, miscellaneous, self-elected, indescribable _Parliamentum_, or Talking Apparatus, whichtalks by books and printed papers. 

A literary Newspaper called _The Athenaeum_, the same which stillsubsists, had been founded in those years by Mr. Buckingham; James SilkBuckingham, who has since continued notable under various figures. Mr. Buckingham's _Athenaeum_ had not as yet got into a flourishingcondition; and he was willing to sell the copyright of it for aconsideration. Perhaps Sterling and old Cambridge friends of his hadbeen already writing for it. At all events, Sterling, who had alreadyprivately begun writing a Novel, and was clearly looking towardsLiterature, perceived that his gifted Cambridge friend, FredericMaurice, was now also at large in a somewhat similar situation; and thathere was an opening for both of them, and for other gifted friends. Thecopyright was purchased for I know not what sum, nor with whose money, but guess it may have been Sterling's, and no great sum;--and so, underfree auspices, themselves their own captains, Maurice and he spread sailfor this new voyage of adventure into all the world. It was about theend of 1828 that readers of periodical literature, and quidnuncs inthose departments, began to report the appearance, in a Paper called the_Athenaeum, of_ writings showing a superior brilliancy, and heightof aim; one or perhaps two slight specimens of which came into my ownhands, in my remote corner, about that time, and were duly recognized byme, while the authors were still far off and hidden behind deep veils. 

Some of Sterling's best Papers from the _Athenaeum_ have been publishedby Archdeacon Hare: first-fruits by a young man of twenty-two; crude, imperfect, yet singularly beautiful and attractive; which will stilltestify what high literary promise lay in him. The ruddiest glow ofyoung enthusiasm, of noble incipient spiritual manhood reigns over them;once more a divine Universe unveiling itself in gloom and splendor, inauroral firelight and many-tinted shadow, full of hope and full of awe, to a young melodious pious heart just arrived upon it. Often enough thedelineation has a certain flowing completeness, not to be expected fromso young an artist; here and there is a decided felicity of insight;everywhere the point of view adopted is a high and noble one, and theresult worked out a result to be sympathized with, and accepted so faras it will go. Good reading still, those Papers, for the less-furnishedmind, --thrice-excellent reading compared with what is usually going. For the rest, a grand melancholy is the prevailing impression theyleave;--partly as if, while the surface was so blooming and opulent, the heart of them was still vacant, sad and cold. Here is a beautifulmirage, in the dry wilderness; but you cannot quench your thirst there!The writer's heart is indeed still too vacant, except of beautifulshadows and reflexes and resonances; and is far from joyful, though itwears commonly a smile. 

In some of the Greek delineations (_The Lycian Painter_, for example), we have already noticed a strange opulence of splendor, characterizableas half-legitimate, half-meretricious, --a splendor hovering between theraffaelesque and the japannish. What other things Sterling wrote there, I never knew; nor would he in any mood, in those later days, have toldyou, had you asked. This period of his life he always rather accounted, as the Arabs do the idolatrous times before Mahomet's advent, the"period of darkness. "

CHAPTER VII. REGENT STREET. 

On the commercial side the _Athenaeum_ still lacked success; nor waslike to find it under the highly uncommercial management it had now gotinto. This, by and by, began to be a serious consideration. For moneyis the sinews of Periodical Literature almost as much as of war itself;without money, and under a constant drain of loss, Periodical Literatureis one of the things that cannot be carried on. In no long time Sterlingbegan to be practically sensible of this truth, and that an unpleasantresolution in accordance with it would be necessary. By him also, aftera while, the _Athenaeum_ was transferred to other hands, better fittedin that respect; and under these it did take vigorous root, and stillbears fruit according to its kind. 

For the present, it brought him into the thick of London Literature, especially of young London Literature and speculation; in which turbidexciting element he swam and revelled, nothing loath, for certain monthslonger, --a period short of two years in all. He had lodgings inRegent Street: his Father's house, now a flourishing and stirringestablishment, in South Place, Knightsbridge, where, under the warmth ofincreasing revenue and success, miscellaneous cheerful socialities andabundant speculations, chiefly political (and not John's kind, butthat of the _Times_ Newspaper and the Clubs), were rife, he could visitdaily, and yet be master of his own studies and pursuits. Maurice, Trench, John Mill, Charles Buller: these, and some few others, amonga wide circle of a transitory phantasmal character, whom he speedilyforgot and cared not to remember, were much about him; with these he inall ways employed and disported himself: a first favorite with them all. 

No pleasanter companion, I suppose, had any of them. So frank, open, guileless, fearless, a brother to all worthy souls whatsoever. Come whenyou might, here is he open-hearted, rich in cheerful fancies, in gravelogic, in all kinds of bright activity. If perceptibly or imperceptiblythere is a touch of ostentation in him, blame it not; it is so innocent, so good and childlike. He is still fonder of jingling publicly, andspreading on the table, your big purse of opulences than his own. Abrupttoo he is, cares little for big-wigs and garnitures; perhaps laughsmore than the real fun he has would order; but of arrogance there isno vestige, of insincerity or of ill-nature none. These must have beenpleasant evenings in Regent Street, when the circle chanced to be welladjusted there. At other times, Philistines would enter, what we callbores, dullards, Children of Darkness; and then, --except in a hunt ofdullards, and a _bore-baiting_, which might be permissible, --the eveningwas dark. Sterling, of course, had innumerable cares withal; and wastoiling like a slave; his very recreations almost a kind of work. Anenormous activity was in the man;--sufficient, in a body that couldhave held it without breaking, to have gone far, even under the unstableguidance it was like to have!

Thus, too, an extensive, very variegated circle of connections wasforming round him. Besides his _Athenaeum_ work, and evenings in RegentStreet and elsewhere, he makes visits to country-houses, the Bullers'and others; converses with established gentlemen, with honorable womennot a few; is gay and welcome with the young of his own age; knows alsoreligious, witty, and other distinguished ladies, and is admiringlyknown by them. On the whole, he is already locomotive; visits hitherand thither in a very rapid flying manner. Thus I find he had made oneflying visit to the Cumberland Lake-region in 1828, and got sight ofWordsworth; and in the same year another flying one to Paris, and seenwith no undue enthusiasm the Saint-Simonian Portent just beginningto preach for itself, and France in general simmering under a scum ofimpieties, levities, Saint-Simonisms, and frothy fantasticalities of allkinds, towards the boiling-over which soon made the Three Days of Julyfamous. But by far the most important foreign home he visited was thatof Coleridge on the Hill of Highgate, --if it were not rather a foreignshrine and Dodona-Oracle, as he then reckoned, --to which (onwards from1828, as would appear) he was already an assiduous pilgrim. Concerningwhom, and Sterling's all-important connection with him, there will bemuch to say anon. 

Here, from this period, is a Letter of Sterling's, which the glimpsesit affords of bright scenes and figures now sunk, so many of them, sorrowfully to the realm of shadows, will render interesting to some ofmy readers. To me on the mere Letter, not on its contents alone, thereis accidentally a kind of fateful stamp. A few months after CharlesBuller's death, while his loss was mourned by many hearts, and to hispoor Mother all light except what hung upon his memory had gone out inthe world, a certain delicate and friendly hand, hoping to give the poorbereaved lady a good moment, sought out this Letter of Sterling's, onemorning, and called, with intent to read it to her:--alas, the poor ladyhad herself fallen suddenly into the languors of death, help of anothergrander sort now close at hand; and to her this Letter was never read!

On "Fanny Kemble, " it appears, there is an Essay by Sterling in the_Athenaeum_ of this year: "16th December, 1829. " Very laudatory, Iconclude. He much admired her genius, nay was thought at one time tobe vaguely on the edge of still more chivalrous feelings. As the Letteritself may perhaps indicate. 

 "_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 far as I hear, of movement and variety than in yourprovincial Dublin, or among the Wicklow Mountains. We have the oldprospect of bricks and smoke, the old crowd of busy stupid faces, theold occupations, the old sleepy amusements; and the latest news thatreaches us daily has an air of tiresome, doting antiquity. The world hasnothing for it but to exclaim with Faust, "Give me my youth again. " Andas for me, my month of Cornish amusement is over; and I must tie myselfto my old employments. I have not much to tell you about these; butperhaps you may like to hear of my expedition to the West. 

"I wrote to Polvellan (Mr. Buller's) to announce the day on which Iintended to be there, so shortly before setting out, that there wasno time to receive an answer; and when I reached Devonport, which isfifteen or sixteen miles from my place of destination, I found a letterfrom Mrs. Buller, saying that she was coming in two days to a Ball atPlymouth, and if I chose to stay in the mean while and look about me, she would take me back with her. She added an introduction to a relationof her husband's, a certain Captain Buller of the Rifles, who was withthe Depot there, --a pleasant person, who I believe had beenacquainted with Charlotte, [7] or at least had seen her. Under hissuperintendence--. . . 

"On leaving Devonport with Mrs. Buller, I went some of the way by water, up the harbor and river; and the prospects are certainly very beautiful;to say nothing of the large ships, which I admire almost as much as you, though without knowing so much about them. There is a great deal offine scenery all along the road to Looe; and the House itself, a veryunpretending Gothic cottage, stands beautifully among trees, hills andwater, with the sea at the distance of a quarter of a mile. 

"And here, among pleasant, good-natured, well-informed and cleverpeople, I spent an idle month. I dined at one or two Corporationdinners; spent a few days at the old Mansion of Mr. Buller of Morval, the patron of West Looe; and during the rest of the time, read, wrote, played chess, lounged, and ate red mullet (he who has not done thishas not begun to live); talked of cookery to the philosophers, and ofmetaphysics to Mrs. Buller; and altogether cultivated indolence, and developed the faculty of nonsense with considerable pleasure andunexampled success. Charles Buller you know: he has just come to town, but I have not yet seen him. Arthur, his younger brother, I take tobe one of the handsomest men in England; and he too has considerabletalent. Mr. Buller the father is rather a clever man of sense, andparticularly good-natured and gentlemanly; and his wife, who was arenowned beauty and queen of Calcutta, has still many striking anddelicate traces of what she was. Her conversation is more brilliant andpleasant than that of any one I know; and, at all events, I am bound toadmire her for the kindness with which she patronizes me. I hope that, some day or other, you may be acquainted with her. 

"I believe I have seen no one in London about whom you would care tohear, --unless the fame of Fanny Kemble has passed the Channel, andastonished the Irish Barbarians in the midst of their bloody-mindedpolitics. Young Kemble, whom you have seen, is in Germany: but I havethe happiness of being also acquainted with his sister, the divineFanny; and I have seen her twice on the stage, and three or four timesin private, since my return from Cornwall. I had seen some beautifulverses of hers, long before she was an actress; and her conversationis full of spirit and talent. She never was taught to act at all; andthough there are many faults in her performance of Juliet, there is morepower than in any female playing I ever saw, except Pasta's Medea. Sheis not handsome, rather short, and by no means delicately formed;but her face is marked, and the eyes are brilliant, dark, and full ofcharacter. She has far more ability than she ever can display on thestage; but I have no doubt that, by practice and self-culture, she willbe a far finer actress at least than any one since Mrs. Siddons. I wasat Charles Kemble's a few evenings ago, when a drawing of Miss Kemble, by Sir Thomas Lawrence, was brought in; and I have no doubt that youwill shortly see, even in Dublin, an engraving of her from it, veryunlike the caricatures that have hitherto appeared. I hate the stage;and but for her, should very likely never have gone to a theatre again. Even as it is, the annoyance is much more than the pleasure; but Isuppose I must go to see her in every character in which she acts. IfCharlotte cares for plays, let me know, and I will write in more detailabout this new Melpomene. I fear there are very few subjects on which Ican say anything that will in the least interest her. 

 "Ever affectionately yours, "J. STERLING. "

Sterling and his circle, as their ardent speculation and activityfermented along, were in all things clear for progress, liberalism;their politics, and view of the Universe, decisively of the Radicalsort. As indeed that of England then was, more than ever; the crust ofold hide-bound Toryism being now openly cracking towards some incurabledisruption, which accordingly ensued as the Reform Bill before long. The Reform Bill already hung in the wind. Old hide-bound Toryism, longrecognized by all the world, and now at last obliged to recognize itsvery self, for an overgrown Imposture, supporting itself not by humanreason, but by flunky blustering and brazen lying, superadded to merebrute force, could be no creed for young Sterling and his friends. Inall things he and they were liberals, and, as was natural at thisstage, democrats; contemplating root-and-branch innovation by aid of thehustings and ballot-box. Hustings and ballot-box had speedily tovanish out of Sterling's thoughts: but the character of root-and-branchinnovator, essentially of "Radical Reformer, " was indelible with him, and under all forms could be traced as his character through life. 

For the present, his and those young people's aim was: By democracy, or what means there are, be all impostures put down. Speedy end toSuperstition, --a gentle one if you can contrive it, but an end. What canit profit any mortal to adopt locutions and imaginations which do notcorrespond to fact; which no sane mortal can deliberately adopt in hissoul as true; which the most orthodox of mortals can only, and thisafter infinite essentially _impious_ effort to put out the eyes of hismind, persuade himself to "believe that he believes"? Away with it; inthe name of God, come out of it, all true men!

Piety of heart, a certain reality of religious faith, was alwaysSterling's, the gift of nature to him which he would not and couldnot throw away; but I find at this time his religion is as good asaltogether Ethnic, Greekish, what Goethe calls the Heathen form ofreligion. The Church, with her articles, is without relation to him. And along with obsolete spiritualisms, he sees all manner of obsoletethrones and big-wigged temporalities; and for them also can prophesy, and wish, only a speedy doom. Doom inevitable, registered in Heaven'sChancery from the beginning of days, doom unalterable as the pillars ofthe world; the gods are angry, and all nature groans, till this doom ofeternal justice be fulfilled. 

With gay audacity, with enthusiasm tempered by mockery, as is the mannerof young gifted men, this faith, grounded for the present on democracyand hustings operations, and giving to all life the aspect of achivalrous battle-field, or almost of a gay though perilous tournament, and bout of "A hundred knights against all comers, "--was maintainedby Sterling and his friends. And in fine, after whatever loudremonstrances, and solemn considerations, and such shaking of our wigsas is undoubtedly natural in the case, let us be just to it and him. Weshall have to admit, nay it will behoove us to see and practically know, for ourselves and him and others, that the essence of this creed, intimes like ours, was right and not wrong. That, however the ground andform of it might change, essentially it was the monition of his natalgenius to this as it is to every brave man; the behest of all his clearinsight into this Universe, the message of Heaven through him, whichhe could not suppress, but was inspired and compelled to utter inthis world by such methods as he had. There for him lay the firstcommandment; _this_ is what it would have been the unforgivable sin toswerve from and desert: the treason of treasons for him, it were there;compared with which all other sins are venial!

The message did not cease at all, as we shall see; the message wasardently, if fitfully, continued to the end: but the methods, the toneand dialect and all outer conditions of uttering it, underwent mostimportant modifications!

CHAPTER VIII. COLERIDGE. 

Coleridge sat on the brow of Highgate Hill, in those years, looking downon London and its smoke-tumult, like a sage escaped from the inanity oflife's battle; attracting towards him the thoughts of innumerablebrave souls still engaged there. His express contributions topoetry, philosophy, or any specific province of human literature orenlightenment, had been small and sadly intermittent; but he had, especially among young inquiring men, a higher than literary, a kindof prophetic or magician character. He was thought to hold, he alonein England, the key of German and other Transcendentalisms; knew thesublime secret of believing by "the reason" what "the understanding" hadbeen obliged to fling out as incredible; and could still, after Humeand Voltaire had done their best and worst with him, profess himself anorthodox Christian, and say and print to the Church of England, with itssingular old rubrics and surplices at Allhallowtide, _Esto perpetua_. A sublime man; who, alone in those dark days, had saved his crownof spiritual manhood; escaping from the black materialisms, andrevolutionary deluges, with "God, Freedom, Immortality" still his: aking of men. The practical intellects of the world did not much heedhim, or carelessly reckoned him a metaphysical dreamer: but to therising spirits of the young generation he had this dusky sublimecharacter; and sat there as a kind of _Magus_, girt in mystery andenigma; his Dodona oak-grove (Mr. Gilman's house at Highgate) whisperingstrange things, uncertain whether oracles or jargon. 

The Gilmans did not encourage much company, or excitation of any sort, round their sage; nevertheless access to him, if a youth did reverentlywish it, was not difficult. He would stroll about the pleasant gardenwith you, sit in the pleasant rooms of the place, --perhaps take youto his own peculiar room, high up, with a rearward view, which was thechief view of all. A really charming outlook, in fine weather. Closeat hand, wide sweep of flowery leafy gardens, their few houses mostlyhidden, the very chimney-pots veiled under blossomy umbrage, flowedgloriously down hill; gloriously issuing in wide-tufted undulatingplain-country, rich in all charms of field and town. Waving bloomingcountry of the brightest green; dotted all over with handsome villas, handsome groves; crossed by roads and human traffic, here inaudible orheard only as a musical hum: and behind all swam, under olive-tintedhaze, the illimitable limitary ocean of London, with its domes andsteeples definite in the sun, big Paul's and the many memories attachedto it hanging high over all. Nowhere, of its kind, could you see agrander prospect on a bright summer day, with the set of the air goingsouthward, --southward, and so draping with the city-smoke not youbut the city. Here for hours would Coleridge talk, concerning allconceivable or inconceivable things; and liked nothing better than tohave an intelligent, or failing that, even a silent and patient humanlistener. He distinguished himself to all that ever heard him as atleast the most surprising talker extant in this world, --and to somesmall minority, by no means to all, as the most excellent. 

The good man, he was now getting old, towards sixty perhaps; andgave you the idea of a life that had been full of sufferings; a lifeheavy-laden, half-vanquished, still swimming painfully in seas ofmanifold physical and other bewilderment. Brow and head were round, and of massive weight, but the face was flabby and irresolute. Thedeep eyes, of a light hazel, were as full of sorrow as of inspiration;confused pain looked mildly from them, as in a kind of mildastonishment. The whole figure and air, good and amiable otherwise, might be called flabby and irresolute; expressive of weakness underpossibility of strength. He hung loosely on his limbs, with knees bent, and stooping attitude; in walking, he rather shuffled than decisivelysteps; and a lady once remarked, he never could fix which side of thegarden walk would suit him best, but continually shifted, in corkscrewfashion, and kept trying both. A heavy-laden, high-aspiring and surelymuch-suffering man. His voice, naturally soft and good, had contracteditself into a plaintive snuffle and singsong; he spoke as ifpreaching, --you would have said, preaching earnestly and also hopelesslythe weightiest things. I still recollect his "object" and "subject, "terms of continual recurrence in the Kantean province; and how he sangand snuffled them into "om-m-mject" and "sum-m-mject, " with a kind ofsolemn 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, andwas often with him by himself, for a good many months, gives a recordof their first colloquy. [8] Their colloquies were numerous, and hehad taken note of many; but they are all gone to the fire, except thisfirst, which Mr. Hare has printed, --unluckily without date. It containsa number of ingenious, true and half-true observations, and is ofcourse a faithful epitome of the things said; but it gives small ideaof Coleridge's way of talking;--this one feature is perhaps the mostrecognizable, "Our interview lasted for three hours, during which hetalked two hours and three quarters. " Nothing could be more copious thanhis talk; and furthermore it was always, virtually or literally, ofthe nature of a monologue; suffering no interruption, however reverent;hastily putting aside all foreign additions, annotations, or mostingenuous desires for elucidation, as well-meant superfluities whichwould never do. Besides, it was talk not flowing any-whither likea river, but spreading every-whither in inextricable currents andregurgitations like a lake or sea; terribly deficient in definite goalor aim, nay often in logical intelligibility; _what_ you were to believeor do, on any earthly or heavenly thing, obstinately refusing to appearfrom it. So that, most times, you felt logically lost; swamped near todrowning in this tide of ingenious vocables, spreading out boundless asif to submerge the world. 

To sit as a passive bucket and be pumped into, whether you consent ornot, can in the long-run be exhilarating to no creature; how eloquentsoever the flood of utterance that is descending. But if it be withal aconfused unintelligible flood of utterance, threatening to submerge allknown landmarks of thought, and drown the world and you!--I have heardColeridge talk, with eager musical energy, two stricken hours, hisface radiant and moist, and communicate no meaning whatsoever to anyindividual of his hearers, --certain of whom, I for one, still kepteagerly listening in hope; the most had long before given up, and formed(if the room were large enough) secondary humming groups of their own. He began anywhere: you put some question to him, made some suggestiveobservation: instead of answering this, or decidedly setting outtowards answer of it, he would accumulate formidable apparatus, logicalswim-bladders, transcendental life-preservers and other precautionaryand vehiculatory gear, for setting out; perhaps did at last get underway, --but was swiftly solicited, turned aside by the glance of someradiant new game on this hand or that, into new courses; and ever intonew; and before long into all the Universe, where it was uncertain whatgame you would catch, or whether any. 

His talk, alas, was distinguished, like himself, by irresolution:it disliked to be troubled with conditions, abstinences, definitefulfilments;--loved to wander at its own sweet will, and make itsauditor and his claims and humble wishes a mere passive bucket foritself! He had knowledge about many things and topics, much curiousreading; but generally all topics led him, after a pass or two, intothe high seas of theosophic philosophy, the hazy infinitude of Kanteantranscendentalism, with its "sum-m-mjects" and "om-m-mjects. " Sadenough; for with such indolent impatience of the claims and ignorancesof others, he had not the least talent for explaining this or anythingunknown to them; and you swam and fluttered in the mistiest wideunintelligible deluge of things, for most part in a rather profitlessuncomfortable manner. 

Glorious islets, too, I have seen rise out of the haze; but they werefew, and soon swallowed in the general element again. Balmy sunnyislets, islets of the blest and the intelligible:--on which occasionsthose secondary humming groups would all cease humming, and hangbreathless upon the eloquent words; till once your islet got wrapt inthe mist again, and they could recommence humming. Eloquent artisticallyexpressive words you always had; piercing radiances of a most subtleinsight came at intervals; tones of noble pious sympathy, recognizableas pious though strangely colored, were never wanting long: but ingeneral you could not call this aimless, cloud-capt, cloud-based, lawlessly meandering human discourse of reason by the name of "excellenttalk, " but only of "surprising;" and were reminded bitterly of Hazlitt'saccount of it: "Excellent talker, very, --if you let him start from nopremises and come to no conclusion. " Coleridge was not without whattalkers call wit, and there were touches of prickly sarcasm in him, contemptuous enough of the world and its idols and popular dignitaries;he had traits even of poetic humor: but in general he seemed deficientin laughter; or indeed in sympathy for concrete human things either onthe sunny or on the stormy side. One right peal of concrete laughter atsome convicted flesh-and-blood absurdity, one burst of noble indignationat some injustice or depravity, rubbing elbows with us on this solidEarth, how strange would it have been in that Kantean haze-world, andhow infinitely cheering amid its vacant air-castles and dim-meltingghosts and shadows! None such ever came. His life had been an abstractthinking and dreaming, idealistic, passed amid the ghosts ofdefunct bodies and of unborn ones. The moaning singsong of thattheosophico-metaphysical monotony left on you, at last, a very drearyfeeling. 

In close colloquy, flowing within narrower banks, I suppose he was moredefinite and apprehensible; Sterling in after-times did not complain ofhis unintelligibility, or imputed it only to the abtruse high nature ofthe topics handled. Let us hope so, let us try to believe so! Thereis no doubt but Coleridge could speak plain words on things plain: hisobservations and responses on the trivial matters that occurred were assimple as the commonest man's, or were even distinguished by superiorsimplicity as well as pertinency. "Ah, your tea is too cold, Mr. Coleridge!" mourned the good Mrs. Gilman once, in her kind, reverentialand yet protective manner, handing him a very tolerable though belatedcup. --"It's better than I deserve!" snuffled he, in a low hoarse murmur, partly courteous, chiefly pious, the tone of which still abides with me:"It's better than I deserve!"

But indeed, to the young ardent mind, instinct with pious nobleness, yetdriven to the grim deserts of Radicalism for a faith, his speculationshad a charm much more than literary, a charm almost religious andprophetic. The constant gist of his discourse was lamentation overthe sunk condition of the world; which he recognized to be given up toAtheism and Materialism, full of mere sordid misbeliefs, mispursuits andmisresults. All Science had become mechanical; the science not of men, but of a kind of human beavers. Churches themselves had died away into agodless mechanical condition; and stood there as mere Cases of Articles, mere Forms of Churches; like the dried carcasses of once swiftcamels, which you find left withering in the thirst of the universaldesert, --ghastly portents for the present, beneficent ships of thedesert no more. Men's souls were blinded, hebetated; and sunk under theinfluence of Atheism and Materialism, and Hume and Voltaire: the worldfor the present was as an extinct world, deserted of God, and incapableof well-doing till it changed its heart and spirit. This, expressedI think with less of indignation and with more of long-drawnquerulousness, was always recognizable as the ground-tone:--in whichtruly a pious young heart, driven into Radicalism and the oppositionparty, could not but recognize a too sorrowful truth; and ask of theOracle, with all earnestness, What remedy, then?

The remedy, though Coleridge himself professed to see it as in sunbeams, could not, except by processes unspeakably difficult, be described toyou at all. On the whole, those dead Churches, this dead English Churchespecially, must be brought to life again. Why not? It was not dead;the soul of it, in this parched-up body, was tragically asleep only. Atheistic Philosophy was true on its side, and Hume and Voltaire couldon their own ground speak irrefragably for themselves against anyChurch: but lift the Church and them into a higher sphere. Of argument, _they_ died into inanition, the Church revivified itself into pristineflorid vigor, --became once more a living ship of the desert, andinvincibly bore you over stock and stone. But how, but how! By attendingto the "reason" of man, said Coleridge, and duly chaining up the"understanding" of man: the _Vernunft_ (Reason) and _Verstand_(Understanding) of the Germans, it all turned upon these, if you couldwell understand them, --which you couldn't. For the rest, Mr. Coleridgehad on the anvil various Books, especially was about to write one grandBook _On the Logos_, which would help to bridge the chasm for us. So much appeared, however: Churches, though proved false (as you hadimagined), were still true (as you were to imagine): here was an Artistwho could burn you up an old Church, root and branch; and then as theAlchemists professed to do with organic substances in general, distilyou an "Astral Spirit" from the ashes, which was the very image of theold burnt article, its air-drawn counterpart, --this you still had, ormight get, and draw uses from, if you could. Wait till the Book on theLogos were done;--alas, till your own terrene eyes, blind with conceitand the dust of logic, were purged, subtilized and spiritualizedinto the sharpness of vision requisite for discerning such an"om-m-mject. "--The ingenuous young English head, of those days, stoodstrangely puzzled by such revelations; uncertain whether it were gettinginspired, or getting infatuated into flat imbecility; and strangeeffulgence, of new day or else of deeper meteoric night, colored thehorizon of the future for it. 

Let me not be unjust to this memorable man. Surely there was here, in his pious, ever-laboring, subtle mind, a precious truth, orprefigurement of truth; and yet a fatal delusion withal. Prefigurementthat, in spite of beaver sciences and temporary spiritual hebetude andcecity, man and his Universe were eternally divine; and that no pastnobleness, or revelation of the divine, could or would ever be lost tohim. Most true, surely, and worthy of all acceptance. Good also to dowhat you can with old Churches and practical Symbols of the Noble: nayquit not the burnt ruins of them while you find there is still goldto be dug there. But, on the whole, do not think you can, by logicalalchemy, distil astral spirits from them; or if you could, that saidastral spirits, or defunct logical phantasms, could serve you inanything. What the light of your mind, which is the direct inspirationof the Almighty, pronounces incredible, --that, in God's name, leaveuncredited; at your peril do not try believing that. No subtlesthocus-pocus of "reason" versus "understanding" will avail for thatfeat;--and it is terribly perilous to try it in these provinces!

The truth is, I now see, Coleridge's talk and speculation was the emblemof himself: in it as in him, a ray of heavenly inspiration struggled, ina tragically ineffectual degree, with the weakness of flesh and blood. He says once, he "had skirted the howling deserts of Infidelity;" thiswas evident enough: but he had not had the courage, in defiance of painand terror, to press resolutely across said deserts to the new firmlands of Faith beyond; he preferred to create logical fata-morganas forhimself on this hither side, and laboriously solace himself with these. 

To the man himself Nature had given, in high measure, the seeds ofa noble endowment; and to unfold it had been forbidden him. A subtlelynx-eyed intellect, tremulous pious sensibility to all good and allbeautiful; truly a ray of empyrean light;--but embedded in such weaklaxity of character, in such indolences and esuriences as had madestrange work with it. Once more, the tragic story of a high endowmentwith an insufficient will. An eye to discern the divineness of theHeaven's spendors and lightnings, the insatiable wish to revel in theirgodlike radiances and brilliances; but no heart to front the scathingterrors of them, which is the first condition of your conquering anabiding place there. The courage necessary for him, above all things, had been denied this man. His life, with such ray of the empyrean in it, was great and terrible to him; and he had not valiantly grappled withit, he had fled from it; sought refuge in vague daydreams, hollowcompromises, in opium, in theosophic metaphysics. Harsh pain, danger, necessity, slavish harnessed toil, were of all things abhorrent to him. And so the empyrean element, lying smothered under the terrene, andyet inextinguishable there, made sad writhings. For pain, danger, difficulty, steady slaving toil, and other highly disagreeable behestsof destiny, shall in nowise be shirked by any brightest mortal that willapprove himself loyal to his mission in this world; nay preciselythe higher he is, the deeper will be the disagreeableness, and thedetestability to flesh and blood, of the tasks laid on him; and theheavier too, and more tragic, his penalties if he neglect them. 

For the old Eternal Powers do live forever; nor do their laws know anychange, however we in our poor wigs and church-tippets may attemptto read their laws. To _steal_ into Heaven, --by the modern method, ofsticking ostrich-like your head into fallacies on Earth, equally asby the ancient and by all conceivable methods, --is forever forbidden. High-treason is the name of that attempt; and it continues to bepunished as such. Strange enough: here once more was a kind ofHeaven-scaling Ixion; and to him, as to the old one, the just gods werevery stern! The ever-revolving, never-advancing Wheel (of a kind) washis, through life; and from his Cloud-Juno did not he too procreatestrange Centaurs, spectral Puseyisms, monstrous illusory Hybrids, andecclesiastical Chimeras, --which now roam the earth in a very lamentablemanner!

CHAPTER IX. SPANISH EXILES. 

This magical ingredient thrown into the wild caldron of such a mind, which we have seen occupied hitherto with mere Ethnicism, Radicalism andrevolutionary tumult, but hungering all along for something higher andbetter, was sure to be eagerly welcomed and imbibed, and could not failto produce important fermentations there. Fermentations; important newdirections, and withal important new perversions, in the spiritual lifeof this man, as it has since done in the lives of so many. Here thenis the new celestial manna we were all in quest of? This thrice-refinedpabulum of transcendental moonshine? Whoso eateth thereof, --yes, what, on the whole, will _he_ probably grow to?

Sterling never spoke much to me of his intercourse with Coleridge; andwhen we did compare notes about him, it was usually rather in the wayof controversial discussion than of narrative. So that, from my ownresources, I can give no details of the business, nor specify anythingin it, except the general fact of an ardent attendance at Highgatecontinued for many months, which was impressively known to allSterling's friends; and am unable to assign even the limitary dates, Sterling's own papers on the subject having all been destroyed byhim. Inferences point to the end of 1828 as the beginning of thisintercourse; perhaps in 1829 it was at the highest point; and already in1830, when the intercourse itself was about to terminate, we have proofof the influences it was producing, --in the Novel of _Arthur Coningsby_, then on hand, the first and only Book that Sterling ever wrote. Hiswritings hitherto had been sketches, criticisms, brief essays; he wasnow trying it on a wider scale; but not yet with satisfactory results, and it proved to be his only trial in that form. 

He had already, as was intimated, given up his brief proprietorship ofthe _Athenaeum_; the commercial indications, and state of sales and ofcosts, peremptorily ordering him to do so; the copyright went by sale orgift, I know not at what precise date, into other fitter hands; and withthe copyright all connection on the part of Sterling. To _Athenaeum_Sketches had now (in 1829-30) succeeded _Arthur Coningsby_, a Novelin three volumes; indicating (when it came to light, a year ortwo afterwards) equally hasty and much more ambitious aims inLiterature;--giving strong evidence, too, of internal spiritualrevulsions going painfully forward, and in particular of the impressionColeridge was producing on him. Without and within, it was a wild tideof things this ardent light young soul was afloat upon, at present;and his outlooks into the future, whether for his spiritual or economicfortunes, were confused enough. 

Among his familiars in this period, I might have mentioned one CharlesBarton, formerly his fellow-student at Cambridge, now an amiable, cheerful, rather idle young fellow about Town; who led the way intocertain new experiences, and lighter fields, for Sterling. His Father, Lieutenant-General Barton of the Life-guards, an Irish landlord, I thinkin Fermanagh County, and a man of connections about Court, lived ina certain figure here in Town; had a wife of fashionable habits, withother sons, and also daughters, bred in this sphere. These, all ofthem, were amiable, elegant and pleasant people;--such was especiallyan eldest daughter, Susannah Barton, a stately blooming black-eyed youngwoman, attractive enough in form and character; full of gay softness, ofindolent sense and enthusiasm; about Sterling's own age, if not a littleolder. In this house, which opened to him, more decisively thanhis Father's, a new stratum of society, and where his reception forCharles's sake and his own was of the kindest, he liked very well to be;and spent, I suppose, many of his vacant half-hours, lightly chattingwith the elders or the youngsters, --doubtless with the young lady too, though as yet without particular intentions on either side. 

Nor, with all the Coleridge fermentation, was democratic Radicalismby any means given up;--though how it was to live if the Coleridgeanmoonshine took effect, might have been an abtruse question. Hitherto, while said moonshine was but taking effect, and coloring the outersurface of things without quite penetrating into the heart, democraticLiberalism, revolt against superstition and oppression, and help towhosoever would revolt, was still the grand element in Sterling's creed;and practically he stood, not ready only, but full of alacrity to fulfilall its behests. We heard long since of the "black dragoons, "--whomdoubtless the new moonshine had considerably silvered-over into newhues, by this time;--but here now, while Radicalism is tottering for himand threatening to crumble, comes suddenly the grand consummation andexplosion of Radicalism in his life; whereby, all at once, Radicalismexhausted and ended itself, and appeared no more there. 

In those years a visible section of the London population, andconspicuous out of all proportion to its size or value, was a smallknot of Spaniards, who had sought shelter here as Political Refugees. "Political Refugees:" a tragic succession of that class is one of thepossessions of England in our time. Six-and-twenty years ago, when Ifirst saw London, I remember those unfortunate Spaniards among the newphenomena. Daily in the cold spring air, under skies so unlike theirown, you could see a group of fifty or a hundred stately tragic figures, in proud threadbare cloaks; perambulating, mostly with closed lips, thebroad pavements of Euston Square and the regions about St. Pancras newChurch. Their lodging was chiefly in Somers Town, as I understood: andthose open pavements about St. Pancras Church were the general place ofrendezvous. They spoke little or no English; knew nobody, could employthemselves on nothing, in this new scene. Old steel-gray heads, manyof them; the shaggy, thick, blue-black hair of others struck you; theirbrown complexion, dusky look of suppressed fire, in general their tragiccondition as of caged Numidian lions. 

That particular Flight of Unfortunates has long since fled again, andvanished; and new have come and fled. In this convulsed revolutionaryepoch, which already lasts above sixty years, what tragic flights ofsuch have we not seen arrive on the one safe coast which is open tothem, as they get successively vanquished, and chased into exile toavoid worse! Swarm after swarm, of ever-new complexion, from Spain asfrom other countries, is thrown off, in those ever-recurring paroxysms;and will continue to be thrown off. As there could be (suggestsLinnaeus) a "flower-clock, " measuring the hours of the day, and themonths of the year, by the kinds of flowers that go to sleep and awaken, that blow into beauty and fade into dust: so in the great RevolutionaryHorologe, one might mark the years and epochs by the successive kinds ofexiles that walk London streets, and, in grim silent manner, demandpity from us and reflections from us. --This then extant group of SpanishExiles was the Trocadero swarm, thrown off in 1823, in the Riego andQuirogas quarrel. These were they whom Charles Tenth had, by sheerforce, driven from their constitutionalisms and their Trocaderofortresses, --Charles Tenth, who himself was soon driven out, manifoldlyby sheer force; and had to head his own swarm of fugitives; and has nowhimself quite vanished, and given place to others. For there is no endof them; propelling and propelled!--

Of these poor Spanish Exiles, now vegetating about Somers Town, andpainfully beating the pavement in Euston Square, the acknowledged chiefwas General Torrijos, a man of high qualities and fortunes, still inthe vigor of his years, and in these desperate circumstances refusing todespair; with whom Sterling had, at this time, become intimate. 

CHAPTER X. TORRIJOS. 

Torrijos, who had now in 1829 been here some four or five years, havingcome over in 1824, had from the first enjoyed a superior receptionin England. Possessing not only a language to speak, which few of theothers did, but manifold experiences courtly, military, diplomatic, with fine natural faculties, and high Spanish manners tempered intocosmopolitan, he had been welcomed in various circles of society;and found, perhaps he alone of those Spaniards, a certain humancompanionship among persons of some standing in this country. With theelder Sterlings, among others, he had made acquaintance; became familiarin the social circle at South Place, and was much esteemed there. WithMadam Torrijos, who also was a person of amiable and distinguishedqualities, an affectionate friendship grew up on the part of Mrs. Sterling, which ended only with the death of these two ladies. JohnSterling, on arriving in London from his University work, naturallyinherited what he liked to take up of this relation: and in the lodgingsin Regent Street, and the democratico-literary element there, Torrijosbecame a very prominent, and at length almost the central object. 

The man himself, it is well known, was a valiant, gallant man; oflively intellect, of noble chivalrous character: fine talents, fineaccomplishments, all grounding themselves on a certain rugged veracity, recommended him to the discerning. He had begun youth in the Court ofFerdinand; had gone on in Wellington and other arduous, victoriousand unvictorious, soldierings; familiar in camps and council-rooms, in presence-chambers and in prisons. He knew romantic Spain;--he washimself, standing withal in the vanguard of Freedom's fight, a kind ofliving romance. Infinitely interesting to John Sterling, for one. 

It was to Torrijos that the poor Spaniards of Somers Town looked mainly, in their helplessness, for every species of help. Torrijos, it washoped, would yet lead them into Spain and glorious victory there;meanwhile here in England, under defeat, he was their captain andsovereign in another painfully inverse sense. To whom, in extremity, everybody might apply. When all present resources failed, and theexchequer was quite out, there still remained Torrijos. Torrijos has tofind new resources for his destitute patriots, find loans, find Spanishlessons for them among his English friends: in all which charitableoperations, it need not be said, John Sterling was his foremost man;zealous to empty his own purse for the object; impetuous in rushinghither or thither to enlist the aid of others, and find lessons orsomething that would do. His friends, of course, had to assist; theBartons, among others, were wont to assist;--and I have heard that thefair Susan, stirring up her indolent enthusiasm into practicality, wasvery successful in finding Spanish lessons, and the like, for thesedistressed men. Sterling and his friends were yet new in this business;but Torrijos and the others were getting old in it?--and doubtless wearyand almost desperate of it. They had now been seven years in it, many ofthem; and were asking, When will the end be?

Torrijos is described as a man of excellent discernment: who knows howlong he had repressed the unreasonable schemes of his followers, andturned a deaf ear to the temptings of fallacious hope? But there comesat length a sum-total of oppressive burdens which is intolerable, whichtempts the wisest towards fallacies for relief. These weary groups, pacing the Euston-Square pavements, had often said in their despair, "Were not death in battle better? Here are we slowly mouldering intonothingness; there we might reach it rapidly, in flaming splendor. Flame, either of victory to Spain and us, or of a patriot death, thesure harbinger of victory to Spain. Flame fit to kindle a fire which noFerdinand, with all his Inquisitions and Charles Tenths, could putout. " Enough, in the end of 1829, Torrijos himself had yielded to thispressure; and hoping against hope, persuaded himself that if he couldbut land in the South of Spain with a small patriot band well armedand well resolved, a band carrying fire in its heart, --then Spain, allinflammable as touchwood, and groaning indignantly under its brutaltyrant, might blaze wholly into flame round him, and incalculablevictory be won. Such was his conclusion; not sudden, yet surely notdeliberate either, --desperate rather, and forced on by circumstances. He thought with himself that, considering Somers Town and consideringSpain, the terrible chance was worth trying; that this big game of Fate, go how it might, was one which the omens credibly declared he and thesepoor Spaniards ought to play. 

His whole industries and energies were thereupon bent towards startingthe said game; and his thought and continual speech and song now was, That if he had a few thousand pounds to buy arms, to freight a ship andmake the other preparations, he and these poor gentlemen, and Spain andthe world, were made men and a saved Spain and world. What talks andconsultations in the apartment in Regent Street, during those winterdays of 1829-30; setting into open conflagration the young democracythat was wont to assemble there! Of which there is now left next tono remembrance. For Sterling never spoke a word of this affair inafter-days, nor was any of the actors much tempted to speak. We canunderstand too well that here were young fervid hearts in an explosivecondition; young rash heads, sanctioned by a man's experienced head. Here at last shall enthusiasm and theory become practice and fact; fierydreams are at last permitted to realize themselves; and now is the timeor never!--How the Coleridge moonshine comported itself amid these hottelluric flames, or whether it had not yet begun to play there (which Irather doubt), must be left to conjecture. 

Mr. Hare speaks of Sterling "sailing over to St. Valery in an openboat along with others, " upon one occasion, in this enterprise;--inthe _final_ English scene of it, I suppose. Which is very possible. Unquestionably there was adventure enough of other kinds for it, andrunning to and fro with all his speed on behalf of it, during thesemonths of his history! Money was subscribed, collected: the youngCambridge democrats were all ablaze to assist Torrijos; nay certain ofthem decided to go with him, --and went. Only, as yet, the funds wererather incomplete. And here, as I learn from a good hand, is the secrethistory of their becoming complete. Which, as we are upon the subject, I had better give. But for the following circumstance, they had perhapsnever been completed; nor had the rash enterprise, or its catastrophe, so influential on the rest of Sterling's life, taken place at all. 

A certain Lieutenant Robert Boyd, of the Indian Army, an UlsterIrishman, a cousin of Sterling's, had received some affront, orotherwise taken some disgust in that service; had thrown up hiscommission in consequence; and returned home, about this time, withintent to seek another course of life. Having only, for outfit, theseimpatient ardors, some experience in Indian drill exercise, and fivethousand pounds of inheritance, he found the enterprise attended withdifficulties; and was somewhat at a loss how to dispose of himself. Someyoung Ulster comrade, in a partly similar situation, had pointed out tohim that there lay in a certain neighboring creek of the Irish coast, aworn-out royal gun-brig condemned to sale, to be had dog-cheap: this heproposed that they two, or in fact Boyd with his five thousand pounds, should buy; that they should refit and arm and man it;--and saila-privateering "to the Eastern Archipelago, " Philippine Isles, or I knownot where; and _so_ conquer the golden fleece. 

Boyd naturally paused a little at this great proposal; did not quitereject it; came across, with it and other fine projects and impatiencesfermenting in his head, to London, there to see and consider. It was inthe months when the Torrijos enterprise was in the birth-throes; cryingwildly for capital, of all things. Boyd naturally spoke of his projectsto Sterling, --of his gun-brig lying in the Irish creek, among others. Sterling naturally said, "If you want an adventure of the Sea-king sort, and propose to lay your money and your life into such a game, here isTorrijos and Spain at his back; here is a golden fleece to conquer, worth twenty Eastern Archipelagoes. "--Boyd and Torrijos quickly met;quickly bargained. Boyd's money was to go in purchasing, and storingwith a certain stock of arms and etceteras, a small ship in the Thames, which should carry Boyd with Torrijos and the adventurers to the southcoast of Spain; and there, the game once played and won, Boyd was tohave promotion enough, --"the colonelcy of a Spanish cavalry regiment, "for one express thing. What exact share Sterling had in thisnegotiation, or whether he did not even take the prudent side andcaution Boyd to be wary I know not; but it was he that brought theparties together; and all his friends knew, in silence, that to the endof his life he painfully remembered that fact. 

And so a ship was hired, or purchased, in the Thames; due furnishingsbegan to be executed in it; arms and stores were gradually got on board;Torrijos with his Fifty picked Spaniards, in the mean while, gettingready. This was in the spring of 1830. Boyd's 5000 pounds was the grandnucleus of finance; but vigorous subscription was carried on likewisein Sterling's young democratic circle, or wherever a member of it couldfind access; not without considerable result, and with a zeal that maybe imagined. Nay, as above hinted, certain of these young men decided, not to give their money only, but themselves along with it, asdemocratic volunteers and soldiers of progress; among whom, it need notbe said, Sterling intended to be foremost. Busy weeks with him, thosespring ones of the year 1830! Through this small Note, accidentallypreserved to us, addressed to his friend Barton, we obtain a curiousglance into the subterranean workshop:--

 "_To Charles Barton, Esq. , Dorset Sq. , Regent's Park_. [No date; apparently March or February, 1830. ]

"MY DEAR CHARLES, --I have wanted to see you to talk to you about myForeign affairs. If you are going to be in London for a few days, Ibelieve you can be very useful to me, at a considerable expense andtrouble to yourself, in the way of buying accoutrements; _inter alia_, asword and a saddle, --not, you will understand, for my own use. 

"Things are going on very well, but are very, even frightfully near;only be quiet! Pray would you, in case of necessity, take a free passageto Holland, next week or the week after; stay two or three days, andcome back, all expenses paid? If you write to B---- at Cambridge, tellhim above all things to hold his tongue. If you are near Palace Yardto-morrow before two, pray come to see me. Do not come on purpose;especially as I may perhaps be away, and at all events shall not bethere until eleven, nor perhaps till rather later. 

"I fear I shall have alarmed your Mother by my irruption. Forgive mefor that and all my exactions from you. If the next month were over, Ishould not have to trouble any one. 

 "Yours affectionately, "J. STERLING. "

Busy weeks indeed; and a glowing smithy-light coming through thechinks!--The romance of _Arthur Coningsby_ lay written, or half-written, in his desk; and here, in his heart and among his hands, was an actedromance and unknown catastrophes keeping pace with that. 

Doubts from the doctors, for his health was getting ominous, threw someshade over the adventure. Reproachful reminiscences of Coleridge andTheosophy were natural too; then fond regrets for Literature and itsglories: if you act your romance, how can you also write it? Regrets, and reproachful reminiscences, from Art and Theosophy; perhaps sometenderer regrets withal. A crisis in life had come; when, of innumerablepossibilities one possibility was to be elected king, and to swallow allthe rest, the rest of course made noise enough, and swelled themselvesto their biggest. 

Meanwhile the ship was fast getting ready: on a certain day, it wasto drop quietly down the Thames; then touch at Deal, and take on boardTorrijos and his adventurers, who were to be in waiting and on theoutlook for them there. Let every man lay in his accoutrements, then;let every man make his packages, his arrangements and farewells. Sterling went to take leave of Miss Barton. "You are going, then; toSpain? To rough it amid the storms of war and perilous insurrection; andwith that weak health of yours; and--we shall never see you more, then!"Miss Barton, all her gayety gone, the dimpling softness become liquidsorrow, and the musical ringing voice one wail of woe, "burst intotears, "--so I have it on authority:--here was one possibility about tobe strangled that made unexpected noise! Sterling's interview ended inthe offer of his hand, and the acceptance of it;--any sacrifice to getrid of this horrid Spanish business, and save the health and life of agifted young man so precious to the world and to another!

"Ill-health, " as often afterwards in Sterling's life, when the excusewas real enough but not the chief excuse; "ill-health, and insuperableobstacles and engagements, " had to bear the chief brunt in apologizing:and, as Sterling's actual presence, or that of any Englishman exceptBoyd and his money, was not in the least vital to the adventure, hisexcuse was at once accepted. The English connections and subscriptionsare a given fact, to be presided over by what English volunteers thereare: and as for Englishmen, the fewer Englishmen that go, the largerwill be the share of influence for each. The other adventurers, Torrijosamong them in due readiness, moved silently one by one down to Deal;Sterling, superintending the naval hands, on board their ship inthe Thames, was to see the last finish given to everything in thatdepartment; then, on the set evening, to drop down quietly to Deal, andthere say _Andad con Dios_, and return. 

Behold! Just before the set evening came, the Spanish Envoy at thisCourt has got notice of what is going on; the Spanish Envoy, and ofcourse the British Foreign Secretary, and of course also the ThamesPolice. Armed men spring suddenly on board, one day, while Sterling isthere; declare the ship seized and embargoed in the King's name; nobodyon board to stir till he has given some account of himself in due timeand place! Huge consternation, naturally, from stem to stern. Sterling, whose presence of mind seldom forsook him, casts his eye over the Riverand its craft; sees a wherry, privately signals it, drops rapidly onboard of it: "Stop!" fiercely interjects the marine policeman from theship's deck. --"Why stop? What use have you for me, or I for you?" andthe oars begin playing. --"Stop, or I'll shoot you!" cries the marinepoliceman, drawing a pistol. --"No, you won't. "--"I will!"--"If you doyou'll be hanged at the next Maidstone assizes, then; that's all, "--andSterling's wherry shot rapidly ashore; and out of this perilousadventure. 

That same night he posted down to Deal; disclosed to the Torrijos partywhat catastrophe had come. No passage Spainward from the Thames; wellif arrestment do not suddenly come from the Thames! It was on thisoccasion, I suppose, that the passage in the open boat to St. Valeryoccurred;--speedy flight in what boat or boats, open or shut, couldbe got at Deal on the sudden. Sterling himself, according to Hare'sauthority, actually went with them so far. Enough, they got shipping, as private passengers in one craft or the other; and, by degrees or atonce, arrived all at Gibraltar, --Boyd, one or two young democrats ofRegent Street, the fifty picked Spaniards, and Torrijos, --safe, thoughwithout arms; still in the early part of the year. 

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

Sterling's outlooks and occupations, now that his Spanish friends weregone, must have been of a rather miscellaneous confused description. He had the enterprise of a married life close before him; and as yetno profession, no fixed pursuit whatever. His health was already verythreatening; often such as to disable him from present activity, and occasion the gravest apprehensions; practically blocking up allimportant courses whatsoever, and rendering the future, if evenlife were lengthened and he had any future, an insolubility for him. Parliament was shut, public life was shut: Literature, --if, alas, anysolid fruit could lie in literature!

Or perhaps one's health would mend, after all; and many things be betterthan was hoped! Sterling was not of a despondent temper, or given inany measure to lie down and indolently moan: I fancy he walked brisklyenough into this tempestuous-looking future; not heeding too much itsthunderous aspects; doing swiftly, for the day, what his hand found todo. _Arthur Coningsby_, I suppose, lay on the anvil at present; visitsto Coleridge were now again more possible; grand news from Torrijosmight be looked for, though only small yet came:--nay here, in the hotJuly, is France, at least, all thrown into volcano again! Here are themiraculous Three Days; heralding, in thunder, great things to Torrijosand others; filling with babblement and vaticination the mouths andhearts of all democratic men. 

So rolled along, in tumult of chaotic remembrance and uncertain hope, in manifold emotion, and the confused struggle (for Sterling as forthe world) to extricate the New from the falling ruins of the Old, thesummer and autumn of 1830. From Gibraltar and Torrijos the tidings werevague, unimportant and discouraging: attempt on Cadiz, attempt on thelines of St. Roch, those attempts, or rather resolutions to attempt, had died in the birth, or almost before it. Men blamed Torrijos, littleknowing his impediments. Boyd was still patient at his post: others ofthe young English (on the strength of the subscribed moneys) were saidto be thinking of tours, --perhaps in the Sierra Morena and neighboringQuixote regions. From that Torrijos enterprise it did not seem thatanything considerable would come. 

On the edge of winter, here at home, Sterling was married: "atChristchurch, Marylebone, 2d November, 1830, " say the records. Hisblooming, kindly and true-hearted Wife had not much money, nor had he asyet any: but friends on both sides were bountiful and hopeful; hadmade up, for the young couple, the foundations of a modestly effectivehousehold; and in the future there lay more substantial prospects. Onthe finance side Sterling never had anything to suffer. His Wife, thoughsomewhat languid, and of indolent humor, was a graceful, pious-minded, honorable and affectionate woman; she could not much support him in theever-shifting struggles of his life, but she faithfully attended him inthem, and loyally marched by his side through the changes and nomadicpilgrimings, of which many were appointed him in his short course. 

Unhappily a few weeks after his marriage, and before any household wasyet set up, he fell dangerously ill; worse in health than he had everyet been: so many agitations crowded into the last few months had beentoo much for him. He fell into dangerous pulmonary illness, sank everdeeper; lay for many weeks in his Father's house utterly prostrate, his young Wife and his Mother watching over him; friends, sparinglyadmitted, long despairing of his life. All prospects in this world werenow apparently shut upon him. 

After a while, came hope again, and kindlier symptoms: but the doctorsintimated that there lay consumption in the question, and that perfectrecovery was not to be looked for. For weeks he had been confined tobed; it was several months before he could leave his sick-room, where the visits of a few friends had much cheered him. And now whendelivered, readmitted to the air of day again, --weak as he was, and withsuch a liability still lurking in him, --what his young partner and hewere to do, or whitherward to turn for a good course of life, was by nomeans too apparent. 

One of his Mother Mrs. Edward Sterling's Uncles, a Coningham from Derry, had, in the course of his industrious and adventurous life, realizedlarge property in the West Indies, --a valuable Sugar-estate, with itsequipments, in the Island of St. Vincent;--from which Mrs. Sterlingand her family were now, and had been for some years before her Uncle'sdecease, deriving important benefits. I have heard, it was then worthsome ten thousand pounds a year to the parties interested. AnthonySterling, John, and another a cousin of theirs were ultimately to beheirs, in equal proportions. The old gentleman, always kind to hiskindred, and a brave and solid man though somewhat abrupt in his ways, had lately died; leaving a settlement to this effect, not without someintricacies, and almost caprices, in the conditions attached. 

This property, which is still a valuable one, was Sterling's chiefpecuniary outlook for the distant future. Of course it well deservedtaking care of; and if the eye of the master were upon it, of coursetoo (according to the adage) the cattle would fatten better. As thewarm climate was favorable to pulmonary complaints, and Sterling'soccupations were so shattered to pieces and his outlooks here so wasteand vague, why should not he undertake this duty for himself and others?

It was fixed upon as the eligiblest course. A visit to St. Vincent, perhaps a permanent residence there: he went into the project with hiscustomary impetuosity; his young Wife cheerfully consenting, and allmanner of new hopes clustering round it. There are the rich tropicalsceneries, the romance of the torrid zone with its new skies andseas and lands; there are Blacks, and the Slavery question to beinvestigated: there are the bronzed Whites and Yellows, and theirstrange new way of life: by all means let us go and try!--Arrangementsbeing completed, so soon as his strength had sufficiently recovered, andthe harsh spring winds had sufficiently abated, Sterling with his smallhousehold set sail for St. Vincent; and arrived without accident. Hisfirst child, a son Edward, now living and grown to manhood, was bornthere, "at Brighton in the Island of St. Vincent, " in the fall of thatyear 1831. 

CHAPTER XII. ISLAND OF ST. VINCENT. 

Sterling found a pleasant residence, with all its adjuncts, readyfor him, at Colonarie, in this "volcanic Isle" under the hot sun. Aninteresting Isle: a place of rugged chasms, precipitous gnarledheights, and the most fruitful hollows; shaggy everywhere with luxuriantvegetation; set under magnificent skies, in the mirror of the summerseas; offering everywhere the grandest sudden outlooks and contrasts. His Letters represent a placidly cheerful riding life: a pensive humor, but the thunder-clouds all sleeping in the distance. Good relationswith a few neighboring planters; indifference to the noisy politicaland other agitations of the rest: friendly, by no means romanticappreciation of the Blacks; quiet prosperity economic and domestic: onthe whole a healthy and recommendable way of life, with Literature verymuch in abeyance in it. 

He writes to Mr. Hare (date not given): "The landscapes around me hereare noble and lovely as any that can be conceived on Earth. How indeedcould it be otherwise, in a small Island of volcanic mountains, far within the Tropics, and perpetually covered with the richestvegetation?" The moral aspect of things is by no means so good; butneither is that without its fair features. "So far as I see, the Slaveshere are cunning, deceitful and idle; without any great aptitude forferocious crimes, and with very little scruple at committing others. ButI have seen them much only in very favorable circumstances. They are, as a body, decidedly unfit for freedom; and if left, as at present, completely in the hands of their masters, will never become so, unlessthrough the agency of the Methodists. " [9]

In the Autumn came an immense hurricane; with new and indeed quiteperilous experiences of West-Indian life. This hasty Letter, addressedto his Mother, is not intrinsically his remarkablest from St. Vincent:but the body of fact delineated in it being so much the greatest, wewill quote it in preference. A West-Indian tornado, as John Sterlingwitnesses it, and with vivid authenticity describes it, may beconsidered worth looking at. 

 "_To Mrs. Sterling, South Place, Knightsbridge, London_. "BRIGHTON, ST. VINCENT, 28th August, 1831. 

"MY DEAR MOTHER, --The packet came in yesterday; bringing me someNewspapers, a Letter from my Father, and one from Anthony, with a fewlines from you. I wrote, some days ago, a hasty Note to my Father, on the chance of its reaching you through Grenada sooner than anycommunication by the packet; and in it I spoke of the great misfortunewhich had befallen this Island and Barbadoes, but from which all thoseyou take an interest in have happily escaped unhurt. 

"From the day of our arrival in the West Indies until Thursday the 11thinstant, which will long be a memorable day with us, I had been doing mybest to get ourselves established comfortably; and I had at last boughtthe materials for making some additions to the house. But on the morningI have mentioned, all that I had exerted myself to do, nearly all theproperty both of Susan and myself, and the very house we lived in, weresuddenly destroyed by a visitation of Providence far more terrible thanany I have ever witnessed. 

"When Susan came from her room, to breakfast, at eight o'clock, Ipointed out to her the extraordinary height and violence of the surf, and the singular appearance of the clouds of heavy rain sweeping downthe valleys before us. At this time I had so little apprehension of whatwas coming, that I talked of riding down to the shore when the stormshould abate, as I had never seen so fierce a sea. In about a quarter ofan hour the House-Negroes came in, to close the outside shutters of thewindows. They knew that the plantain-trees about the Negro houses hadbeen blown down in the night; and had told the maid-servant Tyrrell, butI had heard nothing of it. A very few minutes after the closing of thewindows, I found that the shutters of Tyrrell's room, at the south andcommonly the most sheltered end of the House, were giving way. I triedto tie them; but the silk handkerchief which I used soon gave way;and as I had neither hammer, boards nor nails in the house, I could donothing more to keep out the tempest. I found, in pushing at the leaf ofthe shutter, that the wind resisted, more as if it had been a stone wallor a mass of iron, than a mere current of air. There were one or twopeople outside trying to fasten the windows, and I went out to help; butwe had no tools at hand: one man was blown down the hill in front of thehouse, before my face; and the other and myself had great difficulty ingetting 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 the large room were now giving way; and Isuppose it was about nine o'clock, when the hurricane burst them in, asif it had been a discharge from a battery of heavy cannon. The shutterswere first forced open, and the wind fastened them back to the wall;and then the panes of glass were smashed by the mere force of the gale, without 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 past thebookcases, as if it had been the Colonarie River. But we carried a gooddeal of furniture into the passage at the entrance; we set Susan thereon a sofa, and the Black Housekeeper was even attempting to get her somebreakfast. The house, however, began to shake so violently, and the rainwas so searching, that she could not stay there long. She went into herown room and I stayed to see what could be done. 

"Under the forepart of the house, there are cellars built of stone, but not arched. To these, however, there was no access except on theoutside; and I knew from my own experience that Susan could not havegone a step beyond the door, without being carried away by the storm, and probably killed on the spot. The only chance seemed to be that ofbreaking through the floor. But when the old Cook and myself resolved onthis, we found that we had no instrument with which it would be possibleto do it. It was now clear that we had only God to trust in. The frontwindows were giving way with successive crashes, and the floor shookas you may have seen a carpet on a gusty day in London. I went intoour bedroom; where I found Susan, Tyrrell, and a little Colored girl ofseven or eight years old; and told them that we should probably notbe alive in half an hour. I could have escaped, if I had chosen to goalone, by crawling on the ground either into the kitchen, a separatestone building at no great distance, or into the open fields away fromtrees or houses; but Susan could not have gone a yard. She became quitecalm when she knew the worst; and she sat on my knee in what seemed thesafest corner of the room, while every blast was bringing nearer andnearer the moment of our seemingly certain destruction. --

"The house was under two parallel roofs; and the one next the sea, which sheltered the other, and us who were under the other, went off, Isuppose about ten o'clock. After my old plan, I will give you a sketch, from which you may perceive how we were situated:--

 [In print, a figure representing a floor-plan appears here]

The _a_, _a_ are the windows that were first destroyed: _b_ went next;my books were between the windows _b_, and on the wall opposite to them. The lines _c_ and _d_ mark the directions of the two roofs; _e_ is theroom in which we were, and 2 is a plan of it on a larger scale. Looknow at 2: _a_ is the bed; _c_, _c_ the two wardrobes; _b_ the cornerin which we were. I was sitting in an arm-chair, holding my Wife; andTyrrell and the little Black child were close to us. We had given up allnotion of surviving; and only waited for the fall of the roof to perishtogether. 

"Before long the roof went. Most of the materials, however, were carriedclear away: one of the large couples was caught on the bedpost marked_d_, and held fast by the iron spike; while the end of it hung over ourheads: had the beam fallen an inch on either side of the bedpost, itmust necessarily have crushed us. The walls did not go with the roof;and we remained for half an hour, alternately praying to God, andwatching them as they bent, creaked, and shivered before the storm. 

"Tyrrell and the child, when the roof was off, made their way throughthe remains of the partition, to the outer door; and with the help ofthe people who were looking for us, got into the kitchen. A good whileafter they were gone, and before we knew anything of their fate, a Negrosuddenly came upon us; and the sight of him gave us a hope of safety. When the people learned that we were in danger, and while their own hutswere flying about their ears, they crowded to help us; and the oldCook urged them on to our rescue. He made five attempts, after savingTyrrell, to get to us; and four times he was blown down. The fifth timehe, and the Negro we first saw, reached the house. The space they hadto traverse was not above twenty yards of level ground, if so much. Inanother minute or two, the Overseers and a crowd of Negroes, most ofwhom had come on their hands and knees, were surrounding us; and withtheir help Susan was carried round to the end of the house; where theybroke open the cellar window, and placed her in comparative safety. Theforce of the hurricane was, by this time, a good deal diminished, or itwould have been impossible 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 remainedunder it, for more than two hours: and I was long afraid that the wetand cold would kill her, if she did not perish more violently. Happilywe had wine and spirits at hand, and she was much nerved by a tumblerof claret. As soon as I saw her in comparative security, I went off withone of the Overseers down to the Works, where the greater number of theNegroes were collected, that we might see what could be done for them. They were wretched enough, but no one was hurt; and I ordered them adram apiece, which seemed to give them a good deal of consolation. 

"Before I could make my way back, the hurricane became as bad as atfirst; and I was obliged to take shelter for half an hour in a ruinedNegro house. This, however, was the last of its extreme violence. Byone o'clock, even the rain had in a great degree ceased; and as onlyone room of the house, the one marked _f_; was standing, and thatrickety, --I had Susan carried in a chair down the hill, to the Hospital;where, in a small paved unlighted room, she spent the next twenty-fourhours. She was far less injured than might have been expected from sucha catastrophe. 

"Next day, I had the passage at the entrance of the house repaired androofed; and we returned to the ruins of our habitation, still encumberedas they were with the wreck of almost all we were possessed of. Thewalls of the part of the house next the sea were carried away, in less Ithink than half an hour after we reached the cellar: when I had leisureto examine the remains of the house, I found the floor strewn withfragments of the building, and with broken furniture; and our books allsoaked as completely as if they had been for several hours in the sea. 

"In the course of a few days I had the other room, _g_, which is underthe same roof as the one saved, rebuilt; and Susan stayed in thistemporary abode for a week, --when we left Colonarie, and came toBrighton. Mr. Munro's kindness exceeds all precedent. We shall certainlyremain here till my Wife is recovered from her confinement. In themean while we shall have a new house built, in which we hope to be wellsettled before Christmas. 

"The roof was half blown off the kitchen, but I have had it mendedalready; the other offices were all swept away. The gig is much injured;and my horse received a wound in the fall of the stable, from which hewill not be recovered for some weeks: in the mean time I have no choicebut to buy another, as I must go at least once or twice a week toColonarie, besides business in Town. As to our own comforts, we canscarcely expect ever to recover from the blow that has now strickenus. No money would repay me for the loss of my books, of which a largeproportion had been in my hands for so many years that they werelike old and faithful friends, and of which many had been given me atdifferent times by the persons in the world whom I most value. 

"But against all this I have to set the preservation of our lives, ina way the most awfully providential; and the safety of every one on theEstate. And I have also the great satisfaction of reflecting that allthe Negroes from whom any assistance could reasonably be expected, behaved like so many Heroes of Antiquity; risking their lives and limbsfor us and our property, while their own poor houses were flying likechaff before the hurricane. There are few White people here who cansay as much for their Black dependents; and the force and value of therelation between Master and Slave has been tried by the late calamity ona large scale. 

"Great part of both sides of this Island has been laid completelywaste. The beautiful wide and fertile Plain called the Charib Country, extending for many miles to the north of Colonarie, and formerlycontaining the finest sets of works and best dwelling-houses in theIsland, is, I am told, completely desolate: on several estates not aroof even of a Negro hut standing. In the embarrassed circumstances ofmany of the proprietors, the ruin is, I fear, irreparable. --At Colonariethe damage is serious, but by no means desperate. The crop is perhapsinjured ten or fifteen per cent. The roofs of several large buildingsare destroyed, but these we are already supplying; and the injuries doneto the cottages of the Negroes are, by this time, nearly if not quiteremedied. 

"Indeed, all that has been suffered in St. Vincent appears nothingwhen compared with the appalling loss of property and of human lives atBarbadoes. There the Town is little but a heap of ruins, and the corpsesare reckoned by thousands; while throughout the Island there are not, Ibelieve, ten estates on which the buildings are standing. The Elliotts, from whom we have heard, are living with all their family in a tent; andmay think themselves wonderfully saved, when whole families round themwere crushed at once beneath their houses. Hugh Barton, the only officerof the Garrison hurt, has broken his arm, and we know nothing of hisprospects of recovery. The more horrible misfortune of Barbadoes ispartly to be accounted for by the fact of the hurricane having begunthere during the night. The flatness of the surface in that Islandpresented no obstacle to the wind, which must, however, I think havebeen in itself more furious than with us. No other island has sufferedconsiderably. 

"I have told both my Uncle and Anthony that I have given you the detailsof our recent history;--which are not so pleasant that I should wish towrite them again. Perhaps you will be good enough to let them see this, as soon as you and my Father can spare it. . . . I am ever, dearest Mother, "Your grateful and affectionate "JOHN STERLING. "

This Letter, I observe, is dated 28th August, 1831; which is otherwise aday of mark to the world and me, --the Poet Goethe's last birthday. WhileSterling sat in the Tropical solitudes, penning this history, littleEuropean Weimar had its carriages and state-carriages busy on thestreets, and was astir with compliments and visiting-cards, doing itsbest, as heretofore, on behalf of a remarkable day; and was not, forcenturies or tens of centuries, to see the like of it again!--

At Brighton, the hospitable home of those Munros, our friends continuedfor above two months. Their first child, Edward, as above noticed, wasborn here, "14th October, 1831;"--and now the poor lady, safe from allher various perils, could return to Colonarie under good auspices. 

It was in this year that I first heard definitely of Sterling as acontemporary existence; and laid up some note and outline of him in mymemory, as of one whom I might yet hope to know. John Mill, Mrs. Austinand perhaps other friends, spoke of him with great affection and muchpitying admiration; and hoped to see him home again, under better omens, from over the seas. As a gifted amiable being, of a certain radianttenuity and velocity, too thin and rapid and diffusive, in danger ofdissipating himself into the vague, or alas into death itself: it wasso that, like a spot of bright colors, rather than a portrait withfeatures, he hung occasionally visible in my imagination. 

CHAPTER XIII. A CATASTROPHE. 

The ruin of his house had hardly been repaired, when there arrived outof Europe tidings which smote as with a still more fatal hurricane onthe four corners of his inner world, and awoke all the old thunders thatlay asleep on his horizon there. Tidings, at last of a decisive nature, from Gibraltar and the Spanish democrat adventure. This is what theNewspapers had to report--the catastrophe at once, the details bydegrees--from Spain concerning that affair, in the beginning of the newyear 1832. 

Torrijos, as we have seen, had hitherto accomplished as good as nothing, except disappointment to his impatient followers, and sorrow and regretto himself. Poor Torrijos, on arriving at Gibraltar with his wild band, and coming into contact with the rough fact, had found painfully howmuch his imagination had deceived him. The fact lay round him haggardand iron-bound; flatly refusing to be handled according to his schemeof it. No Spanish soldiery nor citizenry showed the least disposition tojoin him; on the contrary the official Spaniards of that coast seemedto have the watchfulest eye on all his movements, nay it was conjecturedthey had spies in Gibraltar who gathered his very intentions andbetrayed them. This small project of attack, and then that other, proved futile, or was abandoned before the attempt. Torrijos had to liepainfully within the lines of Gibraltar, --his poor followers reduced toextremity of impatience and distress; the British Governor too, thoughnot unfriendly to him, obliged to frown. As for the young Cantabs, they, as was said, had wandered a little over the South border of romanticSpain; had perhaps seen Seville, Cadiz, with picturesque views, sincenot with belligerent ones; and their money being done, had now returnedhome. So had it lasted for eighteen months. 

The French Three Days breaking out had armed the Guerrillero Mina, armedall manner of democratic guerrieros and guerrilleros; and considerableclouds of Invasion, from Spanish exiles, hung minatory over the Northand North-East of Spain, supported by the new-born French Democracy, so far as privately possible. These Torrijos had to look upon withinexpressible feelings, and take no hand in supporting from the South;these also he had to see brushed away, successively abolished byofficial generalship; and to sit within his lines, in the painfulestmanner, unable to do anything. The fated, gallant-minded, but tooheadlong man. At length the British Governor himself was obliged, inofficial decency and as is thought on repeated remonstrance from hisSpanish official neighbors, to signify how indecorous, improperand impossible it was to harbor within one's lines such explosivepreparations, once they were discovered, against allies in full peacewith us, --the necessity, in fact, there was for the matter ending. Itis said, he offered Torrijos and his people passports, and Britishprotection, to any country of the world except Spain: Torrijos did notaccept the passports; spoke of going peaceably to this place or to that;promised at least, what he saw and felt to be clearly necessary, that hewould soon leave Gibraltar. And he did soon leave it; he and his, Boydalone of the Englishmen being now with him. 

It was on the last night of November, 1831, that they all set forth;Torrijos with Fifty-five companions; and in two small vessels committedthemselves to their nigh-desperate fortune. No sentry or official personhad noticed them; it was from the Spanish Consul, next morning, that theBritish Governor first heard they were gone. The British Governor knewnothing of them; but apparently the Spanish officials were much betterinformed. Spanish guardships, instantly awake, gave chase to the twosmall vessels, which were making all sail towards Malaga; and, on shore, all manner of troops and detached parties were in motion, to render aretreat to Gibraltar by land impossible. 

Crowd all sail for Malaga, then; there perhaps a regiment will join us;there, --or if not, we are but lost! Fancy need not paint a more tragicsituation than that of Torrijos, the unfortunate gallant man, in thegray of this morning, first of December, 1831, --his last free morning. Noble game is afoot, afoot at last; and all the hunters have him intheir toils. --The guardships gain upon Torrijos; he cannot even reachMalaga; has to run ashore at a place called Fuengirola, not far fromthat city;--the guardships seizing his vessels, so soon as heis disembarked. The country is all up; troops scouring the coasteverywhere: no possibility of getting into Malaga with a party ofFifty-five. He takes possession of a farmstead (Ingles, the place iscalled); barricades himself there, but is speedily beleaguered withforces hopelessly superior. He demands to treat; is refused all treaty;is granted six hours to consider, shall then either surrender atdiscretion, or be forced to do it. Of course he _does_ it, having noalternative; and enters Malaga a prisoner, all his followers prisoners. Here had the Torrijos Enterprise, and all that was embarked upon it, finally arrived. 

Express is sent to Madrid; express instantly returns; "Militaryexecution on the instant; give them shriving if they want it; thatdone, fusillade them all. " So poor Torrijos and his followers, the wholeFifty-six of them, Robert Boyd included, meet swift death in Malaga. In such manner rushes down the curtain on them and their affair; theyvanish thus on a sudden; rapt away as in black clouds of fate. PoorBoyd, Sterling's cousin, pleaded his British citizenship; to no purpose:it availed only to his dead body, this was delivered to the BritishConsul for interment, and only this. Poor Madam Torrijos, hearing, at Paris where she now was, of her husband's capture, hurries towardsMadrid to solicit mercy; whither also messengers from Lafayette and theFrench Government were hurrying, on the like errand: at Bayonne, newsmet the poor lady that it was already all over, that she was now awidow, and her husband hidden from her forever. --Such was the handsel ofthe new year 1832 for Sterling in his West-Indian solitudes. 

Sterling's friends never heard of these affairs; indeed we were allsecretly warned not to mention the name of Torrijos in his hearing, which accordingly remained strictly a forbidden subject. His misery overthis catastrophe was known, in his own family, to have been immense. Hewrote to his Brother Anthony: "I hear the sound of that musketry; it isas if the bullets were tearing my own brain. " To figure in one's sickand excited imagination such a scene of fatal man-hunting, lost valorhopelessly captured and massacred; and to add to it, that the victimsare not men merely, that they are noble and dear forms known latelyas individual friends: what a Dance of the Furies and wild-pealingDead-march is this, for the mind of a loving, generous and vivid man!Torrijos getting ashore at Fuengirola; Robert Boyd and others rankedto die on the esplanade at Malaga--Nay had not Sterling, too, been theinnocent yet heedless means of Boyd's embarking in this enterprise? Byhis own kinsman poor Boyd had been witlessly guided into the pitfalls. "I hear the sound of that musketry; it is as if the bullets were tearingmy own brain!"

CHAPTER XIV. PAUSE. 

These thoughts dwelt long with Sterling; and for a good while, I fancy, kept possession of the proscenium of his mind; madly parading there, tothe exclusion of all else, --coloring all else with their own black hues. He was young, rich in the power to be miserable or otherwise; and thiswas his first grand sorrow which had now fallen upon him. 

An important spiritual crisis, coming at any rate in some form, hadhereby suddenly in a very sad form come. No doubt, as youth was passinginto manhood in these Tropical seclusions, and higher wants wereawakening in his mind, and years and reflection were adding new insightand admonition, much in his young way of thought and action lay alreadyunder ban with him, and repentances enough over many things were notwanting. But here on a sudden had all repentances, as it were, dashedthemselves together into one grand whirlwind of repentance; and hispast life was fallen wholly as into a state of reprobation. A greatremorseful misery had come upon him. Suddenly, as with a suddenlightning-stroke, it had kindled into conflagration all the ruinedstructure of his past life; such ruin had to blaze and flame roundhim, in the painfulest manner, till it went out in black ashes. Hisdemocratic philosophies, and mutinous radicalisms, already fallingdoomed in his thoughts, had reached their consummation and finalcondemnation here. It was all so rash, imprudent, arrogant, allthat; false, or but half true; inapplicable wholly as a rule of nobleconduct;--and it has ended _thus_. Woe on it! Another guidance must befound in life, or life is impossible!--

It is evident, Sterling's thoughts had already, since the old days ofthe "black dragoon, " much modified themselves. We perceive that, by mereincrease of experience and length of time, the opposite and much deeperside of the question, which also has its adamantine basis of truth, wasin turn coming into play; and in fine that a Philosophy of Denial, andworld illuminated merely by the flames of Destruction, could never havepermanently been the resting-place of such a man. Those pilgrimings toColeridge, years ago, indicate deeper wants beginning to be felt, andimportant ulterior resolutions becoming inevitable for him. If in yourown soul there is any tone of the "Eternal Melodies, " you cannot liveforever in those poor outer, transitory grindings and discords; you willhave to struggle inwards and upwards, in search of some diviner homefor yourself!--Coleridge's prophetic moonshine, Torrijos's sad tragedy:those were important occurrences in Sterling's life. But, on the whole, there was a big Ocean for him, with impetuous Gulf-streams, and a doomedvoyage in quest of the Atlantis, _before_ either of those arose aslights on the horizon. As important beacon-lights let us count themnevertheless;--signal-dates they form to us, at lowest. We mayreckon this Torrijos tragedy the crisis of Sterling's history; theturning-point, which modified, in the most important and by no meanswholly in the most favorable manner, all the subsequent stages of it. 

Old Radicalism and mutinous audacious Ethnicism having thus fallento wreck, and a mere black world of misery and remorse now disclosingitself, whatsoever of natural piety to God and man, whatsoever of pityand reverence, of awe and devout hope was in Sterling's heart now awokeinto new activity; and strove for some due utterance and predominance. His Letters, in these months, speak of earnest religious studies andefforts;--of attempts by prayer and longing endeavor of all kinds, tostruggle his way into the temple, if temple there were, and there findsanctuary. [10] The realities were grown so haggard; life a field ofblack ashes, if there rose no temple anywhere on it! Why, like a fatedOrestes, is man so whipt by the Furies, and driven madly hither andthither, if it is not even that he may seek some shrine, and there makeexpiation and find deliverance?

In these circumstances, what a scope for Coleridge's philosophy, aboveall! "If the bottled moonshine _be_ actually substance? Ah, could onebut believe in a Church while finding it incredible! What is faith; whatis conviction, credibility, insight? Can a thing be at once known fortrue, and known for false? 'Reason, ' 'Understanding:' is there, then, such an internecine war between these two? It was so Coleridgeimagined it, the wisest of existing men!"--No, it is not an easy matter(according to Sir Kenelm Digby), this of getting up your "astral spirit"of a thing, and setting it in action, when the thing itself is wellburnt to ashes. Poor Sterling; poor sons of Adam in general, in this sadage of cobwebs, worn-out symbolisms, reminiscences and simulacra! Whocan tell the struggles of poor Sterling, and his pathless wanderingsthrough these things! Long afterwards, in speech with his Brother, he compared his case in this time to that of "a young lady who hastragically lost her lover, and is willing to be half-hoodwinked into aconvent, or in any noble or quasi-noble way to escape from a world whichhas become intolerable. "

During the summer of 1832, I find traces of attempts towardsAnti-Slavery Philanthropy; shadows of extensive schemes in thatdirection. Half-desperate outlooks, it is likely, towards the refuge ofPhilanthropism, as a new chivalry of life. These took no serious holdof so clear an intellect; but they hovered now and afterwards asday-dreams, when life otherwise was shorn of aim;--mirages in thedesert, which are found not to be lakes when you put your bucket intothem. One thing was clear, the sojourn in St. Vincent was not to lastmuch longer. 

Perhaps one might get some scheme raised into life, in Downing Street, for universal Education to the Blacks, preparatory to emancipatingthem? There were a noble work for a man! Then again poor Mrs. Sterling'shealth, contrary to his own, did not agree with warm moist climates. And again, &c. &c. These were the outer surfaces of the measure; theunconscious pretexts under which it showed itself to Sterling andwas shown by him: but the inner heart and determining cause of it (asfrequently in Sterling's life, and in all our lives) was not these. Inbrief, he had had enough of St. Vincent. The strangling oppressions ofhis soul were too heavy for him there. Solution lay in Europe, or mightlie; not in these remote solitudes of the sea, --where no shrine orsaint's well is to be looked for, no communing of pious pilgrimsjourneying together towards a shrine. 

CHAPTER XV. BONN; HERSTMONCEUX. 

After a residence of perhaps fifteen months Sterling quitted St. Vincent, and never returned. He reappeared at his Father's house, to thejoy of English friends, in August, 1832; well improved in health, andeager for English news; but, beyond vague schemes and possibilities, considerably uncertain what was next to be done. 

After no long stay in this scene, --finding Downing Street dead as stoneto the Slave-Education and to all other schemes, --he went across, withhis wife and child, to Germany; purposing to make not so much a touras some loose ramble, or desultory residence in that country, in theRhineland first of all. Here was to be hoped the picturesque in scenery, which he much affected; here the new and true in speculation, whichhe inwardly longed for and wanted greatly more; at all events, here asreadily as elsewhere might a temporary household be struck up, underinteresting circumstances. --I conclude he went across in the Springof 1833; perhaps directly after _Arthur Coningsby_ had got through thepress. This Novel, which, as we have said, was begun two or three yearsago, probably on his cessation from the _Athenaeum_, and was mainlyfinished, I think, before the removal to St. Vincent, had by this timefallen as good as obsolete to his own mind; and its destination now, whether to the press or to the fire, was in some sort a matter at onceof difficulty and of insignificance to him. At length deciding for themilder alternative, he had thrown in some completing touches hereand there, --especially, as I conjecture, a proportion of Coleridgeanmoonshine at the end; and so sent it forth. 

It was in the sunny days, perhaps in May or June of this year, that_Arthur Coningsby_ reached my own hand, far off amid the heathywildernesses; sent by John Mill: and I can still recollect the pleasantlittle episode it made in my solitude there. The general impression itleft on me, which has never since been renewed by a second reading inwhole or in part, was the certain prefigurement to myself, more orless distinct, of an opulent, genial and sunny mind, but misdirected, disappointed, experienced in misery;--nay crude and hasty; mistaking fora solid outcome from its woes what was only to me a gilded vacuity. Thehero an ardent youth, representing Sterling himself, plunges intolife such as we now have it in these anarchic times, with the radical, utilitarian, or mutinous heathen theory, which is the readiest forinquiring souls; finds, by various courses of adventure, utter shipwreckin this; lies broken, very wretched: that is the tragic nodus, orapogee of his life-course. In this mood of mind, he clutches desperatelytowards some new method (recognizable as Coleridge's) of laying handagain on the old Church, which has hitherto been extraneous and asif non-extant to his way of thought; makes out, by some Coleridgeanlegedermain, that there actually is still a Church for him; that thisextant Church, which he long took for an extinct shadow, is not such, but a substance; upon which he can anchor himself amid the storms offate;--and he does so, even taking orders in it, I think. Such couldby no means seem to me the true or tenable solution. Here clearly, struggling amid the tumults, was a lovable young fellow-soul; who hadby no means yet got to land; but of whom much might be hoped, if he everdid. Some of the delineations are highly pictorial, flooded with adeep ruddy effulgence; betokening much wealth, in the crude or the ripestate. The hope of perhaps, one day, knowing Sterling, was welcomeand interesting to me. _Arthur Coningsby_, struggling imperfectly in asphere high above circulating-library novels, gained no notice whateverin that quarter; gained, I suppose in a few scattered heads, some suchrecognition as the above; and there rested. Sterling never mentioned thename of it in my hearing, or would hear it mentioned. 

In those very days while _Arthur Coningsby_ was getting read amid theScottish moors, "in June, 1833, " Sterling, at Bonn in the Rhine-country, fell in with his old tutor and friend, the Reverend Julius Hare; onewith whom he always delighted to communicate, especially on such topicsas then altogether occupied him. A man of cheerful serious character, ofmuch approved accomplishment, of perfect courtesy; surely of much piety, in all senses of that word. Mr. Hare had quitted his scholastic laborsand distinctions, some time ago; the call or opportunity for takingorders having come; and as Rector of Herstmonceux in Sussex, a placepatrimonially and otherwise endeared to him, was about entering, underthe best omens, on a new course of life. He was now on his return fromRome, and a visit of some length to Italy. Such a meeting could notbut be welcome and important to Sterling in such a mood. They hadmuch earnest conversation, freely communing on the highest matters;especially of Sterling's purpose to undertake the clerical profession, in which course his reverend friend could not but bid him good speed. 

It appears, Sterling already intimated his intention to become aclergyman: He would study theology, biblicalities, perfect himself inthe knowledge seemly or essential for his new course;--read diligently"for a year or two in some good German University, " then seek to obtainorders: that was his plan. To which Mr. Hare gave his hearty _Euge_;adding that if his own curacy happened then to be vacant, he should bewell pleased to have Sterling in that office. So they parted. 

"A year or two" of serious reflection "in some good German University, "or anywhere in the world, might have thrown much elucidation upon theseconfused strugglings and purposings of Sterling's, and probably havespared him some confusion in his subsequent life. But the talent ofwaiting was, of all others, the one he wanted most. Impetuous velocity, all-hoping headlong alacrity, what we must call rashness and impatience, characterized him in most of his important and unimportant procedures;from the purpose to the execution there was usually but one big leapwith him. A few months after Mr. Hare was gone, Sterling wrote that hispurposes were a little changed by the late meeting at Bonn; that he nowlonged to enter the Church straightway: that if the Herstmonceux Curacywas still vacant, and the Rector's kind thought towards him still held, he would instantly endeavor to qualify himself for that office. 

Answer being in the affirmative on both heads, Sterling returned toEngland; took orders, --"ordained deacon at Chichester on Trinity Sundayin 1834" (he never became technically priest):--and so, having fittedhimself and family with a reasonable house, in one of those leafy lanesin quiet Herstmonceux, on the edge of Pevensey Level, he commenced theduties of his Curacy. 

The bereaved young lady has _taken_ the veil, then! Even so. "Life isgrowing all so dark and brutal; must be redeemed into human, if it willcontinue life. Some pious heroism, to give a human color to life again, on any terms, "--even on impossible ones!

To such length can transcendental moonshine, cast by some morbidlyradiating Coleridge into the chaos of a fermenting life, act magicallythere, and produce divulsions and convulsions and diseased developments. So dark and abstruse, without lamp or authentic finger-post, is thecourse of pious genius towards the Eternal Kingdoms grown. No fixedhighway more; the old spiritual highways and recognized paths to theEternal, now all torn up and flung in heaps, submerged in unutterableboiling mud-oceans of Hypocrisy and Unbelievability, of brutal livingAtheism and damnable dead putrescent Cant: surely a tragic pilgrimagefor all mortals; Darkness, and the mere shadow of Death, enveloping allthings from pole to pole; and in the raging gulf-currents, offering uswill-o'-wisps for loadstars, --intimating that there are no stars, norever were, except certain Old-Jew ones which have now gone out. Oncemore, a tragic pilgrimage for all mortals; and for the young pious soul, winged with genius, and passionately seeking land, and passionatelyabhorrent of floating carrion withal, more tragical than for any!--Apilgrimage we must all undertake nevertheless, and make the best ofwith our respective means. Some arrive; a glorious few: many must belost, --go down upon the floating wreck which they took for land. Nay, courage! These also, so far as there was any heroism in them, havebequeathed their life as a contribution to us, have valiantly laid theirbodies in the chasm for us: of these also there is no ray of heroism_lost_, --and, on the whole, what else of them could or should be "saved"at any time? Courage, and ever Forward!

Concerning this attempt of Sterling's to find sanctuary in the oldChurch, and desperately grasp the hem of her garment in such manner, there will at present be many opinions: and mine must be recorded herein flat reproval of it, in mere pitying condemnation of it, as a rash, false, unwise and unpermitted step. Nay, among the evil lessons of hisTime to poor Sterling, I cannot but account this the worst; properlyindeed, as we may say, the apotheosis, the solemn apology andconsecration, of all the evil lessons that were in it to him. Alas, ifwe did remember the divine and awful nature of God's Truth, and had notso forgotten it as poor doomed creatures never did before, --should we, durst we in our most audacious moments, think of wedding _it_ to theWorld's Untruth, which is also, like all untruths, the Devil's? Only inthe world's last lethargy can such things be done, and accounted safeand pious! Fools! "Do you think the Living God is a buzzard idol, "sternly asks Milton, that you dare address Him in this manner?--Suchdarkness, thick sluggish clouds of cowardice and oblivious baseness, have accumulated on us: thickening as if towards the eternal sleep!It is not now known, what never needed proof or statement before, thatReligion is not a doubt; that it is a certainty, --or else a mockery andhorror. That none or all of the many things we are in doubt about, andneed to have demonstrated and rendered probable, can by any alchemy bemade a "Religion" for us; but are and must continue a baleful, quiet orunquiet, Hypocrisy for us; and bring--_salvation_, do we fancy? I think, it is another thing they will bring, and are, on all hands, visiblybringing this good while!--

The time, then, with its deliriums, has done its worst for poorSterling. Into deeper aberration it cannot lead him; this is thecrowning error. Happily, as beseems the superlative of errors, it wasa very brief, almost a momentary one. In June, 1834, Sterling dates asinstalled at Herstmonceux; and is flinging, as usual, his whole soulinto the business; successfully so far as outward results could show:but already in September, he begins to have misgivings; and in Februaryfollowing, quits it altogether, --the rest of his life being, in greatpart, a laborious effort of detail to pick the fragments of it off him, and be free of it in soul as well as in title. 

At this the extreme point of spiritual deflexion and depression, whenthe world's madness, unusually impressive on such a man, has done itsvery worst with him, and in all future errors whatsoever he will be alittle less mistaken, we may close the First Part of Sterling's Life. 

PART II. 

CHAPTER I. CURATE. 

By Mr. Hare's account, no priest of any Church could more ferventlyaddress himself to his functions than Sterling now did. He went aboutamong the poor, the ignorant, and those that had need of help; zealouslyforwarded schools and beneficences; strove, with his whole might, toinstruct and aid whosoever suffered consciously in body, or still worseunconsciously in mind. He had charged himself to make the Apostle Paulhis model; the perils and voyagings and ultimate martyrdom of ChristianPaul, in those old ages, on the great scale, were to be translated intodetail, and become the practical emblem of Christian Sterling on thecoast of Sussex in this new age. "It would be no longer from Jerusalemto Damascus, " writes Sterling, "to Arabia, to Derbe, Lystra, Ephesus, that he would travel: but each house of his appointed Parish would beto him what each of those great cities was, --a place where he would bendhis whole being, and spend his heart for the conversion, purification, elevation of those under his influence. The whole man would beforever at work for this purpose; head, heart, knowledge, time, body, possessions, all would be directed to this end. " A high enough modelset before one:--how to be realized!--Sterling hoped to realize it, tostruggle towards realizing it, in some small degree. This is Mr. Hare'sreport of him:--

"He was continually devising some fresh scheme for improving thecondition of the Parish. His aim was to awaken the minds of thepeople, to arouse their conscience, to call forth their sense of moralresponsibility, to make them feel their own sinfulness, their need ofredemption, and thus lead them to a recognition of the Divine Love bywhich that redemption is offered to us. In visiting them he was diligentin all weathers, to the risk of his own health, which was greatlyimpaired thereby; and his gentleness and considerate care for the sickwon their affection; so that, though his stay was very short, his nameis still, after a dozen years, cherished by many. "

How beautiful would Sterling be in all this; rushing forward like a hosttowards victory; playing and pulsing like sunshine or soft lightning;busy at all hours to perform his part in abundant and superabundantmeasure! "Of that which it was to me personally, " continues Mr. Hare, "to have such a fellow-laborer, to live constantly in the freestcommunion with such a friend, I cannot speak. He came to me at a time ofheavy affliction, just after I had heard that the Brother, who hadbeen the sharer of all my thoughts and feelings from childhood, had bidfarewell to his earthly life at Rome; and thus he seemed given to me tomake up in some sort for him whom I had lost. Almost daily did I lookout for his usual hour of coming to me, and watch his tall slenderform walking rapidly across the hill in front of my window; with theassurance that he was coming to cheer and brighten, to rouse and stirme, to call me up to some height of feeling, or down to some depth ofthought. His lively spirit, responding instantaneously to every impulseof Nature and Art; his generous ardor in behalf of whatever is noble andtrue; his scorn of all meanness, of all false pretences and conventionalbeliefs, softened as it was by compassion for the victims of thosebesetting sins of a cultivated age; his never-flagging impetuosity inpushing onward to some unattained point of duty or of knowledge: allthis, along with his gentle, almost reverential affectionateness towardshis former tutor, rendered my intercourse with him an unspeakableblessing; and time after time has it seemed to me that his visit hadbeen like a shower of rain, bringing down freshness and brightness ona dusty roadside hedge. By him too the recollection of these our dailymeetings was cherished till the last. " [11]

There are many poor people still at Herstmonceux who affectionatelyremember him: Mr. Hare especially makes mention of one good man there, in his young days "a poor cobbler, " and now advanced to a muchbetter position, who gratefully ascribes this outward and the otherimprovements in his life to Sterling's generous encouragement andcharitable care for him. Such was the curate life at Herstmonceux. So, in those actual leafy lanes, on the edge of Pevensey Level, in this newage, did our poor New Paul (on hest of certain oracles) diligentlystudy 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 of May, shortly after arriving inLondon, --that I first saw Sterling's Father. A stout broad gentlemanof sixty, perpendicular in attitude, rather showily dressed, and ofgracious, ingenious and slightly elaborate manners. It was at Mrs. Austin's in Bayswater; he was just taking leave as I entered, so ourinterview lasted only a moment: but the figure of the man, as Sterling'sfather, had already an interest for me, and I remember the time well. Captain Edward Sterling, as we formerly called him, had now quite droptthe military title, nobody even of his friends now remembering it; andwas known, according to his wish, in political and other circles, as Mr. Sterling, a private gentleman of some figure. Over whom hung, moreover, a kind of mysterious nimbus as the principal or one of the principalwriters in the _Times_, which gave an interesting chiaroscuro to hischaracter in society. A potent, profitable, but somewhat questionableposition; of which, though he affected, and sometimes with anger, altogether to disown it, and rigorously insisted on the rights ofanonymity, he was not unwilling to take the honors too: the privatepecuniary advantages were very undeniable; and his reception in theClubs, and occasionally in higher quarters, was a good deal modelled onthe universal belief in it. 

John Sterling at Herstmonceux that afternoon, and his Father here inLondon, would have offered strange contrasts to an eye that hadseen them both. Contrasts, and yet concordances. They were two verydifferent-looking men, and were following two very different modes ofactivity that afternoon. And yet with a strange family likeness, too, both in the men and their activities; the central impulse in each, thefaculties applied to fulfil said impulse, not at all dissimilar, --asgrew visible to me on farther knowledge. 

CHAPTER II. NOT CURATE. 

Thus it went on for some months at Herstmonceux; but thus it couldnot last. We said there were already misgivings as to health, &c. InSeptember: [12] that was but the fourth month, for it had begun only inJune. The like clouds of misgiving, flights of dark vapor, chequeringmore and more the bright sky of this promised land, rose heavier andrifer month after month; till in February following, that is in theeighth month from starting, the sky had grown quite overshaded; and poorSterling had to think practically of departure from his promised landagain, finding that the goal of his pilgrimage was _not_ there. Notthere, wherever it may be! March again, therefore; the abiding city, and post at which we can live and die, is still ahead of us, it wouldappear!

"Ill-health" was the external cause; and, to all parties concerned, to Sterling himself I have no doubt as completely as to any, the onedetermining cause. Nor was the ill-health wanting; it was there in toosad reality. And yet properly it was not there as the burden; it wasthere as the last ounce which broke the camel's back. I take it, in thisas in other cases known to me, ill-health was not the primary causebut rather the ultimate one, the summing-up of innumerable far deeperconscious and unconscious causes, --the cause which could boldly showitself on the surface, and give the casting vote. Such was oftenSterling's way, as one could observe in such cases: though the mostguileless, undeceptive and transparent of men, he had a noticeable, almost childlike faculty of self-deception, and usually substitutedfor the primary determining motive and set of motives, some ultimateostensible one, and gave that out to himself and others as the rulingimpulse for important changes in life. As is the way with much moreponderous and deliberate men;--as is the way, in a degree, with all men!

Enough, in February, 1835, Sterling came up to London, to consult withhis physicians, --and in fact in all ways to consider with himself andfriends, --what was to be done in regard to this Herstmonceux business. The oracle of the physicians, like that of Delphi, was not exceedinglydeterminate: but it did bear, what was a sufficiently undeniable fact, that Sterling's constitution, with a tendency to pulmonary ailments, was ill-suited for the office of a preacher; that total abstinence frompreaching for a year or two would clearly be the safer course. To whicheffect he writes to Mr. Hare with a tone of sorrowful agitation; givesup his clerical duties at Herstmonceux;--and never resumed them thereor elsewhere. He had been in the Church eight months in all: a briefsection of his life, but an important one, which colored several of hissubsequent years, and now strangely colors all his years in the memoryof some. 

This we may account the second grand crisis of his History. Radicalism, not long since, had come to its consummation, and vanished from him ina tragic manner. "Not by Radicalism is the path to Human Nobleness forme!" And here now had English Priesthood risen like a sun, over thewaste ruins and extinct volcanoes of his dead Radical world, withpromise of new blessedness and healing under its Wings; and this too hassoon found itself an illusion: "Not by Priesthood either lies the way, then. Once more, where does the way lie!"--To follow illusions till theyburst and vanish is the lot of all new souls who, luckily or lucklessly, are left to their own choice in starting on this Earth. The roads aremany; the authentic finger-posts are few, --never fewer than in this era, when in so many senses the waters are out. Sterling of all men had thequickest sense for nobleness, heroism and the human _summum bonum_; theliveliest headlong spirit of adventure and audacity; few gifted livingmen less stubbornness of perseverance. Illusions, in his chase of the_summum bonum_, were not likely to be wanting; aberrations, and wastefulchanges of course, were likely to be many! It is in the history ofsuch vehement, trenchant, far-shining and yet intrinsically light andvolatile souls, missioned into this epoch to seek their way there, thatwe best see what a confused epoch it is. 

This clerical aberration, --for such it undoubtedly was in Sterling, --wehave ascribed to Coleridge; and do clearly think that had there beenno Coleridge, neither had this been, --nor had English Puseyism or someother strange enough universal portents been. Nevertheless, let us sayfarther that it lay partly in the general bearing of the world forsuch a man. This battle, universal in our sad epoch of "all old thingspassing away" against "all things becoming new, " has its summary andanimating heart in that of Radicalism against Church; there, as in itsflaming core, and point of focal splendor, does the heroic worth thatlies in each side of the quarrel most clearly disclose itself; andSterling was the man, above many, to recognize such worth on both sides. Natural enough, in such a one, that the light of Radicalism having goneout in darkness for him, the opposite splendor should next rise as thechief, and invite his loyalty till it also failed. In one form or theother, such an aberration was not unlikely for him. But an aberration, especially in this form, we may certainly call it. No man of Sterling'sveracity, had he clearly consulted his own heart, or had his own heartbeen capable of clearly responding, and not been dazzled and bewilderedby transient fantasies and theosophic moonshine, could have undertakenthis function. His heart would have answered: "No, thou canst not. Whatis incredible to thee, thou shalt not, at thy soul's peril, attempt tobelieve!--Elsewhither for a refuge, or die here. Go to Perdition if thoumust, --but not with a lie in thy mouth; by the Eternal Maker, no!"

Alas, once more! How are poor mortals whirled hither and thither in thetumultuous chaos of our era; and, under the thick smoke-canopy whichhas eclipsed all stars, how do they fly now after this poor meteor, nowafter that!--Sterling abandoned his clerical office in February, 1835;having held it, and ardently followed it, so long as we say, --eightcalendar months in all. 

It was on this his February expedition to London that I first sawSterling, --at the India House incidentally, one afternoon, where Ifound him in company with John Mill, whom I happened like himself to bevisiting for a few minutes. The sight of one whose fine qualities I hadoften heard of lately, was interesting enough; and, on the whole, provednot disappointing, though it was the translation of dream into fact, that is of poetry into prose, and showed its unrhymed side withal. Aloose, careless-looking, thin figure, in careless dim costume, sat, ina lounging posture, carelessly and copiously talking. I was struck withthe kindly but restless swift-glancing eyes, which looked as if thespirits were all out coursing like a pack of merry eager beagles, beating every bush. The brow, rather sloping in form, was not ofimposing character, though again the head was longish, which is alwaysthe best sign of intellect; the physiognomy in general indicatedanimation rather than strength. 

We talked rapidly of various unmemorable things: I remember coming onthe Negroes, and noticing that Sterling's notion on the Slavery Questionhad not advanced into the stage of mine. In reference to the questionwhether an "engagement for life, " on just terms, between parties whoare fixed in the character of master and servant, as the Whites and theNegroes are, is not really better than one from day to day, --he saidwith a kindly jeer, "I would have the Negroes themselves consulted as tothat!"--and would not in the least believe that the Negroes were byno means final or perfect judges of it. --His address, I perceived, wasabrupt, unceremonious; probably not at all disinclined to logic, andcapable of dashing in upon you like a charge of Cossacks, on occasion:but it was also eminently ingenious, social, guileless. We did all verywell together: and Sterling and I walked westward in company, choosingwhatever lanes or quietest streets there were, as far as Knightsbridgewhere our roads parted; talking on moralities, theological philosophies;arguing copiously, but _except_ in opinion not disagreeing

In his notions on such subjects, the expected Coleridge cast of thoughtwas very visible; and he seemed to express it even with exaggeration, and in a fearless dogmatic manner. Identity of sentiment, difference ofopinion: these are the known elements of a pleasant dialogue. We partedwith the mutual wish to meet again;--which accordingly, at his Father'shouse and at mine, we soon repeatedly did; and already, in the few daysbefore his return to Herstmonceux, had laid the foundations of a frankintercourse, pointing towards pleasant intimacies both with himselfand with his circle, which in the future were abundantly fulfilled. His Mother, essentially and even professedly "Scotch, " took to my Wifegradually with a most kind maternal relation; his Father, a gallantshowy stirring gentleman, the Magus of the _Times_, had talk andargument ever ready, was an interesting figure, and more and more tookinterest in us. We had unconsciously made an acquisition, which grewricher and wholesomer with every new year; and ranks now, seen inthe pale moonlight of memory, and must ever rank, among the preciouspossessions of life. 

Sterling's bright ingenuity, and also his audacity, velocity andalacrity, struck me more and more. It was, I think, on the occasion of aparty given one of these evenings at his Father's, where I remember JohnMill, John Crawford, Mrs. Crawford, and a number of young and elderlyfigures of distinction, --that a group having formed on the younger sideof the room, and transcendentalisms and theologies forming the topic, anumber of deep things were said in abrupt conversational style, Sterlingin the thick of it. For example, one sceptical figure praised theChurch of England, in Hume's phrase, "as a Church tending to keep downfanaticism, " and recommendable for its very indifferency; whereupon atranscendental figure urges him: "You are afraid of the horse's kicking:but will you sacrifice all qualities to being safe from that? Then geta dead horse. None comparable to that for not kicking in your stable!"Upon which, a laugh; with new laughs on other the like occasions;--andat last, in the fire of some discussion, Sterling, who was unusuallyeloquent and animated, broke out with this wild phrase, "I could plungeinto the bottom of Hell, if I were sure of finding the Devil there andgetting him strangled!" Which produced the loudest laugh of all; and hadto be repeated, on Mrs. Crawford's inquiry, to the house at large; and, creating among the elders a kind of silent shudder, --though weurged that the feat would really be a good investment of humanindustry, --checked or stopt these theologic thunders for the evening. I still remember Sterling as in one of his most animated moods thatevening. He probably returned to Herstmonceux next day, where heproposed yet to reside for some indefinite time. 

Arrived at Herstmonceux, he had not forgotten us. One of his Letterswritten there soon after was the following, which much entertainedme, in various ways. It turns on a poor Book of mine, called _SartorResartus_; which was not then even a Book, but was still hangingdesolately under bibliopolic difficulties, now in its fourth or fifthyear, on the wrong side of the river, as a mere aggregate of MagazineArticles; having at last been slit into that form, and lately completed_so_, and put together into legibility. I suppose Sterling had borrowedit of me. The adventurous hunter spirit which had started such a bemired_Auerochs_, or Urus of the German woods, and decided on chasing that asgame, struck me not a little;--and the poor Wood-Ox, so bemired in theforests, took it as a compliment rather:--

 "_To Thomas Carlyle, Esq. , Chelsea, London_. "HERSTMONCEUX near BATTLE, 29th May, 1835. 

"MY DEAR CARLYLE, --I have now read twice, with care, the wondrousaccount of Teufelsdrockh and his Opinions; and I need not say that ithas given me much to think of. It falls in with the feelings and tasteswhich were, for years, the ruling ones of my life; but which you willnot be angry with me when I say that I am infinitely and hourly thankfulfor having escaped from. Not that I think of this state of mind as onewith which I have no longer any concern. The sense of a oneness of lifeand power in all existence; and of a boundless exuberance of beautyaround us, to which most men are well-nigh dead, is a possession whichno one that has ever enjoyed it would wish to lose. When to this we addthe deep feeling of the difference between the actual and the idealin Nature, and still more in Man; and bring in, to explain this, theprinciple of duty, as that which connects us with a possible HigherState, and sets us in progress towards it, --we have a cycle of thoughtswhich was the whole spiritual empire of the wisest Pagans, and whichmight well supply food for the wide speculations and richly creativefancy of Teufelsdrockh, or his prototype Jean Paul. 

"How then comes it, we cannot but ask, that these ideas, displayedassuredly with no want of eloquence, vivacity or earnestness, havefound, unless I am much mistaken, so little acceptance among the bestand most energetic minds in this country? In a country where millionsread the Bible, and thousands Shakspeare; where Wordsworth circulatesthrough book-clubs and drawing-rooms; where there are innumerableadmirers of your favorite Burns; and where Coleridge, by sending fromhis solitude the voice of earnest spiritual instruction, came to bebeloved, studied and mourned for, by no small or careless school ofdisciples?--To answer this question would, of course, require morethought and knowledge than I can pretend to bring to it. But there aresome points on which I will venture to say a few words. 

"In the first place, as to the form of composition, --which may becalled, I think, the Rhapsodico-Reflective. In this the _SartorResartus_ resembles some of the master-works of human invention, whichhave been acknowledged as such by many generations; and especially theworks of Rabelais, Montaigne, Sterne and Swift. There is nothing Iknow of in Antiquity like it. That which comes nearest is perhaps thePlatonic Dialogue. But of this, although there is something of theplayful and fanciful on the surface, there is in reality neither in thelanguage (which is austerely determined to its end), nor in the methodand progression of the work, any of that headlong self-assertingcapriciousness, which, if not discernible in the plan of Teufelsdrockh'sMemoirs, is yet plainly to be seen in the structure of the sentences, the lawless oddity, and strange heterogeneous combination and allusion. The principle of this difference, observable often elsewhere in modernliterature (for the same thing is to be found, more or less, in many ofour most genial works of imagination, --_Don Quixote_, for instance, andthe writings of Jeremy Taylor), seems to be that well-known one of thepredominant objectivity of the Pagan mind; while among us the subjectivehas risen into superiority, and brought with it in each individuala multitude of peculiar associations and relations. These, as notexplicable from any one _external_ principle assumed as a premise bythe ancient philosopher, were rejected from the sphere of his aestheticcreation: but to us they all have a value and meaning; being connectedby the bond of our own personality and all alike existing in thatinfinity which is its arena. 

"But however this may be, and comparing the Teufelsdrockhean Epopeeonly with those other modern works, --it is noticeable that Rabelais, Montaigne and Sterne have trusted for the currency of their writings, ina great degree, to the use of obscene and sensual stimulants. Rabelais, besides, was full of contemporary and personal satire; and seems tohave been a champion in the great cause of his time, --as was Montaignealso, --that of the right of thought in all competent minds, unrestrainedby any outward authority. Montaigne, moreover, contains more pleasantand lively gossip, and more distinct good-humored painting of his owncharacter and daily habits, than any other writer I know. Sterne isnever obscure, and never moral; and the costume of his subjects is drawnfrom the familiar experience of his own time and country: and Swift, again, has the same merit of the clearest perspicuity, joined to thatof the most homely, unaffected, forcible English. These points ofdifference seem to me the chief ones which bear against the success ofthe _Sartor_. On the other hand, there is in Teufelsdrockh a depth andfervor of feeling, and a power of serious eloquence, far beyond that ofany of these four writers; and to which indeed there is nothing atall comparable in any of them, except perhaps now and then, and veryimperfectly, in Montaigne. 

"Of the other points of comparison there are two which I wouldchiefly dwell on: and first as to the language. A good deal of thisis positively barbarous. 'Environment, ' 'vestural, ' 'stertorous, ''visualized, ' 'complected, ' and others to be found I think in the firsttwenty pages, --are words, so far as I know, without any authority;some of them contrary to analogy: and none repaying by their valuethe disadvantage of novelty. To these must be added new and erroneouslocutions; 'whole other tissues' for _all the other_, and similaruses of the word _whole_; 'orients' for _pearls_; 'lucid' and 'lucent'employed as if they were different in meaning; 'hulls' perpetually for_coverings_, it being a word hardly used, and then only for the huskof a nut; 'to insure a man of misapprehension;' 'talented, ' a merenewspaper and hustings word, invented, I believe, by O'Connell. 

"I must also mention the constant recurrence of some words in a quaintand queer connection, which gives a grotesque and somewhat repulsivemannerism to many sentences. Of these the commonest offender is 'quite;'which appears in almost every page, and gives at first a droll kind ofemphasis; but soon becomes wearisome. 'Nay, ' 'manifold, ' 'cunning enoughsignificance, ' 'faculty' (meaning a man's rational or moral _power_), 'special, ' 'not without, ' haunt the reader as if in some uneasy dreamwhich does not rise to the dignity of nightmare. Some of these strangemannerisms fall under the general head of a singularity peculiar, so faras I know, to Teufelsdrockh. For instance, that of the incessant use ofa sort of odd superfluous qualification of his assertions; which seemsto give the character of deliberateness and caution to the style, butin time sounds like mere trick or involuntary habit. 'Almost' does morethan yeoman's, _almost_ slave's service in this way. Something similarmay be remarked of the use of the double negative by way of affirmation. 

"Under this head, of language, may be mentioned, though not with strictgrammatical accuracy, two standing characteristics of the Professor'sstyle, --at least as rendered into English: _First_, the compositionof words, such as 'snow-and-rosebloom maiden:' an attractive damseldoubtless in Germany, but, with all her charms, somewhat uncouth here. 'Life-vision' is another example; and many more might be found. Tosay nothing of the innumerable cases in which the words are onlyintelligible as a compound term, though not distinguished by hyphens. Ofcourse the composition of words is sometimes allowable even in English:but the habit of dealing with German seems to have produced, in thepages before us, a prodigious superabundance of this form of expression;which gives harshness and strangeness, where the matter would at allevents have been surprising enough. _Secondly_, I object, with thesame qualification, to the frequent use of _inversion_; which generallyappears as a transposition of the two members of a clause, in a waywhich would not have been practiced in conversation. It certainly givesemphasis and force, and often serves to point the meaning. But a stylemay be fatiguing and faulty precisely by being too emphatic, forcibleand pointed; and so straining the attention to find its meaning, or theadmiration to appreciate its beauty. 

"Another class of considerations connects itself with the heightenedand plethoric fulness of the style: its accumulation and contrast ofimagery; its occasional jerking and almost spasmodic violence;--andabove all, the painful subjective excitement, which seems the elementand groundwork even of every description of Nature; often taking theshape of sarcasm or broad jest, but never subsiding into calm. There isalso a point which I should think worth attending to, were I planningany similar book: I mean the importance, in a work of imagination, ofnot too much disturbing in the reader's mind the balance of the Newand Old. The former addresses itself to his active, the latter to hispassive faculty; and these are mutually dependent, and must coexist incertain proportion, if you wish to combine his sympathy and progressiveexertion with willingness and ease of attention. This should be takeninto account in forming a style; for of course it cannot be consciouslythought of in composing each sentence. 

"But chiefly it seems important in determining the plan of a work. Ifthe tone of feeling, the line of speculation are out of the common way, and sure to present some difficulty to the average reader, then it wouldprobably be desirable to select, for the circumstances, draperyand accessories of all kinds, those most familiar, or at least mostattractive. A fable of the homeliest purport, and commonest every-dayapplication, derives an interest and charm from its turning on thecharacters and acts of gods and genii, lions and foxes, Arabs andAffghauns. On the contrary, for philosophic inquiry and truths of awfulpreciousness, I would select as my personages and interlocutors beingswith whose language and 'whereabouts' my readers would be familiar. Thusdid Plato in his Dialogues, Christ in his Parables. Therefore it seemsdoubtful whether it was judicious to make a German Professor the heroof _Sartor_. Berkeley began his _Siris_ with tar-water; but what canEnglish readers be expected to make of _Gukguk_ by way of prelibation toyour nectar and tokay? The circumstances and details do not flash withliving reality on the minds of your readers, but, on the contrary, themselves require some of that attention and minute speculation, thewhole original stock of which, in the minds of most of them, would notbe too much to enable them to follow your views of Man and Nature. Inshort, there is not a sufficient basis of the common to justifythe amount of peculiarity in the work. In a book of science, theseconsiderations would of course be inapplicable; but then the whole shapeand coloring of the book must be altered to make it such; and a manwho wishes merely to get at the philosophical result, or summary of thewhole, will regard the details and illustrations as so much unprofitablesurplusage. 

"The sense of strangeness is also awakened by the marvellouscombinations, in which the work abounds to a degree that the commonreader must find perfectly bewildering. This can hardly, however, betreated as a consequence of the _style_; for the style in this respectcoheres with, and springs from, the whole turn and tendency of thought. The noblest images are objects of a humorous smile, in a mind whichsees itself above all Nature and throned in the arms of an AlmightyNecessity; while the meanest have a dignity, inasmuch as they aretrivial symbols of the same one life to which the great wholebelongs. And hence, as I divine, the startling whirl of incongruousjuxtaposition, which of a truth must to many readers seem as amazing asif the Pythia on the tripod should have struck up a drinking-song, orThersites had caught the prophetic strain of Cassandra. 

"All this, of course, appears to me true and relevant; but I cannot helpfeeling that it is, after all, but a poor piece of quackery to commenton a multitude of phenomena without adverting to the principle whichlies at the root, and gives the true meaning to them all. Now thisprinciple I seem to myself to find in the state of mind which isattributed to Teufelsdrockh; in his state of mind, I say, not in hisopinions, though these are, in him as in all men, most important, --beingone of the best indices to his state of mind. Now what distinguisheshim, not merely from the greatest and best men who have been on earthfor eighteen hundred years, but from the whole body of those who havebeen working forwards towards the good, and have been the salt and lightof the world, is this: That he does not believe in a God. Do not beindignant, I am blaming no one;--but if I write my thoughts, I mustwrite them honestly. 

"Teufelsdrockh does not belong to the herd of sensual and thoughtlessmen; because he does perceive in all Existence a unity of power; becausehe does believe that this is a real power external to him and dominantto a certain extent over him, and does not think that he is himself ashadow in a world of shadows. He had a deep feeling of the beautiful, the good and the true; and a faith in their final victory. 

"At the same time, how evident is the strong inward unrest, the Titanicheaving of mountain on mountain; the storm-like rushing over land andsea in search of peace. He writhes and roars under his consciousnessof the difference in himself between the possible and the actual, thehoped-for and the existent. He feels that duty is the highest law ofhis own being; and knowing how it bids the waves be stilled into anicy fixedness and grandeur, he trusts (but with a boundless inwardmisgiving) that there is a principle of order which will reduce allconfusion to shape and clearness. But wanting peace himself, his fiercedissatisfaction fixes on all that is weak, corrupt and imperfect aroundhim; and instead of a calm and steady co-operation with all those whoare endeavoring to apply the highest ideas as remedies for the worstevils, he holds himself aloof in savage isolation; and cherishes (thoughhe dare not own) a stern joy at the prospect of that Catastrophe whichis to turn loose again the elements of man's social life, and give fora time the victory to evil;--in hopes that each new convulsion of theworld must bring us nearer to the ultimate restoration of all things;fancying that each may be the last. Wanting the calm and cheerfulreliance, which would be the spring of active exertion, he flatters hisown distemper by persuading himself that his own age and generationare peculiarly feeble and decayed; and would even perhaps be willingto exchange the restless immaturity of our self-consciousness, andthe promise of its long throe-pangs, for the unawakened undoubtingsimplicity of the world's childhood; of the times in which there was allthe evil and horror of our day, only with the difference that consciencehad not arisen to try and condemn it. In these longings, if they areTeufelsdrockh's, he seems to forget that, could we go back five thousandyears, we should only have the prospect of travelling them again, andarriving at last at the same point at which we stand now. 

"Something of this state of mind I may say that I understand; for I havemyself experienced it. And the root of the matter appears to me: A wantof sympathy with the great body of those who are now endeavoring toguide and help onward their fellow-men. And in what is this alienationgrounded? It is, as I believe, simply in the difference on that point:viz. The clear, deep, habitual recognition of a one Living _Personal_God, essentially good, wise, true and holy, the Author of all thatexists; and a reunion with whom is the only end of all rational beings. This belief. . . [_There follow now several pages on "Personal God, " andother abstruse or indeed properly unspeakable matters; these, and ageneral Postscript of qualifying purport, I will suppress; extractingonly the following fractions, as luminous or slightly significant tous:_]

"Now see the difference of Teufelsdrockh's feelings. At the end of bookiii. Chap. 8, I find these words: 'But whence? O Heaven, whither? Senseknows not; Faith knows not; only that it is through mystery to mystery, from God to God. 

 'We _are such stuff_ As dreams are made of, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. '

And this tallies with the whole strain of his character. What we findeverywhere, with an abundant use of the name of God, is the conceptionof a formless Infinite whether in time or space; of a high inscrutableNecessity, which it is the chief wisdom and virtue to submit to, whichis the mysterious impersonal base of all Existence, --shows itself in thelaws of every separate being's nature; and for man in the shape of duty. On the other hand, I affirm, we do know whence we come and whither wego!--

. . . "And in this state of mind, as there is no true sympathy withothers, just as little is there any true peace for ourselves. There isindeed possible the unsympathizing factitious calm of Art, which wefind in Goethe. But at what expense is it bought? Simply, by abandoningaltogether the idea of duty, which is the great witness of ourpersonality. And he attains his inhuman ghastly calmness by reducing theUniverse to a heap of material for the idea of beauty to work on!--

. . . "The sum of all I have been writing as to the connection of ourfaith in God with our feeling towards men and our mode of action, may ofcourse be quite erroneous: but granting its truth, it would supply theone principle which I have been seeking for, in order to explainthe peculiarities of style in your account of Teufelsdrockh and hiswritings. . . . The life and works of Luther are the best comment I know ofon this doctrine of mine. 

"Reading over what I have written, I find I have not nearly done justiceto my own sense of the genius and moral energy of the book; but thisis what you will best excuse. --Believe me most sincerely and faithfullyyours, "JOHN STERLING. "

Here are sufficient points of "discrepancy with agreement, " here ismaterial for talk and argument enough; and an expanse of free discussionopen, which requires rather to be speedily restricted for convenience'sake, than allowed to widen itself into the boundless, as it tends todo!--

In all Sterling's Letters to myself and others, a large collection ofwhich now lies before me, duly copied and indexed, there is, to one thatknew his speech as well, a perhaps unusual likeness between the speechand the Letters; and yet, for most part, with a great inferiority onthe part of these. These, thrown off, one and all of them, withoutpremeditation, and with most rapid-flowing pen, are naturally as likehis speech as writing can well be; this is their grand merit to us:but on the other hand, the want of the living tones, swift looks andmotions, and manifold dramatic accompaniments, tells heavily, moreheavily than common. What can be done with champagne itself, much morewith soda-water, when the gaseous spirit is fled! The reader, in anyspecimens he may see, must bear this in mind. 

Meanwhile these Letters do excel in honesty, in candor and transparency;their very carelessness secures their excellence in this respect. And inanother much deeper and more essential respect I must likewise call themexcellent, --in their childlike goodness, in the purity of heart, thenoble affection and fidelity they everywhere manifest in the writer. This often touchingly strikes a familiar friend in reading them; andwill awaken reminiscences (when you have the commentary in your ownmemory) which are sad and beautiful, and not without reproach to you onoccasion. To all friends, and all good causes, this man is true; behindtheir back as before their face, the same man!--Such traits of theautobiographic sort, from these Letters, as can serve to paint himor his life, and promise not to weary the reader, I must endeavor toselect, in the sequel. 

CHAPTER III. BAYSWATER

Sterling continued to reside at Herstmonceux through the spring andsummer; holding by the peaceable retired house he still had there, tillthe vague future might more definitely shape itself, and better pointout what place of abode would suit him in his new circumstances. Hemade frequent brief visits to London; in which I, among other friends, frequently saw him, our acquaintance at each visit improving in allways. Like a swift dashing meteor he came into our circle; coruscatedamong us, for a day or two, with sudden pleasant illumination; thenagain suddenly withdrew, --we hoped, not for long. 

I suppose, he was full of uncertainties; but undoubtedly was gravitatingtowards London. Yet, on the whole, on the surface of him, you saw nouncertainties; far from that: it seemed always rather with peremptoryresolutions, and swift express businesses, that he was charged. Sicklyin body, the testimony said: but here always was a mind that gave youthe impression of peremptory alertness, cheery swift decision, --of a_health_ which you might have called exuberant. I remember dialogueswith him, of that year; one pleasant dialogue under the trees of thePark (where now, in 1851, is the thing called "Crystal Palace"), withthe June sunset flinging long shadows for us; the last of the Qualityjust vanishing for dinner, and the great night beginning to prophesy ofitself. Our talk (like that of the foregoing Letter) was of the faultsof my style, of my way of thinking, of my &c. &c. ; all whichadmonitions and remonstrances, so friendly and innocent, from this youngjunior-senior, I was willing to listen to, though unable, as usual, toget almost any practical hold of them. As usual, the garments do not fityou, you are lost in the garments, or you cannot get into them at all;this is not your suit of clothes, it must be another's:--alas, these arenot your dimensions, these are only the optical angles you subtend; onthe whole, you will never get measured in that way!--

Another time, of date probably very contiguous, I remember hearingSterling preach. It was in some new college-chapel in Somerset-house (Isuppose, what is now called King's College); a very quiet small place, the audience student-looking youths, with a few elder people, perhapsmostly friends of the preacher's. The discourse, delivered with agrave sonorous composure, and far surpassing in talent the usual run ofsermons, had withal an air of human veracity as I still recollect, andbespoke dignity and piety of mind: but gave me the impression ratherof artistic excellence than of unction or inspiration in that kind. Sterling returned with us to Chelsea that day;--and in the afternoon wewent on the Thames Putney-ward together, we two with my Wife; underthe sunny skies, on the quiet water, and with copious cheery talk, theremembrance of which is still present enough to me. 

This was properly my only specimen of Sterling's preaching. Anothertime, late in the same autumn, I did indeed attend him one evening tosome Church in the City, --a big Church behind Cheapside, "built by Wren"as he carefully informed me;--but there, in my wearied mood, the chiefsubject of reflection was the almost total vacancy of the place, and howan eloquent soul was preaching to mere lamps and prayer-books; and ofthe sermon I retain no image. It came up in the way of banter, if heever urged the duty of "Church extension, " which already he very seldomdid and at length never, what a specimen we once had of bright lamps, gilt prayer-books, baize-lined pews, Wren-built architecture; and how, in almost all directions, you might have fired a musket through thechurch, and hit no Christian life. A terrible outlook indeed for theApostolic laborer in the brick-and-mortar line!--

In the Autumn of this same 1835, he removed permanently to London, whither all summer he had been evidently tending; took a house inBayswater, an airy suburb, half town, half country, near his Father's, and within fair distance of his other friends and objects; and decidedto await there what the ultimate developments of his course might be. His house was in Orme Square, close by the corner of that little place(which has only _three_ sides of houses); its windows looking to theeast: the Number was, and I believe still is, No. 5. A sufficientlycommodious, by no means sumptuous, small mansion; where, with the meanssure to him, he could calculate on finding adequate shelter for hisfamily, his books and himself, and live in a decent manner, in no terrorof debt, for one thing. His income, I suppose, was not large; but helived generally a safe distance within it; and showed himself always asa man bountiful in money matters, and taking no thought that way. 

His study-room in this house was perhaps mainly the drawing-room;looking out safe, over the little dingy grassplot in front, and thequiet little row of houses opposite, with the huge dust-whirl ofOxford Street and London far enough ahead of you as background, --asback-curtain, blotting out only _half_ your blue hemisphere with dustand smoke. On the right, you had the continuous growl of the UxbridgeRoad and its wheels, coming as lullaby not interruption. Leftward andrearward, after some thin belt of houses, lay mere country; brightsweeping green expanses, crowned by pleasant Hampstead, pleasant Harrow, with their rustic steeples rising against the sky. Here on winterevenings, the bustle of removal being all well ended, and family andbooks got planted in their new places, friends could find Sterling, asthey often did, who was delighted to be found by them, and would giveand take, vividly as few others, an hour's good talk at any time. 

His outlooks, it must be admitted, were sufficiently vague andovershadowed; neither the past nor the future of a too joyful kind. Public life, in any professional form, is quite forbidden; to workwith his fellows anywhere appears to be forbidden: nor can the humblestsolitary endeavor to work worthily as yet find an arena. How unfoldone's little bit of talent; and live, and not lie sleeping, while itis called To-day? As Radical, as Reforming Politician in any public orprivate form, --not only has this, in Sterling's case, received tragicalsentence and execution; but the opposite extreme, the Church whither hehad fled, likewise proves abortive: the Church also is not the haven forhim at all. What is to be done? Something must be done, and soon, --underpenalties. Whoever has received, on him there is an inexorable behest togive. "_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 small Agamemnon after his sort, doingwhat little sovereignty and guidance he can in his day and generation:such every gifted soul longs, and should long, to be. But how, in anymeasure, is the small kingdom necessary for Sterling to be attained? Notthrough newspapers and parliaments, not by rubrics and reading-desks:none of the sceptres offered in the world's market-place, nor none ofthe crosiers there, it seems, can be the shepherd's-crook for this man. A most cheerful, hoping man; and full of swift faculty, though muchlamed, --considerably bewildered too; and tending rather towards thewastes and solitary places for a home; the paved world not beingfriendly to him hitherto! The paved world, in fact, both on itspractical and spiritual side, slams to its doors against him; indicatesthat he cannot enter, and even must not, --that it will prove achoke-vault, deadly to soul and to body, if he enter. Sceptre, crosier, sheep-crook is none there for him. 

There remains one other implement, the resource of all Adam's posteritythat are otherwise foiled, --the Pen. It was evident from this point thatSterling, however otherwise beaten about, and set fluctuating, wouldgravitate steadily with all his real weight towards Literature. That hewould gradually try with consciousness to get into Literature; and, onthe whole, never quit Literature, which was now all the world for him. Such is accordingly the sum of his history henceforth: such small sum, so terribly obstructed and diminished by circumstances, is all we haverealized from him. 

Sterling had by no means as yet consciously quitted the clericalprofession, far less the Church as a creed. We have seen, heoccasionally officiated still in these months, when a friend requestedor an opportunity invited. Nay it turned out afterwards, he had, unknowneven to his own family, during a good many weeks in the coldest periodof next spring, when it was really dangerous for his health and didprove hurtful to it, --been constantly performing the morning servicein some Chapel in Bayswater for a young clerical neighbor, a slightacquaintance of his, who was sickly at the time. So far as I know, thisof the Bayswater Chapel in the spring of 1836, a feat severely rebukedby his Doctor withal, was his last actual service as a churchman. Butthe conscious life ecclesiastical still hung visibly about his innerunconscious and real life, for years to come; and not till by slowdegrees he had unwinded from him the wrappages of it, could he becomeclear about himself, and so much as try heartily what his now solecourse was. Alas, and he had to live all the rest of his days, as incontinual flight for his very existence; "ducking under like a poorunfledged partridge-bird, " as one described it, "before the mower;darting continually from nook to nook, and there crouching, to escapethe scythe of Death. " For Literature Proper there was but little leftin such a life. Only the smallest broken fractions of his last andheaviest-laden years can poor Sterling be said to have completely lived. His purpose had risen before him slowly in noble clearness; clear atlast, --and even then the inevitable hour was at hand. 

In those first London months, as always afterwards while it remainedphysically possible, I saw much of him; loved him, as was natural, more and more; found in him, many ways, a beautiful acquisition to myexistence here. He was full of bright speech and argument; radiant witharrowy vitalities, vivacities and ingenuities. Less than any man he gaveyou the idea of ill-health. Hopeful, sanguine; nay he did not even seemto need definite hope, or much to form any; projecting himself in aerialpulses like an aurora borealis, like a summer dawn, and filling all theworld with present brightness for himself and others. Ill-health? Nayyou found at last, it was the very excess of _life_ in him that broughton disease. This restless play of being, fit to conquer the world, couldit have been held and guided, could not be held. It had worn _holes_ inthe outer case of it, and there found vent for itself, --there, since nototherwise. 

In our many promenades and colloquies, which were of the freest, mostcopious and pleasant nature, religion often formed a topic, and perhapstowards the beginning of our intercourse was the prevailing topic. Sterling seemed much engrossed in matters theological, and led theconversation towards such; talked often about Church, ChristianityAnglican and other, how essential the belief in it to man; then, onthe other side, about Pantheism and such like;--all in the Coleridgedialect, and with eloquence and volubility to all lengths. I rememberhis insisting often and with emphasis on what he called a "personalGod, " and other high topics, of which it was not always pleasant to giveaccount in the argumentative form, in a loud hurried voice, walking andarguing through the fields or streets. Though of warm quick feelings, very positive in his opinions, and vehemently eager to convince andconquer in such discussions, I seldom or never saw the least anger inhim against me or any friend. When the blows of contradiction came toothick, he could with consummate dexterity whisk aside out of their way;prick into his adversary on some new quarter; or gracefully flourishinghis weapon, end the duel in some handsome manner. One angry glance Iremember in him, and it was but a glance, and gone in a moment. "FlatPantheism!" urged he once (which he would often enough do about thistime), as if triumphantly, of something or other, in the fire of adebate, in my hearing: "It is mere Pantheism, that!"--"And suppose itwere Pot-theism?" cried the other: "If the thing is true!"--Sterling didlook hurt at such flippant heterodoxy, for a moment. The soul of his owncreed, in those days, was far other than this indifference to Pot or Panin such departments of inquiry. 

To me his sentiments for most part were lovable and admirable, though inthe logical outcome there was everywhere room for opposition. I admiredthe temper, the longing towards antique heroism, in this young man ofthe nineteenth century; but saw not how, except in some German-Englishempire of the air, he was ever to realize it on those terms. In fact, it became clear to me more and more that here was nobleness of heartstriving towards all nobleness; here was ardent recognition of the worthof Christianity, for one thing; but no belief in it at all, in my senseof the word belief, --no belief but one definable as mere theoreticmoonshine, which would never stand the wind and weather of fact. Nay itstruck me farther that Sterling's was not intrinsically, nor had everbeen in the highest or chief degree, a devotional mind. Of course allexcellence in man, and worship as the supreme excellence, was partof the inheritance of this gifted man: but if called to define him, I should say, Artist not Saint was the real bent of his being. He hadendless admiration, but intrinsically rather a deficiency of reverencein comparison. Fear, with its corollaries, on the religious side, heappeared to have none, nor ever to have had any. 

In short, it was a strange enough symptom to me of the bewilderedcondition of the world, to behold a man of this temper, and of thisveracity and nobleness, self-consecrated here, by free volition anddeliberate selection, to be a Christian Priest; and zealously strugglingto fancy himself such in very truth. Undoubtedly a singular presentfact;--from which, as from their point of intersection, greatperplexities and aberrations in the past, and considerable confusions inthe future might be seen ominously radiating. Happily our friend, as Isaid, needed little hope. To-day with its activities was always brightand rich to him. His unmanageable, dislocated, devastated world, spiritual or economical, lay all illuminated in living sunshine, makingit almost beautiful to his eyes, and gave him no hypochondria. A richersoul, in the way of natural outfit for felicity, for joyful activity inthis world, so far as his strength would go, was nowhere to be met with. 

The Letters which Mr. Hare has printed, Letters addressed, I imagine, mostly to himself, in this and the following year or two, give recordof abundant changeful plannings and laborings, on the part of Sterling;still chiefly in the theological department. Translation from Tholuck, from Schleiermacher; treatise on this thing, then on that, are on theanvil: it is a life of abstruse vague speculations, singularly cheerfuland hopeful withal, about Will, Morals, Jonathan Edwards, Jewhood, Manhood, and of Books to be written on these topics. Part of whichadventurous vague plans, as the Translation from Tholuck, he actuallyperformed; other greater part, merging always into wider undertakings, remained plan merely. I remember he talked often about Tholuck, Schleiermacher, and others of that stamp; and looked disappointed, though full of good nature, at my obstinate indifference to them andtheir affairs. 

His knowledge of German Literature, very slight at this time, limited itself altogether to writers on Church matters, --Evidences, Counter-Evidences, Theologies and Rumors of Theologies; by the Tholucks, Schleiermachers, Neanders, and I know not whom. Of the true sovereignsouls of that Literature, the Goethes, Richters, Schillers, Lessings, he had as good as no knowledge; and of Goethe in particular an obstinatemisconception, with proper abhorrence appended, --which did not abate forseveral years, nor quite abolish itself till a very late period. Till, in a word, he got Goethe's works fairly read and studied for himself!This was often enough the course with Sterling in such cases. He had amost swift glance of recognition for the worthy and for the unworthy;and was prone, in his ardent decisive way, to put much faith in it. "Such a one is a worthless idol; not excellent, only sham-excellent:"here, on this negative side especially, you often had to admire howright he was;--often, but not quite always. And he would maintain, withendless ingenuity, confidence and persistence, his fallacious spectrumto be a real image. However, it was sure to come all right in the end. Whatever real excellence he might misknow, you had but to let it standbefore him, soliciting new examination from him: none surer than he torecognize it at last, and to pay it all his dues, with the arrearsand interest on them. Goethe, who figures as some absurd high-stalkinghollow play-actor, or empty ornamental clock-case of an "Artist"so-called, in the Tale of the _Onyx Ring_, was in the throne ofSterling's intellectual world before all was done; and the theoryof "Goethe's want of feeling, " want of &c. &c. Appeared to him alsoabundantly contemptible and forgettable. 

Sterling's days, during this time as always, were full of occupation, cheerfully interesting to himself and others; though, the wrecks oftheology so encumbering him, little fruit on the positive side couldcome of these labors. On the negative side they were productive; andthere also, so much of encumbrance requiring removal, before fruit couldgrow, there was plenty of labor needed. He looked happy as well asbusy; roamed extensively among his friends, and loved to have them abouthim, --chiefly old Cambridge comrades now settling into occupations inthe world;--and was felt by all friends, by myself as by few, to be awelcome illumination in the dim whirl of things. A man of altogethersocial and human ways; his address everywhere pleasant and enlivening. A certain smile of thin but genuine laughter, we might say, hunggracefully over all he said and did;--expressing gracefully, accordingto the model of this epoch, the stoical pococurantism which is requiredof the cultivated Englishman. Such laughter in him was not deep, butneither was it false (as lamentably happens often); and the cheerfulnessit went to symbolize was hearty and beautiful, --visible in the silentunsymbolized state in a still gracefuler fashion. 

Of wit, so far as rapid lively intellect produces wit, he had plenty, and did not abuse his endowment that way, being always fundamentallyserious in the purport of his speech: of what we call humor, he hadsome, though little; nay of real sense for the ludicrous, in any form, he had not much for a man of his vivacity; and you remarked that hislaugh was limited in compass, and of a clear but not rich quality. Tothe like effect shone something, a kind of childlike half-embarrassedshimmer of expression, on his fine vivid countenance; curiously minglingwith its ardors and audacities. A beautiful childlike soul! He wasnaturally a favorite in conversation, especially with all who hadany funds for conversing: frank and direct, yet polite and delicatewithal, --though at times too he could crackle with his dexterouspetulancies, making the air all like needles round you; and there wasno end to his logic when you excited it; no end, unless in some form ofsilence on your part. Elderly men of reputation I have sometimes knownoffended by him: for he took a frank way in the matter of talk; spokefreely out of him, freely listening to what others spoke, with a kind of"hail fellow well met" feeling; and carelessly measured a men much lessby his reputed account in the bank of wit, or in any other bank, than bywhat the man had to show for himself in the shape of real spiritual cashon the occasion. But withal there was ever a fine element of naturalcourtesy in Sterling; his deliberate demeanor to acknowledged superiorswas fine and graceful; his apologies and the like, when in a fit ofrepentance he felt commanded to apologize, were full of naivete, andvery pretty and ingenuous. 

His circle of friends was wide enough; chiefly men of his own standing, old College friends many of them; some of whom have now becomeuniversally known. Among whom the most important to him was FredericMaurice, who had not long before removed to the Chaplaincy of Guy'sHospital here, and was still, as he had long been, his intimate andcounsellor. Their views and articulate opinions, I suppose, were nowfast beginning to diverge; and these went on diverging far enough: butin their kindly union, in their perfect trustful familiarity, preciousto both parties, there never was the least break, but a steady, equableand duly increasing current to the end. One of Sterling's commonestexpeditions, in this time, was a sally to the other side of LondonBridge: "Going to Guy's to-day. " Maurice, in a year or two, becameSterling's brother-in-law; wedded Mrs. Sterling's younger sister, --agentle excellent female soul; by whom the relation was, in many ways, strengthened and beautified for Sterling and all friends of the parties. With the Literary notabilities I think he had no acquaintance; histhoughts indeed still tended rather towards a certain class of theClerical; but neither had he much to do with these; for he was atno time the least of a tuft-hunter, but rather had a marked naturalindifference to _tufts_. 

The Rev. Mr. Dunn, a venerable and amiable Irish gentleman, "distinguished, " we were told, "by having refused a bishopric:" andwho was now living, in an opulent enough retirement, amid his booksand philosophies and friends, in London, --is memorable to me among thisclerical class: one of the mildest, beautifulest old men I have everseen, --"like Fenelon, " Sterling said: his very face, with its kind truesmile, with its look of suffering cheerfulness and pious wisdom, was asort of benediction. It is of him that Sterling writes, in the Extractwhich Mr. Hare, modestly reducing the name to an initial "Mr. D. , " hasgiven us: [13] "Mr. Dunn, for instance; the defect of whose Theology, compounded as it is of the doctrine of the Greek Fathers, of the Mysticsand of Ethical Philosophers, consists, --if I may hint a fault in onewhose holiness, meekness and fervor would have made him the beloveddisciple of him whom Jesus loved, --in an insufficient apprehension ofthe reality and depth of Sin. " A characteristic "defect" of this finegentle soul. On Mr. Dunn's death, which occurred two or threeyears later, Stirling gave, in some veiled yet transparent form, in_Blackwood's Magazine_, an affectionate and eloquent notice of him;which, stript of the veil, was excerpted into the Newspapers also. [14]

Of Coleridge there was little said. Coleridge was now dead, not longsince; nor was his name henceforth much heard in Sterling's circle;though on occasion, for a year or two to come, he would still assert histranscendent admiration, especially if Maurice were by to help. But hewas getting into German, into various inquiries and sources of knowledgenew to him, and his admirations and notions on many things were silentlyand rapidly modifying themselves. 

So, amid interesting human realities, and wide cloud-canopies ofuncertain speculation, which also had their interests and theirrainbow-colors to him, and could not fail in his life just now, didSterling pass his year and half at Bayswater. Such vaporous speculationswere inevitable for him at present; but it was to be hoped they wouldsubside by and by, and leave the sky clear. All this was but thepreliminary to whatever work might lie in him:--and, alas, much otherinterruption lay between him and that. 

CHAPTER V. TO MADEIRA. 

Sterling's dubieties as to continuing at Bordeaux were quickly decided. The cholera in France, the cholera in Nice, the-- In fact his mooringswere now loose; and having been fairly at sea, he never could anchorhimself here again. Very shortly after this Letter, he left Belsitoagain (for good, as it proved); and returned to England with hishousehold, there to consider what should next be done. 

On my return from Scotland, that year, perhaps late in September, Iremember finding him lodged straitly but cheerfully, and in happy humor, in a little cottage on Blackheath; whither his Father one day persuadedme to drive out with him for dinner. Our welcome, I can still recollect, was conspicuously cordial; the place of dinner a kind of upper room, half garret and full of books, which seemed to be John's place of study. From a shelf, I remember also, the good soul took down a book modestlyenough bound in three volumes, lettered on the back Carlyle's _FrenchRevolution_, which had been published lately; this he with friendlybanter bade me look at as a first symptom, small but significant, thatthe book was not to die all at once. "One copy of it at least might hopeto last the date of sheep-leather, " I admitted, --and in my then moodthe little fact was welcome. Our dinner, frank and happy on the partof Sterling, was peppered with abundant jolly satire from his Father:before tea, I took myself away; towards Woolwich, I remember, whereprobably there was another call to make, and passage homeward bysteamer: Sterling strode along with me a good bit of road in the brightsunny evening, full of lively friendly talk, and altogether kind andamiable; and beautifully sympathetic with the loads he thought he saw on_me_, forgetful of his own. We shook hands on the road near the foot ofShooter's Hill:--at which point dim oblivious clouds rush down; and ofsmall or great I remember nothing more in my history or his for sometime. 

Besides running much about among friends, and holding counsels for themanagement of the coming winter, Sterling was now considerably occupiedwith Literature again; and indeed may be said to have alreadydefinitely taken it up as the one practical pursuit left for him. Somecorrespondence with _Blackwood's Magazine_ was opening itself, underpromising omens: now, and more and more henceforth, he began to lookon Literature as his real employment, after all; and was prosecuting itwith his accustomed loyalty and ardor. And he continued ever afterwards, in spite of such fitful circumstances and uncertain outward fluctuationsas his were sure of being, to prosecute it steadily with all thestrength he had. 

One evening about this time, he came down to us, to Chelsea, most likelyby appointment and with stipulation for privacy; and read, for ouropinion, his Poem of the _Sexton's Daughter_, which we now firstheard of. The judgment in this house was friendly, but not the mostencouraging. We found the piece monotonous, cast in the mould ofWordsworth, deficient in real human fervor or depth of melody, dallyingon the borders of the infantile and "goody-good;"--in fact, involvedstill in the shadows of the surplice, and inculcating (on hearsaymainly) a weak morality, which he would one day find not to be moral atall, but in good part maudlin-hypocritical and immoral. As indeed wasto be said still of most of his performances, especially the poetical;a sickly _shadow_ of the parish-church still hanging over them, whichhe could by no means recognize for sickly. _Imprimatur_ neverthelesswas the concluding word, --with these grave abatements, and rhadamanthineadmonitions. To all which Sterling listened seriously and in the mildesthumor. His reading, it might have been added, had much hurt the effectof the piece: a dreary pulpit or even conventicle manner; that flattestmoaning hoo-hoo of predetermined pathos, with a kind of rocking canterintroduced by way of intonation, each stanza the exact fellow Of theother, and the dull swing of the rocking-horse duly in each;--no readingcould be more unfavorable to Sterling's poetry than his own. Such a modeof reading, and indeed generally in a man of such vivacity the totalabsence of all gifts for play-acting or artistic mimicry in any kind, was a noticeable point. 

After much consultation, it was settled at last that Sterling should goto Madeira for the winter. One gray dull autumn afternoon, towardsthe middle of October, I remember walking with him to the eastern Dockregion, to see his ship, and how the final preparations in his ownlittle cabin were proceeding there. A dingy little ship, the deckcrowded with packages, and bustling sailors within eight-and-forty hoursof lifting anchor; a dingy chill smoky day, as I have said withal, anda chaotic element and outlook, enough to make a friend's heart sad. Iadmired the cheerful careless humor and brisk activity of Sterling, whotook the matter all on the sunny side, as he was wont in such cases. Wecame home together in manifold talk: he accepted with the due smilemy last contribution to his sea-equipment, a sixpenny box of Germanlucifers purchased on the sudden in St. James's Street, fit to beoffered with laughter or with tears or with both; he was to leave forPortsmouth almost immediately, and there go on board. Our next newswas of his safe arrival in the temperate Isle. Mrs. Sterling and thechildren were left at Knightsbridge; to pass this winter with his Fatherand Mother. 

At Madeira Sterling did well: improved in health; was busy with muchLiterature; and fell in with society which he could reckon pleasant. He was much delighted with the scenery of the place; found the climatewholesome to him in a marked degree; and, with good news from home, and kindly interests here abroad, passed no disagreeable winter in thatexile. There was talking, there was writing, there was hope of betterhealth; he rode almost daily, in cheerful busy humor, along thosefringed shore-roads:--beautiful leafy roads and horse-paths; with hereand there a wild cataract and bridge to look at; and always with thesoft sky overhead, the dead volcanic mountain on one hand, and broadillimitable sea spread out on the other. Here are two Letters which givereasonably good account of him:--

 "_To Thomas Carlyle, Esq. , Chelsea, London_. "FUNCHAL, MADEIRA, 16th November, 1837. 

"MY DEAR CARLYLE, --I have been writing a good many letters all in abatch, to go by the same opportunity; and I am thoroughly weary ofwriting the same things over and over again to different people. Myletter to you therefore, I fear, must have much of the character ofremainder-biscuit. But you will receive it as a proof that I do not wishyou to forget me, though it may be useless for any other purpose. 

"I reached this on the 2d, after a tolerably prosperous voyage, deformedby some days of sea-sickness, but otherwise not to be complained of. Iliked my twenty fellow-passengers far better than I expected;--three orfour of them I like much, and continue to see frequently. The Islandtoo is better than I expected: so that my Barataria at least does notdisappoint me. The bold rough mountains, with mist about their summits, verdure below, and a bright sun over all, please me much; and Iride daily on the steep and narrow paved roads, which no wheels everjourneyed on. The Town is clean, and there its merits end: but I amcomfortably lodged; with a large and pleasant sitting-room to myself. Ihave met with much kindness; and see all the society I want, --though itis not quite equal to that of London, even excluding Chelsea. 

"I have got about me what Books I brought out; and have read a little, and done some writing for _Blackwood_, --all, I have the pleasure toinform you, prose, nay extremely prose. I shall now be more at leisure;and hope to get more steadily to work; though I do not know what I shallbegin upon. As to reading, I have been looking at _Goethe_, especiallythe _Life_, --much as a shying horse looks at a post. In truth, I amafraid of him. I enjoy and admire him so much, and feel I could soeasily be tempted to go along with him. And yet I have a deeply rootedand old persuasion that he was the most splendid of anachronisms. Athoroughly, nay intensely Pagan Life, in an age when it is men's dutyto be Christian. I therefore never take him up without a kind of inwardcheck, as if I were trying some forbidden spell; while, on the otherhand, there is so infinitely much to be learnt from him, and it isso needful to understand the world we live in, and our own age, andespecially its greatest minds, that I cannot bring myself to burn mybooks as the converted Magicians did, or sink them as did Prospero. There must, as I think, have been some prodigious defect in his mind, tolet him hold such views as his about women and some other things; andin another respect, I find so much coldness and hollowness as to thehighest truths, and feel so strongly that the Heaven he looks up to isbut a vault of ice, --that these two indications, leading to the sameconclusion, go far to convince me he was a profoundly immoral andirreligious spirit, with as rare faculties of intelligence as everbelonged to any one. All this may be mere _goody_ weakness and twaddle, on my part: but it is a persuasion that I cannot escape from; though Ishould feel the doing so to be a deliverance from a most painful load. If you could help me, I heartily wish you would. I never take him upwithout high admiration, or lay him down without real sorrow for what hechose to be. 

"I have been reading nothing else that you would much care for. Southey's _Amadis_ has amused me; and Lyell's _Geology_ interested me. The latter gives one the same sort of bewildering view of the abysmalextent of Time that Astronomy does of Space. I do not think I shall takeyour advice as to learning Portuguese. It is said to be very ill spokenhere; and assuredly it is the most direful series of nasal twangs I everheard. One gets on quite well with English. 

"The people here are, I believe, in a very low condition; but they donot appear miserable. I am told that the influence of the priests makesthe peasantry all Miguelites; but it is said that nobody wants any morerevolutions. There is no appearance of riot or crime; and they are allextremely civil. I was much interested by learning that Columbus oncelived here, before he found America and fame. I have been to see adeserted _quinta_ (country-house), where there is a great deal ofcurious old sculpture, in relief, upon the masonry; many of the figures, which are nearly as large as life, representing soldiers clad and armedmuch as I should suppose those of Cortez were. There are no buildingsabout the Town, of the smallest pretensions to beauty or charm of anykind. On the whole, if Madeira were one's world, life would certainlyrather tend to stagnate; but as a temporary refuge, a niche in an oldruin where one is sheltered from the shower, it has great merit. I ammore comfortable and contented than I expected to be, so far from homeand from everybody I am closely connected with: but, of course, it is atbest a tolerable exile. 

"Tell Mrs. Carlyle that I have written, since I have been here, andam going to send to _Blackwood_, a humble imitation of her _Watch andCanary-Bird_, entitled _The Suit of Armor and the Skeleton_. [15] I amconscious that I am far from having reached the depth and fulness ofdespair and mockery which distinguish the original! But in truth thereis a lightness of tone about her style, which I hold to be invaluable:where she makes hairstrokes, I make blotches. I have a vehementsuspicion that my Dialogue is an entire failure; but I cannot be plaguedwith it any longer. Tell her I will not send her messages, but willwrite to her soon. --Meanwhile I am affectionately hers and yours, "JOHN STERLING. "

The next is to his Brother-in-law; and in a still hopefuler tone:--

 "_To Charles Barton, Esq. _ [16] FUNCHAL, MADEIRA, 3d March, 1838. 

"MY DEAR CHARLES, --I have often been thinking of you and yourwhereabouts in Germany, and wishing I knew more about you; and at lastit occurred to me that you might perhaps have the same wish about me, and that therefore I should do well to write to you. 

"I have been here exactly four months, having arrived on the 2d ofNovember, --my wedding-day; and though you perhaps may not think it acompliment to Susan, I have seldom passed four months more cheerfullyand agreeably. I have of course felt my absence from my family, andmissed the society of my friends; for there is not a person here whomI knew before I left England. But, on the whole, I have been in goodhealth, and actively employed. I have a good many agreeable and valuableacquaintances, one or two of whom I hope I may hereafter reckon asfriends. The weather has generally been fine, and never cold; and thescenery of the Island is of a beauty which you unhappy Northern peoplecan have little conception of. 

"It consists of a great mass of volcanic mountains, covered in theirlower parts with cottages, vines and patches of vegetables. When youpass through, or over the central ridge, and get towards the North, there are woods of trees, of the laurel kind, covering the wild steepslopes, and forming some of the strangest and most beautiful prospects Ihave ever seen. Towards the interior, the forms of the hills becomemore abrupt, and loftier; and give the notion of very recent volcanicdisturbances, though in fact there has been nothing of the kind sincethe discovery of the Island by Europeans. Among these mountains, thedark deep precipices, and narrow ravines with small streams at thebottom; the basaltic knobs and ridges on the summits; and the perpetualplay of mist and cloud around them, under this bright sun and clearsky, --form landscapes which you would thoroughly enjoy, and which Imuch wish I could give you a notion of. The Town is on the south, andof course the sheltered side of the Island; perfectly protected from theNorth and East; although we have seen sometimes patches of bright snowon the dark peaks in the distance. It is a neat cheerful place; allbuilt of gray stone, but having many of the houses colored white or red. There is not a really handsome building in it, but there is a generalaspect of comfort and solidity. The shops are very poor. The English donot mix at all with the Portuguese. The Bay is a very bad anchorage; butis wide, bright and cheerful; and there are some picturesque points--onea small black island--scattered about it. 

"I lived till a fortnight ago in lodgings, having two rooms, one avery good one; and paying for everything fifty-six dollars a month, thedollar being four shillings and twopence. This you will see is dear; butI could make no better arrangement, for there is an unusual affluenceof strangers this year. I have now come to live with a friend, a Dr. Calvert, in a small house of our own, where I am much more comfortable, and live greatly cheaper. He is a friend of Mrs. Percival's; about myage, an Oriel man, and a very superior person. I think the chances are, we shall go home together. . . . I cannot tell you of all the other peopleI have become familiar with; and shall only mention in addition BinghamBaring, eldest son of Lord Ashburton, who was here for some weeks onaccount of a dying brother, and whom I saw a great deal of. He is apleasant, very good-natured and rather clever man; Conservative Memberfor North Staffordshire. 

"During the first two months I was here, I rode a great deal about theIsland, having a horse regularly; and was much in agreeable company, seeing a great deal of beautiful scenery. Since then, the weather hasbeen much more unsettled, though not cold; and I have gone about less, as I cannot risk the being wet. But I have spent my time pleasantly, reading and writing. I have written a good many things for _Blackwood_;one of which, the _Armor and the Skeleton_, I see is printed in theFebruary Number. I have just sent them a long Tale, called the _OnyxRing_, which cost me a good deal of trouble; and the extravaganceof which, I think, would amuse you; but its length may prevent itsappearance in _Blackwood_. If so, I think I should make a volume of it. I have also written some poems, and shall probably publish the _Sexton'sDaughter_ when I return. 

"My health goes on most favorably. I have had no attack of the chestthis spring; which has not happened to me since the spring before wewent to Bonn; and I am told, if I take care, I may roll along for years. But I have little hope of being allowed to spend the four first monthsof any year in England; and the question will be, Whether to go atonce to Italy, by way of Germany and Switzerland, with my family, or tosettle with them in England, perhaps at Hastings, and go abroad myselfwhen it may be necessary. I cannot decide till I return; but I think thelatter the most probable. 

"To my dear Charles I do not like to use the ordinary forms of endinga letter, for they are very inadequate to express my sense of your longand most unvarying kindness; but be assured no one living could say withmore sincerity that he is ever affectionately yours, "JOHN STERLING. "

Other Letters give occasionally views of the shadier side of things:dark broken weather, in the sky and in the mind; ugly clouds coveringone's poor fitful transitory prospect, for a time, as they might well doin Sterling's case. Meanwhile we perceive his literary business is fastdeveloping itself; amid all his confusions, he is never idle long. Some of his best Pieces--the Onyx _Ring_, for one, as we perceive--werewritten here this winter. Out of the turbid whirlpool of the days hestrives assiduously to snatch what he can. 

Sterling's communications with _Blackwood's Magazine_ had now issuedin some open sanction of him by Professor Wilson, the distinguishedpresiding spirit of that Periodical; a fact naturally of high importanceto him under the literary point of view. For Wilson, with his clearflashing eye and great genial heart, had at once recognized Sterling;and lavished stormily, in his wild generous way, torrents of praiseon him in the editorial comments: which undoubtedly was one of thegratefulest literary baptisms, by fire or by water, that could befall asoul like Sterling's. He bore it very gently, being indeed past theage to have his head turned by anybody's praises: nor do I think theexaggeration that was in these eulogies did him any ill whatever; whilesurely their generous encouragement did him much good, in his solitarystruggle towards new activity under such impediments as his. _Laudari alaudato_; to be called noble by one whom you and the world recognize asnoble: this great satisfaction, never perhaps in such a degree beforeor after had now been vouchsafed to Sterling; and was, as I compute, animportant fact for him. He proceeded on his pilgrimage with new energy, and felt more and more as if authentically consecrated to the same. 

The _Onyx Ring_, a curious Tale, with wild improbable basis, but witha noble glow of coloring and with other high merits in it, a Tale stillworth reading, in which, among the imaginary characters, various friendsof Sterling's are shadowed forth, not always in the truest manner, cameout in _Blackwood_ in the winter of this year. Surely a very high talentfor painting, both of scenery and persons, is visible in this Fiction;the promise of a Novel such as we have few. But there wants maturing, wants purifying of clear from unclear;--properly there want patienceand steady depth. The basis, as we said, is wild and loose; and in thedetails, lucent often with fine color, and dipt in beautiful sunshine, there are several things mis_seen_, untrue, which is the worst speciesof mispainting. Witness, as Sterling himself would have by and byadmitted, the "empty clockcase" (so we called it) which he has labelledGoethe, --which puts all other untruths in the Piece to silence. 

One of the great alleviations of his exile at Madeira he has alreadycelebrated to us: the pleasant circle of society he fell into there. Great luck, thinks Sterling in this voyage; as indeed there was: buthe himself, moreover, was readier than most men to fall into pleasantcircles everywhere, being singularly prompt to make the most of anycircle. Some of his Madeira acquaintanceships were really good; and oneof them, if not more, ripened into comradeship and friendship for him. He says, as we saw, "The chances are, Calvert and I will come hometogether. "

Among the English in pursuit of health, or in flight from fatal disease, that winter, was this Dr. Calvert; an excellent ingenious cheeryCumberland gentleman, about Sterling's age, and in a deeper stage ofailment, this not being his first visit to Madeira: he, warmly joininghimself to Sterling, as we have seen, was warmly received by him; sothat there soon grew a close and free intimacy between them; which forthe next three years, till poor Calvert ended his course, was a leadingelement in the history of both. Companionship in incurable malady, a touching bond of union, was by no means purely or chiefly acompanionship in misery in their case. The sunniest inextinguishablecheerfulness shone, through all manner of clouds, in both. Calvert hadbeen travelling physician in some family of rank, who had rewarded himwith a pension, shielding his own ill-health from one sad evil. Beinghopelessly gone in pulmonary disorder, he now moved about among friendlyclimates and places, seeking what alleviation there might be; oftenspending his summers in the house of a sister in the environs of London;an insatiable rider on his little brown pony; always, wherever you mightmeet him, one of the cheeriest of men. He had plenty of speculation too, clear glances of all kinds into religious, social, moral concerns; andpleasantly incited Sterling's outpourings on such subjects. He couldreport of fashionable persons and manners, in a fine human Cumberlandmanner; loved art, a great collector of drawings; he had endless helpand ingenuity; and was in short every way a very human, lovable, goodand nimble man, --the laughing blue eyes of him, the clear cheery soulof him, still redolent of the fresh Northern breezes and transparentMountain streams. With this Calvert, Sterling formed a natural intimacy;and they were to each other a great possession, mutually enlivening manya dark day during the next three years. They did come home togetherthis spring; and subsequently made several of these health-journeys inpartnership. 

CHAPTER VI. LITERATURE: THE STERLING CLUB. 

In spite of these wanderings, Sterling's course in life, so far as hispoor life could have any course or aim beyond that of screening itselffrom swift death, was getting more and more clear to him; and he pursuedit diligently, in the only way permitted him, by hasty snatches, inthe intervals of continual fluctuation, change of place and otherinterruption. 

Such, once for all, were the conditions appointed him. And it must beowned he had, with a most kindly temper, adjusted himself to these; nayyou would have said, he loved them; it was almost as if he would havechosen them as the suitablest. Such an adaptation was there in himof volition to necessity:--for indeed they both, if well seen into, proceeded from one source. Sterling's bodily disease was the expression, under physical conditions, of the too vehement life which, under themoral, the intellectual and other aspects, incessantly struggled withinhim. Too vehement;--which would have required a frame of oak and ironto contain it: in a thin though most wiry body of flesh and bone, itincessantly "wore holes, " and so found outlet for itself. He could takeno rest, he had never learned that art; he was, as we often reproachedhim, fatally incapable of sitting still. Rapidity, as of pulsingauroras, as of dancing lightnings: rapidity in all forms characterizedhim. This, which was his bane, in many senses, being the real origin ofhis disorder, and of such continual necessity to move and change, --wasalso his antidote, so far as antidote there might be; enabling him tolove change, and to snatch, as few others could have done, from thewaste chaotic years, all tumbled into ruin by incessant change, whathours and minutes of available turned up. He had an incredible facilityof labor. He flashed with most piercing glance into a subject; gatheredit up into organic utterability, with truly wonderful despatch, considering the success and truth attained; and threw it on paper with aswift felicity, ingenuity, brilliancy and general excellence, of which, under such conditions of swiftness, I have never seen a parallel. Essentially an _improviser_ genius; as his Father too was, and ofadmirable completeness he too, though under a very different form. 

If Sterling has done little in Literature, we may ask, What other manthan he, in such circumstances, could have done anything? In virtue ofthese rapid faculties, which otherwise cost him so dear, he has builttogether, out of those wavering boiling quicksands of his few lateryears, a result which may justly surprise us. There is actually someresult in those poor Two Volumes gathered from him, such as they are; hethat reads there will not wholly lose his time, nor rise with amalison instead of a blessing on the writer. Here actually is a realseer-glance, of some compass, into the world of our day; blessed glance, once more, of an eye that is human; truer than one of a thousand, and beautifully capable of making others see with it. I have knownconsiderable temporary reputations gained, considerable piles oftemporary guineas, with loud reviewing and the like to match, on a farless basis than lies in those two volumes. Those also, I expect, willbe held in memory by the world, one way or other, till the worldhas extracted all its benefit from them. Graceful, ingenious andilluminative reading, of their sort, for all manner of inquiring souls. A little verdant flowery island of poetic intellect, of melodioushuman verity; sunlit island founded on the rocks;--which the enormouscircumambient continents of mown reed-grass and floating lumber, with_their_ mountain-ranges of ejected stable-litter however alpine, cannotby any means or chance submerge: nay, I expect, they will not even quitehide it, this modest little island, from the well-discerning; but willfloat past it towards the place appointed for them, and leave saidisland standing. _Allah kereem_, say the Arabs! And of the Englishalso some still know that there is a, difference in the material ofmountains!--

As it is this last little result, the amount of his poor andever-interrupted literary labor, that henceforth forms the essentialhistory of Sterling, we need not dwell at too much length on the foreignjourneys, disanchorings, and nomadic vicissitudes of household, whichoccupy his few remaining years, and which are only the disastrous andaccidental arena of this. He had now, excluding his early and moredeliberate residence in the West Indies, made two flights abroad, oncewith his family, once without, in search of health. He had two more, inrapid succession, to make, and many more to meditate; and in the wholefrom Bayswater to the end, his family made no fewer than five completechanges of abode, for his sake. But these cannot be accepted as in anysense epochs in his life: the one last epoch of his life was that of hisinternal change towards Literature as his work in the world; and we neednot linger much on these, which are the mere outer accidents of that, and had no distinguished influence in modifying that. 

Friends still hoped the unrest of that brilliant too rapid soul wouldabate with years. Nay the doctors sometimes promised, on the physicalside, a like result; prophesying that, at forty-five or some mature age, the stress of disease might quit the lungs, and direct itself to otherquarters of the system. But no such result was appointed for us; neitherforty-five itself, nor the ameliorations promised then, were ever tobe reached. Four voyages abroad, three of them without his family, in flight from death; and at home, for a like reason, five completeshiftings of abode: in such wandering manner, and not otherwise, hadSterling to continue his pilgrimage till it ended. 

Once more I must say, his cheerfulness throughout was wonderful. Acertain grimmer shade, coming gradually over him, might perhaps benoticed in the concluding years; not impatience properly, yet theconsciousness how much he needed patience; something more caustic in histone of wit, more trenchant and indignant occasionally in his tone ofspeech: but at no moment was his activity bewildered or abated, nor didhis composure ever give way. No; both his activity and his composurehe bore with him, through all weathers, to the final close; and on thewhole, right manfully he walked his wild stern way towards the goal, andlike a Roman wrapt his mantle round him when he fell. --Let us glance, with brevity, at what he saw and suffered in his remaining pilgrimingsand chargings; and count up what fractions of spiritual fruit herealized to us from them. 

Calvert and he returned from Madeira in the spring of 1838. Mrs. Sterling and the family had lived in Knightsbridge with his Father'speople through the winter: they now changed to Blackheath, or ultimatelyHastings, and he with them, coming up to London pretty often; uncertainwhat was to be done for next winter. Literature went on briskly here:_Blackwood_ had from him, besides the _Onyx Ring_ which soon came outwith due honor, assiduous almost monthly contributions in prose andverse. The series called _Hymns of a Hermit_ was now going on; eloquentmelodies, tainted to me with something of 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 cleareloquent prose, the series of detached thoughts, entitled _Crystals froma Cavern_; of which the set of fragments, generally a little larger incompass, called _Thoughts and Images_, and again those called _Sayingsand Essayings_, [17] are properly continuations. Add to which, his friendJohn Mill had now charge of a Review, _The London and Westminster_its name; wherein Sterling's assistance, ardently desired, was freelyafforded, with satisfaction to both parties, in this and the followingyears. An Essay on _Montaigne_, with the notes and reminiscencesalready spoken of, was Sterling's first contribution here; then one on_Simonides_: [18] both of the present season. 

On these and other businesses, slight or important, he was often runningup to London; and gave us almost the feeling of his being resident amongus. In order to meet the most or a good many of his friends at onceon such occasions, he now furthermore contrived the scheme of a littleClub, where monthly over a frugal dinner some reunion might take place;that is, where friends of his, and withal such friends of theirs assuited, --and in fine, where a small select company definable aspersons to whom it was pleasant to talk together, --might have alittle opportunity of talking. The scheme was approved by the personsconcerned: I have a copy of the Original Regulations, probably drawn upby Sterling, a very solid lucid piece of economics; and the List of theproposed Members, signed "James Spedding, Secretary, " and dated "8thAugust, 1838. " [19] The Club grew; was at first called the _AnonymousClub_; then, after some months of success, in compliment to the founderwho had now left us again, the _Sterling Club_;--under which lattername, it once lately, for a time, owing to the Religious Newspapers, became rather famous in the world! In which strange circumstancesthe name was again altered, to suit weak brethren; and the Club stillsubsists, in a sufficiently flourishing though happily once more aprivate condition. That is the origin and genesis of poor Sterling'sClub; which, having honestly paid the shot for itself at Will'sCoffee-house or elsewhere, rashly fancied its bits of affairs were quitesettled; and once little thought of getting into Books of History withthem!--

But now, Autumn approaching, Sterling had to quit Clubs, for mattersof sadder consideration. A new removal, what we call "his thirdperegrinity, " had to be decided on; and it was resolved that Rome shouldbe the goal of it, the journey to be done in company with Calvert, whomalso the Italian climate might be made to serve instead of Madeira. Oneof the liveliest recollections I have, connected with the _AnonymousClub_, is that of once escorting Sterling, after a certain meetingthere, which I had seen only towards the end, and now remember nothingof, --except that, on breaking up, he proved to be encumbered with acarpet-bag, and could not at once find a cab for Knightsbridge. Somesmall bantering hereupon, during the instants of embargo. But we carriedhis carpet-bag, slinging it on my stick, two or three of us alternately, through dusty vacant streets, under the gaslights and the stars, towardsthe surest cab-stand; still jesting, or pretending to jest, he and we, not in the mirthfulest manner; and had (I suppose) our own feelingsabout the poor Pilgrim, who was to go on the morrow, and had hurried tomeet us in this way, as the last thing before leaving England. 

CHAPTER VII. ITALY. 

The journey to Italy was undertaken by advice of Sir James Clark, reckoned the chief authority in pulmonary therapeutics; who prophesiedimportant improvements from it, and perhaps even the possibilityhenceforth of living all the year in some English home. Mrs. Sterlingand the children continued in a house avowedly temporary, a furnishedhouse at Hastings, through the winter. The two friends had set offfor Belgium, while the due warmth was still in the air. They traversedBelgium, looking well at pictures and such objects; ascended the Rhine;rapidly traversed Switzerland and the Alps; issuing upon Italy andMilan, with immense appetite for pictures, and time still to gratifythemselves in that pursuit, and be deliberate in their approach to Rome. We will take this free-flowing sketch of their passage over the Alps;written amid "the rocks of Arona, "--Santo Borromeo's country, and poorlittle Mignon's! The "elder Perdonnets" are opulent Lausanne people, towhose late son Sterling had been very kind in 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 my proceedings to thepresent time since the 29th of September. I think it must have beenafter that day that I was at a great breakfast at the elder Perdonnets', with whom I had declined to dine, not choosing to go out at night. . . . I was taken by my hostess to see several pretty pleasure-grounds andpoints of view in the neighborhood; and latterly Calvert was better, andable to go with us. He was in force again, and our passports were allsettled so as to enable us to start on the morning of the 2d, aftertaking leave of our kind entertainer with thanks for her infinitekindness. 

"We reached St. Maurice early that evening; having had the Dent duMidi close to us for several hours; glittering like the top of a silverteapot, far up in the sky. Our course lay along the Valley of the Rhone;which is considered one of the least beautiful parts of Switzerland, and perhaps for this reason pleased us, as we had not been preparedto expect much. We saw, before reaching the foot of the Alpine pass atBrieg, two rather celebrated Waterfalls; the one the Pissevache, whichhas no more beauty than any waterfall one hundred or two hundred feethigh must necessarily have: the other, near Tourtemagne, is much morepleasing, having foliage round it, and being in a secluded dell. If youbuy a Swiss Waterfall, choose this one. 

"Our second day took us through Martigny to Sion, celebrated for itspicturesque towers upon detached hills, for its strong Romanism and itspopulation of _cretins_, --that is, maimed idiots having the _goitre_. Itlooked to us a more thriving place than we expected. They are buildinga great deal; among other things, a new Bishop's Palace and a newNunnery, --to inhabit either of which _ex officio_ I feel myself veryunsuitable. From Sion we came to Brieg; a little village in a nook, close under an enormous mountain and glacier, where it lies like amolehill, or something smaller, at the foot of a haystack. Here also weslept; and the next day our voiturier, who had brought us from Lausanne, started with us up the Simplon Pass; helped on by two extra horses. 

"The beginning of the road was rather cheerful; having a good deal ofgreen pasturage, and some mountain villages; but it soon becomes drearyand savage in aspect, and but for our bright sky and warm air, wouldhave been truly dismal. However, we gained gradually a distinct andnear view of several large glaciers; and reached at last the highand melancholy valleys of the Upper Alps; where even the pines becomescanty, and no sound is heard but the wheels of one's carriage, exceptwhen there happens to be a storm or an avalanche, neither of whichentertained us. There is, here and there, a small stream of waterpouring from the snow; but this is rather a monotonous accompaniment tothe general desolation than an interruption of it. The road itself iscertainly very good, and impresses one with a strong notion of humanpower. But the common descriptions are much exaggerated; and many ofwhat the Guide-Books call 'galleries' are merely parts of the roadsupported by a wall built against the rock, and have nothing like aroof above them. The 'stupendous bridges, ' as they are called, might bepacked, a dozen together, into one arch of London Bridge; and theyare seldom even very striking from the depth below. The roadway isexcellent, and kept in the best order. On the whole, I am very gladto have travelled the most famous road in Europe, and to have haddelightful weather for doing so, as indeed we have had ever since weleft Lausanne. The Italian descent is greatly more remarkable than theother side. 

"We slept near the top, at the Village of Simplon, in a very fair andwell-warmed inn, close to a mountain stream, which is one of the greatornaments of this side of the road. We have here passed into a region ofgranite, from that of limestone, and what is called gneiss. The valleysare sharper and closer, --like cracks in a hard and solid mass;--andthere is much more of the startling contrast of light and shade, aswell as more angular boldness of outline; to all which the more abundantwaters add a fresh and vivacious interest. Looking back through oneof these abysmal gorges, one sees two torrents dashing together, theprecipice and ridge on one side, pitch-black with shade; and that on theother all flaming gold; while behind rises, in a huge cone, one of theglacier summits of the chain. The stream at one's feet rushes at a leapsome two hundred feet down, and is bordered with pines and beeches, struggling through a ruined world of clefts and boulders. I never sawanything so much resembling some of the _Circles_ described by Dante. From Simplon we made for Duomo d'Ossola; having broken out, as throughthe mouth of a mine, into green and fertile valleys full of vines andchestnuts, and white villages, --in short, into sunshine and Italy. 

"At this place we dismissed our Swiss voiturier, and took an Italianone; who conveyed us to Omegna on the Lake of Orta; a place littlevisited by English travellers, but which fully repaid us the trouble ofgoing there. We were lodged in a simple and even rude Italian inn; wherethey cannot speak a word of French; where we occupied a barn-like room, with a huge chimney fit to lodge a hundred ghosts, whom we expelled bydint of a hot woodfire. There were two beds, and as it happened goodones, in this strange old apartment; which was adorned by pictures ofArchitecture, and by Heads of Saints, better than many at the RoyalAcademy Exhibition, and which one paid nothing for looking at. Thethorough Italian character of the whole scene amused us, much more thanMeurice's at Paris would have done; for we had voluble, commonplacegood-humor, with the aspect and accessories of a den of banditti. 

"To-day we have seen the Lake of Orta, have walked for some miles amongits vineyards and chestnuts; and thence have come, by Baveno, to thisplace;--having seen by the way, I believe, the most beautiful partof the Lago Maggiore, and certainly the most cheerful, complete andextended example of fine scenery I have ever fallen in with. Here weare, much to my wonder, --for it seems too good to be true, --fairly inItaly; and as yet my journey has been a pleasanter and more instructive, and in point of health a more successful one, than I at all imaginedpossible. Calvert and I go on as well as can be. I let him have his wayabout natural science, and he only laughs benignly when he thinksme absurd in my moral speculations. My only regrets are caused by myseparation from my family and friends, and by the hurry I have beenliving in, which has prevented me doing any work, --and compelled me towrite to you at a good deal faster rate than the _vapore_ moves on theLago Maggiore. It will take me to-morrow to Sesto Calende, whence we goto Varese. We shall not be at Milan for some days. Write thither, if youare kind enough to write at all, till I give you another address. Loveto my Father. 

 "Your affectionate son, "JOHN STERLING. "

Omitting Milan, Florence nearly all, and much about "Art, " MichaelAngelo, and other aerial matters, here are some select terrestrialglimpses, the fittest I can find, of his progress towards Rome:--

 _To his Mother_. 

"_Lucca, Nov. 27th_, 1838. --I had dreams, like other people, before Icame here, of what the Lombard Lakes must be; and the week I spent amongthem has left me an image, not only more distinct, but far more warm, shining and various, and more deeply attractive in innumerable respects, than all I had before conceived of them. And so also it has been withFlorence; where I spent three weeks: enough for the first hazy radiantdawn of sympathy to pass away; yet constantly adding an increase ofknowledge and of love, while I examined, and tried to understand, thewonderful minds that have left behind them there such abundant traces oftheir presence. . . . On Sunday, the day before I left Florence, I went tothe highest part of the Grand Duke's Garden of Boboli, which commands aview of most of the City, and of the vale of the Arno to the westward;where, as we had been visited by several rainy days, and now at last hada very fine one, the whole prospect was in its highest beauty. The massof buildings, chiefly on the other side of the River, is sufficientto fill the eye, without perplexing the mind by vastness like that ofLondon; and its name and history, its outline and large and picturesquebuildings, give it grandeur of a higher order than that of meremultitudinous extent. The Hills that border the Valley of the Arno arealso very pleasing and striking to look upon; and the view of the richPlain, glimmering away into blue distance, covered with an endless webof villages and country-houses, is one of the most delightful images ofhuman well-being I have ever seen. . . . 

"Very shortly before leaving Florence, I went through the house ofMichael Angelo; which is still possessed by persons of the same family, descendants, I believe, of his Nephew. There is in it his 'first work inmarble, ' as it is called; and a few drawings, --all with the stamp ofhis enginery upon them, which was more powerful than all the steam inLondon. . . . On the whole, though I have done no work in Florence that canbe of any use or pleasure to others, except my Letters to my Wife, --Ileave it with the certainty of much valuable knowledge gained there, andwith a most pleasant remembrance of the busy and thoughtful days I oweto it. 

"We left Florence before seven yesterday morning [26th November] forthis place; travelling on the northern side of the Arno, by Prato, Pistoia, Pescia. We tried to see some old frescos in a Church at Prato;but found the Priests all about, saying mass; and of course did notventure to put our hands into a hive where the bees were buzzing and onthe wing. Pistoia we only coasted. A little on one side of it, there isa Hill, the first on the road from Florence; which we walked up, andhad a very lively and brilliant prospect over the road we had justtravelled, and the town of Pistoia. Thence to this place the whole landis beautiful, and in the highest degree prosperous, --in short, to speakmetaphorically, all dotted with Leghorn bonnets, and streaming witholive-oil. The girls here are said to employ themselves chiefly inplatting straw, which is a profitable employment; and the slightness andquiet of the work are said to be much more favorable to beauty than thecoarser kinds of labor performed by the country-women elsewhere. Certainit is that I saw more pretty women in Pescia, in the hour I spent there, than I ever before met with among the same numbers of the 'phare sect. 'Wherefore, as a memorial of them, I bought there several Legends ofFemale Saints and Martyrs, and of other Ladies quite the reverse, andheld up as warnings; all of which are written in _ottava rima_, and soldfor three halfpence apiece. But unhappily I have not yet had time toread them. This Town has 30, 000 inhabitants, and is surrounded byWalls, laid out as walks, and evidently not at present intended to bebesieged, --for which reason, this morning, I merely walked on them roundthe Town, and did not besiege them. . . . 

"The Cathedral [of Lucca] contains some Relics; which have undoubtedlyworked miracles on the imagination of the people hereabouts. TheGrandfather of all Relics (as the Arabs would say) in the place is the_Volto Santo_, which is a Face of the Saviour appertaining to a woodenCrucifix. Now you must know that, after the ascension of Christ, Nicodemus was ordered by an Angel to carve an image of him; and wentaccordingly with a hatchet, and cut down a cedar for that purpose. Hethen proceeded to carve the figure; and being tired, fell asleep beforehe had done the face; which however, on awaking, he found completed bycelestial aid. This image was brought to Lucca, from Leghorn, I think, where it had arrived in a ship, 'more than a thousand years ago, 'and has ever since been kept, in purple and fine linen and gold anddiamonds, quietly working miracles. I saw the gilt Shrine of it; andalso a Hatchet which refused to cut off the head of an innocent man, who had been condemned to death, and who prayed to the _Volto Santo_. I suppose it is by way of economy (they being a frugal people) thatthe Italians have their Book of Common Prayer and their Arabian Nights'Entertainments condensed into one. "

 _To the Same_. 

"_Pisa, December 2d_, 1838. --Pisa is very unfairly treated in all theBooks I have read. It seems to me a quiet, but very agreeable place;with wide clean streets, and a look of stability and comfort; and Iadmire the Cathedral and its appendages more, the more I see them. Theleaning of the Tower is to my eye decidedly unpleasant; but it is abeautiful building nevertheless, and the view from the top is, under abright sky, remarkably lively and satisfactory. The Lucchese Hills forma fine mass, and the sea must in clear weather be very distinct. Therewas some haze over it when I was up, though the land was all clear. Icould just see the Leghorn Light-house. Leghorn itself I shall not beable to visit. . . . 

"The quiet gracefulness of Italian life, and the mental maturity andvigor of Germany, have a great charm when compared with the restlesswhirl of England, and the chorus of mingled yells and groans sent up byour parties and sects, and by the suffering and bewildered crowds of thelaboring people. Our politics make my heart ache, whenever I thinkof them. The base selfish frenzies of factions seem to me, at thisdistance, half diabolic; and I am out of the way of knowing anythingthat may be quietly a-doing to elevate the standard of wise andtemperate manhood in the country, and to diffuse the means of physicaland moral well-being among all the people. . . . I will write to myFather as soon as I can after reaching the capital of his friend thePope, --who, if he had happened to be born an English gentleman, would nodoubt by this time be a respectable old-gentlemanly gouty member of theCarlton. I have often amused myself by thinking what a mere accidentit is that Phillpotts is not Archbishop of Tuam, and M'Hale Bishop ofExeter; and how slight a change of dress, and of a few catchwords, would even now enable them to fill those respective posts with all thepropriety and discretion they display in their present positions. "

At Rome he found the Crawfords, known to him long since; and atdifferent dates other English friends old and new; and was altogether inthe liveliest humor, no end to his activities and speculations. Ofall which, during the next four months, the Letters now before me giveabundant record, --far too abundant for our objects here. His grandpursuit, as natural at Rome, was Art; into which metaphysical domain weshall not follow him; preferring to pick out, here and there, somethingof concrete and human. Of his interests, researches, speculationsand descriptions on this subject of Art, there is always rather asuperabundance, especially in the Italian Tour. Unfortunately, inthe hard weather, poor Calvert fell ill; and Sterling, along with hisArt-studies, distinguished himself as a sick-nurse till his poor comradegot afoot again. His general impressions of the scene and what it heldfor him may be read in the following excerpts. The Letters are all dated_Rome_, and addressed to his Father or Mother:--

"_December 21st_, 1838. --Of Rome itself, as a whole, there are infinitethings to be said, well worth saying; but I shall confine myself totwo remarks: first, that while the Monuments and works of Art gain inwondrousness and significance by familiarity with them, the actual lifeof Rome, the Papacy and its pride, lose; and though one gets accustomedto Cardinals and Friars and Swiss Guards, and ragged beggars and thefinery of London and Paris, all rolling on together, and sees how it isthat they subsist in a sort of spurious unity, one loses all tendency toidealize the Metropolis and System of the Hierarchy into anythinghigher than a piece of showy stage-declamation, at bottom, in our day, thoroughly mean and prosaic. My other remark is, that Rome, seen fromthe tower of the Capitol, from the Pincian or the Janiculum, is at thisday one of the most beautiful spectacles which eyes ever beheld. Thecompany of great domes rising from a mass of large and solid buildings, with a few stone-pines and scattered edifices on the outskirts; thebroken bare Campagna all around; the Alban Hills not far, and the purplerange of Sabine Mountains in the distance with a cope of snow;--thisseen in the clear air, and the whole spiritualized by endlessrecollections, and a sense of the grave and lofty reality of humanexistence which has had this place for a main theatre, fills at once theeyes and heart more forcibly, and to me delightfully, than I can findwords to say. "

"_January 22d_, 1839. --The Modern Rome, Pope and all inclusive, area shabby attempt at something adequate to fill the place of the oldCommonwealth. It is easy enough to live among them, and there is muchto amuse and even interest a spectator; but the native existence of theplace is now thin and hollow, and there is a stamp of littleness, andchildish poverty of taste, upon all the great Christian buildings I haveseen here, --not excepting St. Peter's; which is crammed with bits ofcolored marble and gilding, and Gog-and-Magog colossal statues of saints(looking prodigiously small), and mosaics from the worst pictures inRome; and has altogether, with most imposing size and lavish splendor, a tang of Guildhall finery about it that contrasts oddly with themelancholy vastness and simplicity of the Ancient Monuments, thoughthese have not the Athenian elegance. I recur perpetually to thegalleries of Sculpture in the Vatican, and to the Frescos of Raffaeland Michael Angelo, of inexhaustible beauty and greatness, and tothe general aspect of the City and the Country round it, as the mostimpressive scene on earth. But the Modern City, with its churches, palaces, priests and beggars, is far from sublime. "

Of about the same date, here is another paragraph worth inserting:"Gladstone has three little agate crosses which he will give you for mylittle girls. Calvert bought them, as a present, for 'the bodies, 'at Martigny in Switzerland, and I have had no earlier opportunityof sending them. Will you despatch them to Hastings when you have anopportunity? I have not yet seen Gladstone's _Church and State_; but asthere is a copy in Rome, I hope soon to lay hands on it. I saw yesterdayin the _Times_ a furious, and I am sorry to say, most absurd attack onhim and it, and the new Oxonian school. "

"_February 28th, 1839_. --There is among the people plenty of squalidmisery; though not nearly so much as, they say, exists in Ireland; andhere there is a certain freedom and freshness of manners, a dash ofSouthern enjoyment in the condition of the meanest and most miserable. There is, I suppose, as little as well can be of conscience orartificial cultivation of any kind; but there is not the affectation ofa virtue which they do not possess, nor any feeling of being despisedfor the want of it; and where life generally is so inert, except as toits passions and material wants, there is not the bitter consciousnessof having been beaten by the more prosperous, in a race which thegreater number have never thought of running. Among the laboring poor ofRome, a bribe will buy a crime; but if common work procures enough fora day's food or idleness, ten times the sum will not induce them to toilon, as an English workman would, for the sake of rising in the world. Sixpence any day will put any of them at the top of the only tree theycare for, --that on which grows the fruit of idleness. It is striking tosee the way in which, in magnificent churches, the most ragged beggarskneel on the pavement before some favorite altar in the midst ofwell-dressed women and of gazing foreigners. Or sometimes you will seeone with a child come in from the street where she has been begging, put herself in a corner, say a prayer (probably for the success of herpetitions), and then return to beg again. There is wonderfully little ofany moral strength connected with this devotion; but still it is betterthan nothing, and more than is often found among the men of the upperclasses in Rome. I believe the Clergy to be generally profligate, andthe state of domestic morals as bad as it has ever been represented. "--

Or, in sudden contrast, take this other glance homeward; a Letter to hiseldest child; in which kind of Letters, more than in any other, Sterlingseems to me to excel. Readers recollect the hurricane in St. Vincent;the hasty removal to a neighbor's house, and the birth of a son there, soon after. The boy has grown to some articulation, during theseseven years; and his Father, from the new foreign scene of Priests andDilettanti, thus addresses him:--

 "_To Master Edward C. Sterling, Hastings_. "ROME, 21st January, 1839. 

"MY DEAR EDWARD, --I was very glad to receive your Letter, which showedme that you have learned something since I left home. If you knew howmuch pleasure it gave me to see your handwriting, I am sure you wouldtake pains to be able to write well, that you might often send meletters, and tell me a great many things which I should like to knowabout Mamma and your Sisters as well as yourself. 

"If I go to Vesuvius, I will try to carry away a bit of the lava, whichyou wish for. There has lately been a great eruption, as it is called, of that Mountain; which means a great breaking-out of hot ashes andfire, and of melted stones which is called lava. 

"Miss Clark is very kind to take so much pains with you; and I trust youwill show that you are obliged to her, by paying attention to all shetells you. When you see how much more grown people know than you, youought to be anxious to learn all you can from those who teach you; andas there are so many wise and good things written in Books, you oughtto try to read early and carefully; that you may learn something of whatGod has made you able to know. There are Libraries containing very manythousands of Volumes; and all that is written in these is, --accounts ofsome part or other of the World which God has made, or of the Thoughtswhich he has enabled men to have in their minds. Some Books aredescriptions of the earth itself, with its rocks and ground and water, and of the air and clouds, and the stars and moon and sun, which shineso beautifully in the sky. Some tell you about the things that grow uponthe ground; the many millions of plants, from little mosses and threadsof grass up to great trees and forests. Some also contain accounts ofliving things: flies, worms, fishes, birds and four-legged beasts. Andsome, which are the most, are about men and their thoughts and doings. These are the most important of all; for men are the best and mostwonderful creatures of God in the world; being the only ones able toknow him and love him, and to try of their own accord to do his will. 

"These Books about men are also the most important to us, because weourselves are human beings, and may learn from such Books what we oughtto think and to do and to try to be. Some of them describe what sort ofpeople have lived in old times and in other countries. By reading them, we know what is the difference between ourselves in England now, and thefamous nations which lived in former days. Such were the Egyptians whobuilt the Pyramids, which are the greatest heaps of stone upon the faceof the earth: and the Babylonians, who had a city with huge walls, builtof bricks, having writing on them that no one in our time has been ableto make out. There were also the Jews, who were the only ancient peoplethat knew how wonderful and how good God is: and the Greeks, who werethe wisest of all in thinking about men's lives and hearts, and who knewbest how to make fine statues and buildings, and to write wise books. ByBooks also we may learn what sort of people the old Romans were, whosechief city was Rome, where I am now; and how brave and skilful they werein war; and how well they could govern and teach many nations which theyhad conquered. It is from Books, too, that you must learn what kind ofmen were our Ancestors in the Northern part of Europe, who belongedto the tribes that did the most towards pulling down the power of theRomans: and you will see in the same way how Christianity was sent amongthem by God, to make them wiser and more peaceful, and more noblein their minds; and how all the nations that now are in Europe, andespecially the Italians and the Germans, and the French and the English, came to be what they now are. --It is well worth knowing (and it can beknown only by reading) how the Germans found out the Printing of Books, and what great changes this has made in the world. And everybody inEngland ought to try to understand how the English came to have theirParliaments and Laws; and to have fleets that sail over all seas of theworld. 

"Besides learning all these things, and a great many more aboutdifferent times and countries, you may learn from Books, what is thetruth of God's will, and what are the best and wisest thoughts, and themost beautiful words; and how men are able to lead very right lives, andto do a great deal to better the world. I have spent a great part of mylife in reading; and I hope you will come to like it as much as I do, and to learn in this way all that I know. 

"But it is a still more serious matter that you should try to beobedient and gentle; and to command your temper; and to think of otherpeople's pleasure rather than your own, and of what you _ought_ to dorather than what you _like_. If you try to be better for all you read, as well as wiser, you will find Books a great help towards goodness aswell as knowledge, and above all other Books, the Bible; which tells usof the will of God, and of the love of Jesus Christ towards God and men. 

"I had a Letter from Mamma to-day, which left Hastings on the 10th ofthis month. I was very glad to find in it that you were all welland happy; but I know Mamma is not well, and is likely to be moreuncomfortable every day for some time. So I hope you will all take careto give her as little trouble as possible. After sending you so muchadvice, I shall write a little Story to divert you. --I am, my dear Boy, "Your affectionate Father, "JOHN STERLING. "

The "Story" is lost, destroyed, as are many such 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 communications still left, I remember longLetters, not now extant, principally addressed to his Wife, of which weand the circle at Knightsbridge had due perusal, treating with animatedcopiousness about all manner of picture-galleries, pictures, statues andobjects of Art at Rome, and on the road to Rome and from it, wheresoeverhis course led him into neighborhood of such objects. That wasSterling's habit. It is expected in this Nineteenth Century that a manof culture shall understand and worship Art: among the windy gospelsaddressed to our poor Century there are few louder than this ofArt;--and if the Century expects that every man shall do his duty, surely Sterling was not the man to balk it! Various extracts from thesepicture-surveys are given in Hare; the others, I suppose, Sterlinghimself subsequently destroyed, not valuing them much. 

Certainly no stranger could address himself more eagerly to reap whatartistic harvest Rome offers, which is reckoned the peculiar produceof Rome among cities under the sun; to all galleries, churches, sistinechapels, ruins, coliseums, and artistic or dilettante shrines hezealously pilgrimed; and had much to say then and afterwards, and withreal technical and historical knowledge I believe, about the objects ofdevotion there. But it often struck me as a question, Whether all thiseven to himself was not, more or less, a nebulous kind of element;prescribed not by Nature and her verities, but by the Century expectingevery man to do his duty? Whether not perhaps, in good part, temporarydilettante cloudland of our poor Century;--or can it be the real divinerPisgah height, and everlasting mount of vision, for man's soul inany Century? And I think Sterling himself bent towards a negativeconclusion, in the course of years. Certainly, of all subjects thiswas the one I cared least to hear even Sterling talk of: indeed it is asubject on which earnest men, abhorrent of hypocrisy and speech that hasno meaning, are admonished to silence in this sad time, and had better, in such a Babel as we have got into for the present, "perambulate theirpicture-gallery with little or no speech. "

Here is another and to me much more earnest kind of "Art, " whichrenders Rome unique among the cities of the world; of this we will, inpreference; take a glance through Sterling's eyes:--

"January 22d, 1839. --On Friday last there was a great Festival at St. Peter's; the only one I have seen. The Church was decorated with crimsonhangings, and the choir fitted up with seats and galleries, and a thronefor the Pope. There were perhaps a couple of hundred guards of differentkinds; and three or four hundred English ladies, and not so many foreignmale spectators; so that the place looked empty. The Cardinals inscarlet, and Monsignori in purple, were there; and a body of officiatingClergy. The Pope was carried in in his chair on men's shoulders, wearingthe Triple Crown; which I have thus actually seen: it is somethinglike a gigantic Egg, and of the same color, with three little bands ofgold, --very large Egg-shell with three streaks of the yolk smeared roundit. He was dressed in white silk robes, with gold trimmings. 

"It was a fine piece of state-show; though, as there are three or foursuch Festivals yearly, of course there is none of the eager interestwhich breaks out at coronations and similar rare events; no explosionof unwonted velvets, jewels, carriages and footmen, such as London andMilan have lately enjoyed. I guessed all the people in St. Peter's, including performers and spectators, at 2, 000; where 20, 000 would hardlyhave been a crushing crowd. Mass was performed, and a stupid but shortLatin sermon delivered by a lad, in honor of St. Peter, who would havebeen much astonished if he could have heard it. The genuflections, andtrain-bearings, and folding up the tails of silk petticoats while thePontiff knelt, and the train of Cardinals going up to kiss his Ring, andso forth, --made on me the impression of something immeasurably old andsepulchral, such as might suit the Grand Lama's court, or the inside ofan Egyptian Pyramid; or as if the Hieroglyphics on one of the Obeliskshere should begin to pace and gesticulate, and nod their bestial headsupon the granite tablets. The careless bystanders, the London ladieswith their eye-glasses and look of an Opera-box, the yawning younggentlemen of the _Guarda Nobile_, and the laugh of one of the file ofvermilion Priests round the steps of the altar at the whispered goodthing of his neighbor, brought one back to nothing indeed of a verylofty kind, but still to the Nineteenth Century. "--

"At the great Benediction of the City and the World on Easter Sunday bythe Pope, " he writes afterwards, "there was a large crowd both nativeand foreign, hundreds of carriages, and thousands of the lower orders ofpeople from the country; but even of the poor hardly one in twenty tookoff his hat, and a still smaller number knelt down. A few years ago, not a head was covered, nor was there a knee which did not bow. "--A verydecadent "Holiness of our Lord the Pope, " it would appear!--

Sterling's view of the Pope, as seen in these his gala days, doing hisbig play-actorism under God's earnest sky, was much more substantialto me than his studies in the picture-galleries. To Mr. Hare also hewrites: "I have seen the Pope in all his pomp at St. Peter's; and helooked to me a mere lie in livery. The Romish Controversy is doubtless amuch more difficult one than the managers of the Religious-Tract Societyfancy, because it is a theoretical dispute; and in dealing with notionsand authorities, I can quite understand how a mere student in a library, with no eye for facts, should take either one side or other. But how anyman with clear head and honest heart, and capable of seeing realities, and distinguishing them from scenic falsehoods, should, after living ina Romanist country, and especially at Rome, be inclined to side with Leoagainst Luther, I cannot understand. " [20]

It is fit surely to recognize with admiring joy any glimpse of theBeautiful and the Eternal that is hung out for us, in color, in form ortone, in canvas, stone, or atmospheric air, and made accessible by anysense, in this world: but it is greatly fitter still (little as we areused that way) to shudder in pity and abhorrence over the scandaloustragedy, transcendent nadir of human ugliness and contemptibility, whichunder the daring title of religious worship, and practical recognitionof the Highest God, daily and hourly everywhere transacts itself there. And, alas, not there only, but elsewhere, everywhere more or less;whereby our sense is so blunted to it;--whence, in all provinces ofhuman life, these tears!--

But let us take a glance at the Carnival, since we are here. TheLetters, as before, are addressed to Knightsbridge; the date _Rome_:--

"_February 5th_, 1839. --The Carnival began yesterday. It is a curiousexample of the trifling things which will heartily amuse tens ofthousands of grown people, precisely because they are trifling, andtherefore a relief from serious business, cares and labors. The Corsois a street about a mile long, and about as broad as Jermyn Street; butbordered by much loftier houses, with many palaces and churches, andhas two or three small squares opening into it. Carriages, mostly open, drove up and down it for two or three hours; and the contents were shotat with handfuls of comfits from the windows, --in the hope of makingthem as non-content as possible, --while they returned the fire to thebest of their inferior ability. The populace, among whom was I, walkedabout; perhaps one in fifty were masked in character; but there waslittle in the masquerade either of splendor of costume or liveliness ofmimicry. However, the whole scene was very gay; there were a good manytroops about, and some of them heavy dragoons, who flourishedtheir swords with the magnanimity of our Life-Guards, to repel theencroachments of too ambitious little boys. Most of the windowsand balconies were hung with colored drapery; and there were flags, trumpets, nosegays and flirtations of all shapes and sizes. The best ofall was, that there was laughter enough to have frightened Cassius outof his thin carcass, could the lean old homicide have been present, otherwise than as a fleshless ghost;--in which capacity I thought I hada glimpse of him looking over the shoulder of a particolored clown, ina carriage full of London Cockneys driving towards the Capitol. Thisgood-humored foolery will go on for several days to come, ending alwayswith the celebrated Horse-race, of horses without riders. The longstreet is cleared in the centre by troops, and half a dozen quadrupeds, ornamented like Grimaldi in a London pantomime, scamper away, with themob closing and roaring at their heels. "

"_February_ 9th, 1839. --The usual state of Rome is quiet and sober. Onecould almost fancy the actual generation held their breath, and stole byon tiptoe, in presence of so memorable a past. But during the Carnivalall mankind, womankind and childkind think it unbecoming not to playthe fool. The modern donkey pokes its head out of the lion's skin of oldRome, and brays out the absurdest of asinine roundelays. Conceive twentythousand grown people in a long street, at the windows, on the footways, and in carriages, amused day after day for several hours in pelting andbeing pelted with handfuls of mock or real sugar-plums; and this no nameor presence, but real downright showers of plaster comfits, from whichpeople guard their eyes with meshes of wire. As sure as a carriagepasses under a window or balcony where are acquaintances of theirs, downcomes a shower of hail, ineffectually returned from below. The partiesin two crossing carriages similarly assault each other; and there arelong balconies hung the whole way with a deep canvas pocket full of thismortal shot. One Russian Grand Duke goes with a troop of youngsters in awagon, all dressed in brown linen frocks and masked, and pelts among themost furious, also being pelted. The children are of course preeminentlyvigorous, and there is a considerable circulation of real sugar-plums, which supply consolation for all disappointments. "

The whole to conclude, as is proper, with a display, with two displays, of fireworks; in which art, as in some others, Rome is unrivalled:--

"_February 9th_, 1839. --It seems to be the ambition of all the lowerclasses to wear a mask and showy grotesque disguise of some kind; and Ibelieve many of the upper ranks do the same. They even put St. Peter'sinto masquerade; and make it a Cathedral of Lamplight instead of a stoneone. Two evenings ago this feat was performed; and I was able to see itfrom the rooms of a friend near this, which command an excellent view ofit. I never saw so beautiful an effect of artificial light. The eveningwas perfectly serene and clear; the principal lines of the building, thecolumns, architrave and pediment of the front, the two inferior cupolas, the curves of the dome from which the dome rises, the ribs of the domeitself, the small oriel windows between them, and the lantern and balland cross, --all were delineated in the clear vault of air by lines ofpale yellow fire. The dome of another great Church, much nearer tothe eye, stood up as a great black mass, --a funereal contrast to theluminous tabernacle. 

"While I was looking at this latter, a red blaze burst from the summit, and at the same moment seemed to flash over the whole building, fillingup the pale outline with a simultaneous burst of fire. This is acelebrated display; and is done, I believe, by the employment of a verygreat number of men to light, at the same instant, the torches which arefixed for the purpose all over the building. After the first glare offire, I did not think the second aspect of the building so beautifulas the first; it wanted both softness and distinctness. The two mostanimated days of the Carnival are still to come. "

"_April 4th_, 1839. --We have just come to the termination of all theEaster spectacles here. On Sunday evening St. Peter's was a second timeilluminated; I was in the Piazza, and admired the sight from a nearerpoint than when I had seen it before at the time of the Carnival. 

"On Monday evening the celebrated fire-works were let off from theCastle of St. Angelo; they were said to be, in some respects morebrilliant than usual. I certainly never saw any fireworks comparableto them for beauty. The Girandola is a discharge of many thousands ofrockets at once, which of course fall back, like the leaves of a lily, and form for a minute a very beautiful picture. There was also insilvery light a very long Facade of a Palace, which looked a residencefor Oberon and Titania, and beat Aladdin's into darkness. Afterwards aseries of cascades of red fire poured down the faces of the Castle andof the scaffoldings round it, and seemed a burning Niagara. Of coursethere were abundance of serpents, wheels and cannon-shot; there was alsoa display of dazzling white light, which made a strange appearance onthe houses, the river, the bridge, and the faces of the multitude. Thewhole ended with a second and a more splendid Girandola. "

Take finally, to people the scene a little for us, if our imaginationbe at all lively, these three small entries, of different dates, and sowind up:--

"_December 30th_, 1838. --I received on Christmas-day a packet fromDr. Carlyle, containing Letters from the Maurices; which were a verypleasant arrival. The Dr. Wrote a few lines with them, mentioning thathe was only at Civita Vecchia while the steamer baited on its way toNaples. I have written to thank him for his despatches. "

"_March 16th_, 1839. --I have seen a good deal of John Mill, whosesociety I like much. He enters heartily into the interest of the thingswhich I most care for here, and I have seldom had more pleasure thanin taking him to see Raffael's Loggie, where are the Frescos called hisBible, and to the Sixtine Chapel, which I admire and love more andmore. He is in very weak health, but as fresh and clear in mind aspossible. . . . English politics seem in a queer state, the Conservativescreeping on, the Whigs losing ground; like combatants on the top of abreach, while there is a social mine below which will probably blow bothparties into the air. "

"_April 4th_, 1839. --I walked out on Tuesday on the Ancona Road, andabout noon met a travelling carriage, which from a distance looked verysuspicious, and on nearer approach was found really to contain CaptainSterling and an Albanian manservant on the front, and behind under thehood Mrs. A. Sterling and the she portion of the tail. They seemed verywell; and, having turned the Albanian back to the rear of the wholemachine, I sat by Anthony, and entered Rome in triumph. "--Here is indeeda conquest! Captain A. Sterling, now on his return from service inCorfu, meets his Brother in this manner; and the remaining Roman daysare of a brighter complexion. As these suddenly ended, I believe heturned southward, and found at Naples the Dr. Carlyle above mentioned(an extremely intimate acquaintance of mine), who was still there. Forwe are a most travelling people, we of this Island in this time; and, as the Prophet threatened, see ourselves, in so many senses, made "likeunto a wheel!"--

Sterling returned from Italy filled with much cheerful imagery andreminiscence, and great store of artistic, serious, dilettante and otherspeculation for the time; improved in health, too; but probablylittle enriched in real culture or spiritual strength; and indeed notpermanently altered by his tour in any respect to a sensible extent, that one could notice. He returned rather in haste, and before theexpected time; summoned, about the middle of April, by his Wife'sdomestic situation at Hastings; who, poor lady, had been brought to bedbefore her calculation, and had in few days lost her infant; and now sawa household round her much needing the master's presence. He hurried offto Malta, dreading the Alps at that season; and came home, by steamer, with all speed, early in May, 1839. 

PART III. 

CHAPTER I. CLIFTON. 

Matters once readjusted at Hastings, it was thought Sterling's healthhad so improved, and his activities towards Literature so developedthemselves into congruity, that a permanent English place of abodemight now again be selected, --on the Southwest coast somewhere, --and thefamily once more have the blessing of a home, and see its _lares_and _penates_ and household furniture unlocked from the Pantechniconrepositories, where they had so long been lying. 

Clifton, by Bristol, with its soft Southern winds and high cheerfulsituation, recommended too by the presence of one or more valuableacquaintances there, was found to be the eligible place; and thither inthis summer of 1839, having found a tolerable lodging, with the prospectby and by of an agreeable house, he and his removed. This was the end ofwhat I call his "third peregrinity;"--or reckoning the West Indies one, his fourth. This also is, since Bayswater, the fourth time his familyhas had to shift on his account. Bayswater; then to Bordeaux, toBlackheath and Knightsbridge (during the Madeira time), to Hastings(Roman time); and now to Clifton, not to stay there either: a sadlynomadic life to be prescribed to a civilized man!

At Clifton his habitation was speedily enough set up; householdconveniences, methods of work, daily promenades on foot or horseback, and before long even a circle of friends, or of kindly neighborhoodsripening into intimacy, were established round him. In all this no mancould be more expert or expeditious, in such cases. It was with singularfacility, in a loving, hoping manner, that he threw himself open tothe new interests and capabilities of the new place; snatched out ofit whatsoever of human or material would suit him; and in brief, inall senses had pitched his tent-habitation, and grew to look on it as ahouse. It was beautiful too, as well as pathetic. This man saw himselfreduced to be a dweller in tents, his house is but a stone tent; and hecan so kindly accommodate himself to that arrangement;--healthy facultyand diseased necessity, nature and habit, and all manner of thingsprimary and secondary, original and incidental, conspiring now to makeit easy for him. With the evils of nomadism, he participated to the fullin whatever benefits lie in it for a man. 

He had friends enough, old and new, at Clifton, whose intercourse madethe place human for him. Perhaps among the most valued of the formersort may be mentioned Mrs. Edward Strachey, Widow of the late IndianJudge, who now resided here; a cultivated, graceful, most devout andhigh-minded lady; whom he had known in old years, first probably asCharles Buller's Aunt, and whose esteem was constant for him, and alwaysprecious to him. She was some ten or twelve years older than he; shesurvived him some years, but is now also gone from us. Of new friendsacquired here, besides a skilful and ingenious Dr. Symonds, physicianas well as friend, the principal was Francis Newman, then and still anardently inquiring soul, of fine University and other attainments, ofsharp-cutting, restlessly advancing intellect, and the mildest piousenthusiasm; whose worth, since better known to all the world, Sterlinghighly estimated;--and indeed practically testified the same; having bywill appointed him, some years hence, guardian to his eldest Son; whichpious function Mr. Newman now successfully discharges. 

Sterling was not long in certainty as to his abode at Clifton: alas, where could he long be so? Hardly six months were gone when his oldenemy again overtook him; again admonished him how frail his hopes ofpermanency were. Each winter, it turned out, he had to fly; and afterthe second of these, he quitted the place altogether. Here, meanwhile, in a Letter to myself, and in Excerpts from others, are some glimpses ofhis advent and first summer there:--

 _To his Mother_. 

"_Clifton, June 11th_, 1839. --As yet I am personally very uncomfortablefrom the general confusion of this house, which deprives me of my roomto sit and read and write in; all being more or less lumbered by boxes, and invaded by servile domesticities aproned, handled, bristled, and ofnondescript varieties. We have very fine warm weather, with occasionalshowers; and the verdure of the woods and fields is very beautiful. Bristol seems as busy as need be; and the shops and all kinds ofpractical conveniences are excellent; but those of Clifton have theusual sentimental, not to say meretricious fraudulence of commercialestablishments in Watering-places. 

"The bag which Hannah forgot reached us safely at Bath on Fridaymorning; but I cannot quite unriddle the mystery of the change ofpadlocks, for I left the right one in care of the Head Steam-engine atPaddington, which seemed a very decent person with a good black coat on, and a pen behind its ear. I have been meditating much on the story ofPalarea's 'box of papers;' which does not appear to be in my possession, and I have a strong impression that I gave it to young Florez Calderon. I will write to say so to Madam Torrijos speedily. " Palarea, Dr. Palarea, I understand, was "an old guerilla leader whom they called_El Medico_. " Of him and of the vanished shadows, now gone to Paris, toMadrid, or out of the world, let us say nothing!

 _To Mr. Carlyle_. 

"_June 15th_, 1839. --We have a room now occupied by Robert Barton [abrother-in-law]; to which Anthony may perhaps succeed; but which afterhim, or in lieu of him, would expand itself to receive you. Is there nohope of your coming? I would undertake to ride with you at all possiblepaces, and in all existing directions. 

"As yet my books are lying as ghost books, in a limbo on the banks ofa certain Bristolian Styx, humanly speaking, a _Canal_; but the otherapparatus of life is gathered about me, and performs its diurnalfunctions. The place pleases me better than I expected: a far lookout onall sides, over green country; a sufficient old City lying in the hollownear; and civilization, in no tumultuous state, rather indeed stagnant, visible in the Rows of Houses and Gardens which call themselves Clifton. I hope soon to take a lease of a house, where I may arrange myself moremethodically; keep myself equably boiling in my own kitchen; and spreadmyself over a series of book-shelves. . . . I have just been interruptedby a visit from Mrs. Strachey; with whom I dined yesterday. She seems avery good and thoroughly kind-hearted woman; and it is pleasant to haveher for a neighbor. . . . I have read Emerson's Pamphlets. I should find itmore difficult than ever to write to him. "

 _To his Father_. 

"_June 30th_, 1839. --Of Books I shall have no lack, though no plethora;and the Reading-room supplies all one can want in the way of Papersand Reviews. I go there three or four times a week, and inquire how thehuman race goes on. I suppose this Turco-Egyptian War will throw severaldiplomatists into a state of great excitement, and massacre a good manythousands of Africans and Asiatics?--For the present, it appears, theEnglish Education Question is settled. I wish the Government had saidthat, in their inspection and superintendence, they would look only tosecular matters, and leave religious ones to the persons who set up theschools, whoever these might be. It seems to me monstrous that the Stateshould be prevented taking any efficient measures for teaching RomanCatholic children to read, write and cipher, merely because they believein the Pope, and the Pope is an impostor, --which I candidly confess heis! There is no question which I can so ill endure to see made a partyone as that of Education. "--The following is of the same day:--

 "_To Thomas Carlyle, Esq. , Chelsea, London_. "MANOR HOUSE, CLIFTON PLACE, CLIFTON, "30th June, 1839. 

"MY DEAR CARLYLE, --I have heard, this morning, from my Father, that youare to set out on Tuesday for Scotland: so I have determined to fillipaway some spurt of ink in your direction, which may reach you before youmove towards Thule. 

"Writing to you, in fact, is considerably easier than writing aboutyou; which has been my employment of late, at leisure moments, --thatis, moments of leisure from idleness, not work. As you partly guessed, I took in hand a Review of _Teufelsdrockh_--for want of a betterHeuschrecke to do the work; and when I have been well enough, and alertenough, during the last fortnight, have tried to set down some notionsabout Tobacco, Radicalism, Christianity, Assafoetida and so forth. But afew abortive pages are all the result as yet. If my speculations shouldever see daylight, they may chance to get you into scrapes, butwill certainly get me into worse. . . . But one must work; _sic itur adastra_, --and the _astra_ are always there to befriend one, at least asasterisks, filling up the gaps which yawn in vain for words. 

"Except my unsuccessful efforts to discuss you and your offences, I havedone nothing that leaves a trace behind;--unless the endeavor to teachmy little boy the Latin declensions shall be found, at some time shortof the Last Day, to have done so. I have--rather I think from dyspepsiathan dyspneumony--been often and for days disabled from doing anythingbut read. In this way I have gone through a good deal of Strauss's Book;which is exceedingly clever and clearheaded; with more of insight, andless of destructive rage than I expected. It will work deep and far, in such a time as ours. When so many minds are distracted about thehistory, or rather genesis of the Gospel, it is a great thing forpartisans on the one side to have, what the other never have wanted, a Book of which they can say, This is our Creed and Code, --or ratherAnti-creed and Anti-code. And Strauss seems perfectly secure against thesort of answer to which Voltaire's critical and historical shallownessperpetually exposed him. I mean to read the Book through. It seemsadmitted that the orthodox theologians have failed to give anysufficient answer. --I have also looked through Michelet's _Luther_, withgreat delight; and have read the fourth volume of Coleridge's _LiteraryRemains_, in which there are things that would interest you. He has agreat hankering after Cromwell, and explicitly defends the execution ofCharles. 

"Of Mrs. Strachey we have seen a great deal; and might have seen more, had I had time and spirits for it. She is a warm-hearted, enthusiasticcreature, whom one cannot but like. She seems always excited by the wishfor more excitement than her life affords. And such a person is alwaysin danger of doing something less wise than his best knowledge andaspirations; because he must do something, and circumstances do notallow him to do what he desires. Thence, after the first glow ofnovelty, endless self-tormenting comes from the contrast between aimsand acts. She sets out, with her daughter and two boys, for a Tour inWales to-morrow morning. Her talk of you is always most affectionate;and few, I guess, will read _Sartor_ with more interest than she. 

"I am still in a very extempore condition as to house, books, &c. Onewhich I have hired for three years will be given up to me in the middleof August; and then I may hope to have something like a house, --so faras that is possible for any one to whom Time itself is often but a worseor a better kind of cave in the desert. We have had rainy and cheerlessweather almost since the day of our arrival. But the sun now shinesmore lovingly, and the skies seem less disdainful of man and hisperplexities. The earth is green, abundant and beautiful. But humanlife, so far as I can learn, is mean and meagre enough in its purposes, however striking to the speculative or sentimental bystander. Pray beassured that whatever you may say of the 'landlord at Clifton, ' [21] themore I know of him, the less I shall like him. Well with me if I canput up with him for the present, and make use of him, till at last I canjoyfully turn him off forever!

"Love to you Wife and self. My little Charlotte desires me to tell youthat she has new shoes for her Doll, which she will show you when youcome. 

 "Yours, "JOHN STERLING. "

The visit to Clifton never took effect; nor to any of Sterling'ssubsequent homes; which now is matter of regret to me. Concerningthe "Review of _Teufelsdrockh_" there will be more to say anon. As to"little Charlotte and her Doll, " I remember well enough and was morethan once reminded, this bright little creature, on one of my firstvisits to Bayswater, had earnestly applied to me to put her Doll's shoeson for her; which feat was performed. --The next fragment indicates ahousehold settled, fallen into wholesome routine again; and may closethe series here:--

 _To his Mother_. 

"_July 22d_, 1839. --A few evenings ago we went to Mr. Griffin's, andmet there Dr. Prichard, the author of a well-known Book on the _Races ofMankind_, to which it stands in the same relation among English booksas the Racing Calendar does to those of Horsekind. He is a veryintelligent, accomplished person. We had also there the Dean; a certainDr. ---- of Corpus College, Cambridge (a booby); and a clever fellow, a Mr. Fisher, one of the Tutors of Trinity in my days. We had a verypleasant evening. "--

At London we were in the habit of expecting Sterling pretty often; hispresence, in this house as in others, was looked for, once in the monthor two, and came always as sunshine in the gray weather to me and mine. My daily walks with him had long since been cut short without renewal;that walk to Eltham and Edgeworth's perhaps the last of the kind he andI had: but our intimacy, deepening and widening year after year, knew nointerruption or abatement of increase; an honest, frank and truly humanmutual relation, valuable or even invaluable to both parties, and alasting loss, hardly to be replaced in this world, to the survivor ofthe two. 

His visits, which were usually of two or three days, were always full ofbusiness, rapid in movement as all his life was. To me, if possible, hewould come in the evening; a whole cornucopia of talk and speculationwas to be discharged. If the evening would not do, and my affairsotherwise permitted, I had to mount into cabs with him; fly far andwide, shuttling athwart the big Babel, wherever his calls and pauses hadto be. This was his way to husband time! Our talk, in such straitenedcircumstances, was loud or low as the circumambient groaning rageof wheels and sound prescribed, --very loud it had to be in suchthoroughfares as London Bridge and Cheapside; but except while hewas absent, off for minutes into some banker's office, lawyer's, stationer's, haberdasher's or what office there might be, it neverpaused. In this way extensive strange dialogues were carried on: to mealso very strange, --private friendly colloquies, on all manner of richsubjects, held thus amid the chaotic roar of things. Sterling was fullof speculations, observations and bright sallies; vividly awake to whatwas passing in the world; glanced pertinently with victorious clearness, without spleen, though often enough with a dash of mockery, into itsPuseyisms, Liberalisms, literary Lionisms, or what else the mad hourmight be producing, --always prompt to recognize what grain of sanitymight be in the same. He was opulent in talk, and the rapid movement andvicissitude on such occasions seemed to give him new excitement. 

Once, I still remember, --it was some years before, probably in May, onhis return from Madeira, --he undertook a day's riding with me; once andnever again. We coursed extensively, over the Hampstead and Highgateregions, and the country beyond, sauntering or galloping through manyleafy lanes and pleasant places, in ever-flowing, ever-changing talk;and returned down Regent Street at nightfall: one of the cheerfulestdays I ever had;--not to be repeated, said the Fates. Sterling wascharming on such occasions: at once a child and a gifted man. A seriousfund of thought he always had, a serious drift you never missed in him:nor indeed had he much depth of real laughter or sense of the ludicrous, as I have elsewhere said; but what he had was genuine, free andcontinual: his sparkling sallies bubbled up as from aerated naturalfountains; a mild dash of gayety was native to the man, and had mouldedhis physiognomy in a very graceful way. We got once into a cab, aboutCharing Cross; I know not now whence or well whitherward, nor that ourhaste was at all special; however, the cabman, sensible that his pacewas slowish, took to whipping, with a steady, passionless, businesslikeassiduity which, though the horse seemed lazy rather than weak, becameafflictive; and I urged remonstrance with the savage fellow: "Let himalone, " answered Sterling; "he is kindling the enthusiasm of his horse, you perceive; that is the first thing, then we shall do very well!"--asaccordingly we did. 

At Clifton, though his thoughts began to turn more on poetic formsof composition, he was diligent in prose elaborations too, --doingCriticism, for one thing, as we incidentally observed. He wrote there, and sent forth in this autumn of 1839, his most important contributionto John Mill's Review, the article on _Carlyle_, which stands also inMr. Hare's collection. [22] What its effect on the public was I knewnot, and know not; but remember well, and may here be permitted toacknowledge, the deep silent joy, not of a weak or ignoble nature, whichit gave to myself in my then mood and situation; as it well might. Thefirst generous human recognition, expressed with heroic emphasis, andclear conviction visible amid its fiery exaggeration, that one's poorbattle in this world is not quite a mad and futile, that it is perhaps aworthy and manful one, which will come to something yet: this fact isa memorable one in every history; and for me Sterling, often enough thestiff gainsayer in our private communings, was the doer of this. Thethought burnt in me like a lamp, for several days; lighting up intoa kind of heroic splendor the sad volcanic wrecks, abysses, andconvulsions of said poor battle, and secretly I was very grateful to mydaring friend, and am still, and ought to be. What the public might bethinking about him and his audacities, and me in consequence, or whetherit thought at all, I never learned, or much heeded to learn. 

Sterling's gainsaying had given way on many points; but on others itcontinued stiff as ever, as may be seen in that article; indeed hefought Parthian-like in such cases, holding out his last position asdoggedly as the first: and to some of my notions he seemed to grow instubbornness of opposition, with the growing inevitability, andnever would surrender. Especially that doctrine of the "greatness andfruitfulness of Silence, " remained afflictive and incomprehensible:"Silence?" he would say: "Yes, truly; if they give you leave to proclaimsilence by cannon-salvos! My Harpocrates-Stentor!" In like manner, "Intellect and Virtue, " how they are proportional, or are indeed onegift in us, the same great summary of gifts; and again, "Might andRight, " the identity of these two, if a man will understand thisGod's-Universe, and that only he who conforms to the law of it canin the long-run have any "might:" all this, at the first blush, oftenawakened Sterling's musketry upon me, and many volleys I have hadto stand, --the thing not being decidable by that kind of weapon orstrategy. 

In such cases your one method was to leave our friend in peace. Bysmall-arms practice no mortal could dislodge him: but if you were in theright, the silent hours would work continually for you; and Sterling, more certainly than any man, would and must at length swear fealty tothe right, and passionately adopt it, burying all hostilities underfoot. A more candid soul, once let the stormful velocities of it expendthemselves, was nowhere to be met with. A son of light, if I have everseen one; recognizing the truth, if truth there were; hurling overboardhis vanities, petulances, big and small interests, in ready loyalty totruth: very beautiful; at once a loyal child, as I said, and a giftedman!--Here is a very pertinent passage from one of his Letters, which, though the name continues blank, I will insert:--

 _To his Father_. 

"_October 15th_, 1839. --As to my 'over-estimate of ----, ' yourexpressions rather puzzle me. I suppose there may be, at the outside, ahundred persons in England whose opinions on such a matter are worthas much as mine. If by 'the public' you and my Mother mean the otherninety-nine, I submit. I have no doubt that, on any matter not relatingpeculiarly to myself, the judgment of the ninety-nine most philosophicalheads in the country, if unanimous, would be right, and mine, if opposedto them, wrong. But then I am at a loss to make out, How the decision ofthe very few really competent persons has been ascertained to be thus incontradiction to me? And on the other hand, I conceive myself, from myopportunities, knowledge and attention to the subject, to be alone quiteentitled to outvote tens of thousands of gentlemen, however much mysuperiors as men of business, men of the world, or men of merely dry ormerely frivolous literature. 

"I do not remember ever before to have heard the saying, whether ofTalleyrand or of any one else, That _all_ the world is a wiser manthan any man in the world. Had it been said even by the Devil, it wouldnevertheless be false. I have often indeed heard the saying, _On peutetre plus FIN qu'un autre, mais pas plus FIN que tous les autres_. Butobserve that '_fin_' means _cunning_, not _wise_. The difference betweenthis assertion and the one you refer to is curious and worth examining. It is quite certain, there is always some one man in the world wiserthan all the rest; as Socrates was declared by the oracle to be; and as, I suppose, Bacon was in his day, and perhaps Burke in his. There is alsosome one, whose opinion would be probably true, if opposed to that ofall around him; and it is always indubitable that the wise men are thescores, and the unwise the millions. The millions indeed come round, inthe course of a generation or two, to the opinions of the wise; butby that time a new race of wise men have again shot ahead of theircontemporaries: so it has always been, and so, in the nature of things, it always must be. But with cunning, the matter is quite different. Cunning is not _dishonest wisdom_, which would be a contradictionin terms; it is _dishonest prudence_, acuteness in practice, not inthought: and though there must always be some one the most cunning inthe world, as well as some one the most wise, these two superlativeswill fare very differently in the world. In the case of cunning, theshrewdness of a whole people, of a whole generation, may doubtless becombined against that of the one, and so triumph over it; which waspretty much the case with Napoleon. But although a man of the greatestcunning can hardly conceal his designs and true character from millionsof unfriendly eyes, it is quite impossible thus to club the eyes ofthe mind, and to constitute by the union of ten thousand follies anequivalent for a single wisdom. A hundred school-boys can easily uniteand thrash their one master; but a hundred thousand school-boys wouldnot be nearer than a score to knowing as much Greek among them asBentley or Scaliger. To all which, I believe, you will assent as readilyas I;--and I have written it down only because I have nothing moreimportant to say. "--

Besides his prose labors, Sterling had by this time written, publishingchiefly in _Blackwood_, a large assortment of verses, _Sexton'sDaughter_, _Hymns of a Hermit_, and I know not what other extensivestock of pieces; concerning which he was now somewhat at a loss as tohis true course. He could write verses with astonishing facility, in anygiven form of metre; and to various readers they seemed excellent, and high judges had freely called them so, but he himself had gravemisgivings on that latter essential point. In fact here once more wasa parting of the ways, "Write in Poetry; write in Prose?" upon which, before all else, it much concerned him to come to a settlement. 

My own advice was, as it had always been, steady against Poetry; and wehad colloquies upon it, which must have tried his patience, for in himthere was a strong leaning the other way. But, as I remarked and urged:Had he not already gained superior excellence in delivering, by way of_speech_ or prose, what thoughts were in him, which is the grand andonly intrinsic function of a writing man, call him by what title youwill? Cultivate that superior excellence till it become a perfect andsuperlative one. Why _sing_ your bits of thoughts, if you _can_ contriveto speak them? By your thought, not by your mode of delivering it, you must live or die. --Besides I had to observe there was in Sterlingintrinsically no depth of _tune_; which surely is the real test of aPoet or Singer, as distinguished from a Speaker? In music proper hehad not the slightest ear; all music was mere impertinent noise to him, nothing in it perceptible but the mere march or time. Nor in his wayof conception and utterance, in the verses he wrote, was there anycontradiction, but a constant confirmation to me, of that fatalprognostic;--as indeed the whole man, in ear and heart and tongue, isone; and he whose soul does not sing, need not try to do it with histhroat. Sterling's verses had a monotonous rub-a-dub, instead of tune;no trace of music deeper than that of a well-beaten drum; to whichlimited range of excellence the substance also corresponded; beingintrinsically always a rhymed and slightly rhythmical _speech_, not a_song_. 

In short, all seemed to me to say, in his case: "You can speak withsupreme excellence; sing with considerable excellence you never can. Andthe Age itself, does it not, beyond most ages, demand and require clearspeech; an Age incapable of being sung to, in any but a trivial manner, till these convulsive agonies and wild revolutionary overturningsreadjust themselves? Intelligible word of command, not musical psalmodyand fiddling, is possible in this fell storm of battle. Beyond all ages, our Age admonishes whatsoever thinking or writing man it has: Oh, speakto me some wise intelligible speech; your wise meaning in the shortestand clearest way; behold I am dying for want of wise meaning, andinsight into the devouring fact: speak, if you have any wisdom! As tosong so called, and your fiddling talent, --even if you have one, muchmore if you have none, --we will talk of that a couple of centurieshence, when things are calmer again. Homer shall be thrice welcome; butonly when Troy is _taken_: alas, while the siege lasts, and battle'sfury rages everywhere, what can I do with the Homer? I want Achilleusand Odysseus, and am enraged to see them trying to be Homers!"--

Sterling, who respected my sincerity, and always was amenable enough tocounsel, was doubtless much confused by such contradictory diagnosis ofhis case. The question, Poetry or Prose? became more and more pressing, more and more insoluble. He decided, at last, to appeal to the publicupon it;--got ready, in the late autumn, a small select Volume of hisverses; and was now busy pushing it through the press. Unfortunately, in the mean while, a grave illness, of the old pulmonary sort, overtookhim, which at one time threatened to be dangerous. This is a glanceagain into his interior household in these circumstances:--

 _To his Mother_. 

"_December 21st_, 1839. --The Tin box came quite safe, with all itsmiscellaneous contents. I suppose we are to thank you for the _ComicAlmanac_, which, as usual, is very amusing; and for the Book on _Watt_, which disappointed me. The scientific part is no doubt very good, andparticularly clear and simple; but there is nothing remarkable inthe account of Watt's character; and it is an absurd piece of Frenchimpertinence in Arago to say, that England has not yet learnt toappreciate men like Watt, because he was not made a peer; which, wereour peerage an institution like that of France, would have been veryproper. 

"I have now finished correcting the proofs of my little Volume ofPoems. It has been a great plague to me, and one that I would not haveincurred, had I expected to be laid up as I have been; but thematter was begun before I had any notion of being disabled by such anillness, --the severest I have suffered since I went to the West Indies. The Book will, after all, be a botched business in many respects; and Imuch doubt whether it will pay its expenses: but I try to consider itas out of my hands, and not to fret myself about it. I shall be verycurious to see Carlyle's Tractate on _Chartism_; which"--But we need notenter upon that. 

Sterling's little Book was printed at his own expense; [23] published byMoxon in the very end of this year. It carries an appropriate and prettyEpigraph:--

 "Feeling, Thought, and Fancy be Gentle 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 verypatiently to the discouraging neglect with which it was received by theworld; for indeed the "Ye" said nothing audible, in the way of pardonor other doom; so that whether the "sister Graces" were averse or not, remained as doubtful as ever. 

CHAPTER II. TWO WINTERS. 

As we said above, it had been hoped by Sterling's friends, not veryconfidently by himself, that in the gentler air of Clifton his healthmight so far recover as to enable him to dispense with autumnal voyages, and to spend the year all round in a house of his own. These hopes, favorable while the warm season lasted, broke down when winter came. InNovember of this same year, while his little Volume was passing throughthe press, bad and worse symptoms, spitting of blood to crown the sadlist, reappeared; and Sterling had to equip himself again, at this lateseason, for a new flight to Madeira; wherein the good Calvert, himselfsuffering, and ready on all grounds for such an adventure, offered toaccompany him. Sterling went by land to Falmouth, meaning there to waitfor Calvert, who was to come by the Madeira Packet, and there take himon board. 

Calvert and the Packet did arrive, in stormy January weather; whichcontinued wildly blowing for weeks; forbidding all egress Westward, especially for invalids. These elemental tumults, and blustering warsof sea and sky, with nothing but the misty solitude of Madeira in thedistance, formed a very discouraging outlook. In the mean while Falmouthitself had offered so many resources, and seemed so tolerable in climateand otherwise, while this wintry ocean looked so inhospitable forinvalids, it was resolved our voyagers should stay where they were tillspring returned. Which accordingly was done; with good effect for thatseason, and also with results for the coming seasons. Here again, fromLetters to Knightsbridge, are some glimpses of his winter-life:--

"_Falmouth, February 5th_, 1840. --I have been to-day to see a newtin-mine, two or three miles off, which is expected to turn into acopper-mine by and by, so they will have the two constituents of bronzeclose together. This, by the way, was the 'brass' of Homer and theAncients generally, who do not seem to have known our brass made ofcopper and zinc. Achilles in his armor must have looked like a bronzestatue. --I took Sheridan's advice, and did not go down the mine. "

"_February 15th_. --To some iron-works the other day; where I saw halfthe beam of a great steam-engine, a piece of iron forty feet longand seven broad, cast in about five minutes. It was a very strikingspectacle. I hope to go to Penzance before I leave this country, andwill not fail to tell you about it. " He did make trial of Penzance, among other places, next year; but only of Falmouth this. 

"_February 20th_. --I am going on _asy_ here, in spite of a great changeof weather. The East-winds are come at last, bringing with them snow, which has been driving about for the last twenty-four hours; not fallingheavily, nor lying long when fallen. Neither is it as yet very cold, butI suppose there will be some six weeks of unpleasant temperature. The marine climate of this part of England will, no doubt, modify andmollify the air into a happier sort of substance than that you breathein London. 

"The large vessels that had been lying here for weeks, waiting for awind, have now sailed; two of them for the East Indies, and having threehundred soldiers on board. It is a curious thing that the long-continuedwesterly winds had so prevented the coasters arriving, that the Town wasalmost on the point of a famine as to bread. The change has brought inabundance of flour. --The people in general seem extremely comfortable;their houses are excellent, almost all of stone. Their habits are verylittle agricultural, but mining and fishing seem to prosper withthem. There are hardly any gentry here; I have not seen more than twogentlemen's carriages in the Town; indeed I think the nearest one comesfrom five miles off. . . . 

"I have been obliged to try to occupy myself with Natural Science, inorder to give some interest to my walks; and have begun to feel my wayin Geology. I have now learnt to recognize three or four of the commonkinds of stone about here, when I see them; but I find it stupid workcompared with Poetry and Philosophy. In the mornings, however, for anhour or so before I get up, I generally light my candle, and try towrite some verses; and since I have been here, I have put together shortpoems, almost enough for another small volume. In the evenings I havegone on translating some of Goethe. But six or seven hours spent on mylegs, in the open air, do not leave my brain much energy for thinking. Thus my life is a dull and unprofitable one, but still better than itwould have been in Madeira or on board ship. I hear from Susan everyday, and write to her by return of post. "

At Falmouth Sterling had been warmly welcomed by the well-knownQuaker family of the Foxes, principal people in that place, persons ofcultivated opulent habits, and joining to the fine purities and pietiesof their sect a reverence for human intelligence in all kinds; to whomsuch a visitor as Sterling was naturally a welcome windfall. The familyhad grave elders, bright cheery younger branches, men and women; trulyamiable all, after their sort: they made a pleasant image of home forSterling in his winter exile. "Most worthy, respectable and highlycultivated people, with a great deal of money among them, " writesSterling in the end of February; "who make the place pleasant to me. They are connected with all the large Quaker circle, the Gurneys, Frys, &c. , and also with Buxton the Abolitionist. It is droll to hear themtalking of all the common topics of science, literature, and life, andin the midst of it: 'Does thou know Wordsworth?' or, 'Did thou see theCoronation?' or 'Will thou take some refreshment?' They are very kindand pleasant people to know. "

"Calvert, " continues our Diarist, "is better than he lately was, thoughhe has not been at all laid up. He shoots little birds, and dissectsand stuffs them; while I carry a hammer, and break flints and slates, to look for diamonds and rubies inside; and admire my success in theevening, when I empty my great-coat pocket of its specimens. On thewhole, I doubt whether my physical proceedings will set the Thameson fire. Give my love to Anthony's Charlotte; also remember meaffectionately to the Carlyles. "--

At this time, too, John Mill, probably encouraged by Sterling, arrivedin Falmouth, seeking refuge of climate for a sickly younger Brother, towhom also, while he continued there, and to his poor patient, the doorsand hearts of this kind family were thrown wide open. Falmouth, duringthese winter weeks, especially while Mill continued, was an unexpectedlyengaging place to Sterling; and he left it in spring, for Clifton, witha very kindly image of it in his thoughts. So ended, better than itmight have done, his first year's flight from the Clifton winter. 

In April, 1840, he was at his own hearth again; cheerily pursuing hisold labors, --struggling to redeem, as he did with a gallant constancy, the available months and days, out of the wreck of so many that wereunavailable, for the business allotted him in this world. His swift, decisive energy of character; the valiant rally he made again and everagain, starting up fresh from amid the wounded, and cheerily storming inanew, was admirable, and showed a noble fund of natural health amid suchan element of disease. Somehow one could never rightly fancy that hewas diseased; that those fatal ever-recurring downbreaks were not almostrather the penalties paid for exuberance of health, and of facultyfor living and working; criminal forfeitures, incurred by excess ofself-exertion and such irrepressible over-rapidity of movement: and thevague hope was habitual with us, that increase of years, as it deadenedthis over-energy, would first make the man secure of life, and a soberprosperous worker among his fellows. It was always as if with a kindof blame that one heard of his being ill again! Poor Sterling;--no manknows another's burden: these things were not, and were not to be, inthe way we had fancied them!

Summer went along in its usual quiet tenor at Clifton; health good, asusual while the warm weather lasted, and activity abundant; the sceneas still as the busiest could wish. "You metropolitan signors, " writesSterling to his Father, "cannot conceive the dulness and scantiness ofour provincial chronicle. " Here is a little excursion to the seaside;the lady of the family being again, --for good reasons, --in a weaklystate:--

 "_To Edward Sterling, Esq. , Knightsbridge, London_. "PORTSHEAD, BRISTOL, 1st Sept. , 1840. 

"MY DEAR FATHER, --This place is a southern headland at the mouth of theAvon. Susan, and the Children too, were all suffering from languor; andas she is quite unfit to travel in a carriage, we were obliged to move, if at all, to some place accessible by water; and this is the nearestwhere we could get the fresher air of the Bristol Channel. We sent totake a house, for a week; and came down here in a steamer yesterdaymorning. It seems likely to do every one good. We have a comfortablehouse, with eight rather small bedrooms, for which we pay four guineasand a half for the week. We have brought three of our own maids, andleave one to take care of the house at Clifton. 

"A week ago my horse fell with me, but did not hurt seriously eitherhimself or me: it was, however, rather hard that, as there were six legsto be damaged, the one that did scratch itself should belong to the partof the machine possessing only two, instead of the quadrupedal portion. I grazed about the size of a halfpenny on my left knee; and for a coupleof days walked about as if nothing had happened. I found, however, that the skin was not returning correctly; and so sent for a doctor: hetreated the thing as quite insignificant, but said I must keep my legquiet for a few days. It is still not quite healed; and I lie all dayon a sofa, much to my discomposure; but the thing is now rapidlydisappearing; and I hope, in a day or two more, I shall be free again. Ifind I can do no work, while thus crippled in my leg. The man in Horacewho made verses _stans pede in uno_ had the advantage of me. 

"The Great Western came in last night about eleven, and has just beenmaking a flourish past our windows; looking very grand, with fourstreamers of bunting, and one of smoke. Of course I do not yet knowwhether I have Letters by her, as if so they will have gone to Cliftonfirst. This place is quiet, green and pleasant; and will suit us verywell, if we have good weather, of which there seems every appearance. 

"Milnes spent last Sunday with me at Clifton; and was very amusingand cordial. It is impossible for those 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 Western" are from Anthony, now inCanada, doing military duties there. The "Milnes" is our excellentRichard, whom all men know, and truly whom none can know well withouteven doing as Sterling says. --In a week the family had returned toClifton; and Sterling was at his poetizings and equitations again. Hisgrand business was now Poetry; all effort, outlook and aim exclusivelydirected thither, this good while. 

Of the published Volume Moxon gave the worst tidings; no man hadhailed it with welcome; unsold it lay, under the leaden seal of generalneglect; the public when asked what it thought, had answered hitherto bya lazy stare. It shall answer otherwise, thought Sterling; by no meanstaking that as the final response. It was in this same September that heannounced to me and other friends, under seal of secrecy as usual, thecompletion, or complete first-draught, of "a new Poem reaching to twothousand verses. " By working "three hours every morning" he had broughtit so far. This Piece, entitled _The Election_, of which in due time weobtained perusal, and had to give some judgment, proved to be in a newvein, --what might be called the mock-heroic, or sentimental Hudibrastic, reminding one a little, too, of Wieland's _Oberon_;--it had touches oftrue drollery combined not ill with grave clear insight; showed spiriteverywhere, and a plainly improved power of execution. Our stingyverdict was to the effect, "Better, but still not good enough:--whyfollow that sad 'metrical' course, climbing the loose sandhills, whenyou have a firm path along the plain?" To Sterling himself it remaineddubious whether so slight a strain, new though it were, would suffice toawaken the sleeping public; and the Piece was thrown away and taken upagain, at intervals; and the question, Publish or not publish? lay manymonths undecided. 

Meanwhile his own feeling was now set more and more towards Poetry;and in spite of symptoms and dissuasions, and perverse prognostics ofoutward wind and weather, he was rallying all his force for a downrightstruggle with it; resolute to see which _was_ the stronger. It must beowned, he takes his failures in the kindliest manner; and goes along, bating no jot of heart or hope. Perhaps I should have more admired thisthan I did! My dissuasions, in that case, might have been fainter. Butthen my sincerity, which was all the use of my poor counsel in assentor dissent, would have been less. He was now furthermore busy with a_Tragedy of Strafford_, the theme of many failures in Tragedy; planningit industriously in his head; eagerly reading in _Whitlocke, Rushworth_and the Puritan Books, to attain a vesture and local habitation for it. Faithful assiduous studies I do believe;--of which, knowing my stubbornrealism, and savage humor towards singing by the Thespian or othermethods, he told me little, during his visits that summer. 

The advance of the dark weather sent him adrift again; to Torquay, for this winter: there, in his old Falmouth climate, he hoped to dowell;--and did, so far as well-doing was readily possible, in that sadwandering way of life. However, be where he may, he tries to work "twoor three hours in the morning, " were it even "with a lamp, " in bed, before the fires are lit; and so makes something of it. From abundantLetters of his now before me, I glean these two or three small glimpses;sufficient for our purpose at present. The general date is "Tor, nearTorquay:"--

 _To Mrs. Charles Fox, Falmouth_. 

_Tor, November 30th_, 1840. --I reached this place on Thursday; having, after much hesitation, resolved to come here, at least for the nextthree weeks, --with some obscure purpose of embarking, at the New Year, from Falmouth for Malta, and so reaching Naples, which I have not seen. There was also a doubt whether I should not, after Christmas, bring myfamily here for the first four months of the year. All this, however, is still doubtful. But for certain inhabitants of Falmouth and itsneighborhood, this place would be far more attractive than it. But Ihave here also friends, whose kindness, like much that I met with lastwinter, perpetually makes me wonder at the stock of benignity in humannature. A brother of my friend Julius Hare, Marcus by name, a Naval man, and though not a man of letters, full of sense and knowledge, liveshere in a beautiful place, with a most agreeable and excellent wife, adaughter of Lord Stanley of Alderley. I had hardly seen them before;but they are fraternizing with me, in a much better than the Jacobinfashion; and one only feels ashamed at the enormity of some people'sgood-nature. I am in a little rural sort of lodging; and as comfortableas a solitary oyster can expect to be. "--

 _To C. Barton_. 

"_December 5th_. --This place is extremely small, much more so thanFalmouth even; but pretty, cheerful, and very mild in climate. There area great many villas in and about the little Town, having three orfour reception-rooms, eight or ten bedrooms; and costing about fifteenhundred or two thousand pounds each, and occupied by persons spendinga thousand or more pounds a year. If the Country would acknowledge mymerits by the gift of one of these, I could prevail on myself to comeand live here; which would be the best move for my health I couldmake in England; but, in the absence of any such expression of publicfeeling, it would come rather dear. "--

 _To Mrs. Fox again_. 

"_December 22d_. --By the way, did you ever read a Novel? If you evermean to do so hereafter, let it be Miss Martineau's _Deerbrook_. It isreally very striking; and parts of it are very true and very beautiful. It is not so true, or so thoroughly clear and harmonious, amongdelineations of English middle-class gentility, as Miss Austen's books, especially as _Pride and Prejudice_, which I think exquisite; but itis worth reading. _The hour and the Man_ is eloquent, but an absurdexaggeration. --I hold out so valorously against this Scandinavianweather, that I deserve to be ranked with Odin and Thor; and fancy I maygo to live at Clifton or Drontheim. Have you had the same icy desolationas prevails here?"

 _To W. Coningham, Esq_. 

"_December 28th_. --Looking back to him [a deceased Uncle, father of hiscorrespondent], as I now very often do, I feel strongly, what the lossof other friends has also impressed on me, how much Death deepens ouraffection; and sharpens our regret for whatever has been even slightlyamiss in our conduct towards those who are gone. What trifles thenswell into painful importance; how we believe that, could the past berecalled, life would present no worthier, happier task, than that of sobearing ourselves towards those we love, that we might ever after findnothing but melodious tranquillity breathing about their graves! Yet, too often, I feel the difficulty of always practicing such mild wisdomtowards those who are still left me. --You will wonder less at myrambling off in this way, when I tell you that my little lodging isclose to a picturesque old Church and Churchyard, where, every day, Ibrush past a tombstone, recording that an Italian, of Manferrato, hasburied there a girl of sixteen, his only daughter: _'L' unica speranzadi mia vita_. '--No doubt, as you say, our Mechanical Age is necessary asa passage to something better; but, at least, do not let us go back. "--

At the New-year time, feeling unusually well, he returns to Clifton. Hisplans, of course, were ever fluctuating; his movements were swift anduncertain. Alas, his whole life, especially his winter-life, had to bebuilt as if on wavering drift-sand; nothing certain in it, except ifpossible the "two or three hours of work" snatched from the generalwhirlpool of the dubious four-and-twenty!

 _To Dr. Carlyle_. 

"_Clifton, January 10th_, 1841. --I stood the sharp frost at Torquaywith such entire impunity, that at last I took courage, and resolved toreturn home. I have been here a week, in extreme cold; and have sufferednot at all; so that I hope, with care I may prosper in spite of medicalprognostics, --if you permit such profane language. I am even able towork a good deal; and write for some hours every morning, by dintof getting up early, which an Arnott stove in my study enables me todo. "--But at Clifton he cannot continue. Again, before long, the rudeweather has driven him Southward; the spring finds him in his formerhaunts; doubtful as ever what to decide upon for the future; but tendingevidently towards a new change of residence for household and self:--

 _To W. Coningham, Esq_. 

"_Penzance, April 19th_, 1841. --My little Boy and I have been wanderingabout between Torquay and this place; and latterly have had my Fatherfor a few days with us, --he left us yesterday. In all probability Ishall endeavor to settle either at Torquay, at Falmouth, or here; as itis pretty clear that I cannot stand the sharp air of Clifton, andstill less the London east-winds. Penzance is, on the whole, apleasant-looking, cheerful place; with a delightful mildness of air, anda great appearance of comfort among the people: the view of Mount's Bayis certainly a very noble one. Torquay would suit the health of myWife and Children better; or else I should be glad to live here always, London and its neighborhood being impracticable. "--Such was his secondwandering winter; enough to render the prospect of a third at Cliftonvery uninviting. 

With the Falmouth friends, young and old, his intercourse had meanwhilecontinued cordial and frequent. The omens were pointing towards thatregion at his next place of abode. Accordingly, in few weeks hence, inthe June of this Summer, 1841, his dubitations and inquirings are againended for a time; he has fixed upon a house in Falmouth, and removedthither; bidding Clifton, and the regretful Clifton friends, a kindfarewell. This was the _fifth_ change of place for his family sinceBayswater; the fifth, and to one chief member of it the last. Mrs. Sterling had brought him a new child in October last; and went hopefullyto Falmouth, dreading _other_ than what befell there. 

CHAPTER III. FALMOUTH: POEMS. 

At Falmouth, as usual, he was soon at home in his new environment;resumed his labors; had his new small circle of acquaintance, the readyand constant centre of which was the Fox family, with whom he lived onan altogether intimate, honored and beloved footing; realizing his bestanticipations in that respect, which doubtless were among his firstinducements to settle in this new place. Open cheery heights, ratherbare of wood: fresh southwestern breezes; a brisk laughing sea, swept byindustrious sails, and the nets of a most stalwart, wholesome, frankand interesting population: the clean little fishing, trading and packetTown; hanging on its slope towards the Eastern sun, close on the watersof its basin and intricate bay, --with the miniature Pendennis Castleseaward on the right, the miniature St. Mawes landward to left, and themining world and the farming world open boundlessly to the rear:--allthis made a pleasant outlook and environment. And in all this, as in theother new elements of his position, Sterling, open beyond most men tothe worth of things about him, took his frank share. From the first, he had liked the general aspect of the population, and their healthy, lively ways; not to speak of the special friendships he had formedthere, which shed a charm over them all. "Men of strong character, clearheads and genuine goodness, " writes he, "are by no means wanting. " Andlong after: "The common people here dress better than in most parts ofEngland; and on Sundays, if the weather be at all fine, their appearanceis very pleasant. One sees them all round the Town, especially towardsPendennis Castle, streaming in a succession of little groups, andseeming for the most part really and quietly happy. " On the whole hereckoned himself lucky; and, so far as locality went, found this ahandsome shelter for the next two years of his life. Two years, and notwithout an interruption; that was all. Here we have no continuing city;he less than any of us! One other flight for shelter; and then it isended, and he has found an inexpugnable refuge. Let us trace his remotefootsteps, as we have opportunity:--

 _To Dr. Symonds, Clifton_. 

"_Falmouth, June 28th_, 1841. --Newman writes to me that he is gone tothe Rhine. I wish I were! And yet the only 'wish' at the bottom of myheart, is to be able to work vigorously in my own way anywhere, were itin some Circle of Dante's Inferno. This, however, is the secret of mysoul, which I disclose only to a few. "

 _To his Mother_. 

"_Falmouth, July 6th_, 1841. --I have at last my own study madecomfortable; the carpet being now laid down, and most of myappurtenances in tolerable order. By and by I shall, unless stopped byillness, get myself together, and begin living an orderly life anddoing my daily task. I have swung a cot in my dressing-room; partly asa convenience for myself, partly as a sort of memorial of my poor Uncle, in whose cot in his dressing-room at Lisworney I remember to have sleptwhen a child. I have put a good large bookcase in my drawing-room, andall the rest of my books fit very well into the study. "

 _To Mr. Carlyle_. 

"_July 6th_. --No books have come in my way but Emerson's, which I valuefull as much as you, though as yet I have read only some corners ofit. We have had an Election here, of the usual stamp; to me a droll'realized Ideal, ' after my late metrical adventures in that line. Butthe oddest sign of the Times I know, is a cheap Translation of Strauss's_Leben Jesu_, now publishing in numbers, and said to be circulating farand wide. What does--or rather, what does not--this portend?"--

With the Poem called _The Election_, here alluded to, which had beenmore than once revised and reconsidered, he was still under somehesitations; but at last had well-nigh resolved, as from the first itwas clear he would do, on publishing it. This occupied some occasionalportion of his thoughts. But his grand private affair, I believe, wasnow _Strafford_; to which, or to its adjuncts, all working hours weredevoted. Sterling's notions of Tragedy are high enough. This is what hewrites once, in reference to his own task in these weeks: "Few, I fancy, know how much harder it is to write a Tragedy than to realize or be one. Every man has in his heart and lot, if he pleases, and too many whetherthey please or no, all the woes of OEdipus and Antigone. But it takesthe One, the Sophocles of a thousand years, to utter these in thefull depth and harmony of creative song. Curious, by the way, how thatDramatic Form of the old Greek, with only some superficial changes, remains a law not only for the stage, but for the thoughts of all Poets;and what a charm it has even for the reader who never saw a theatre. TheGreek Plays and Shakspeare have interested a hundred as books, for onewho has seen their writings acted. How lightly does the mere clown, theidle school-girl, build a private theatre in the fancy, and laugh orweep with Falstaff and Macbeth: with how entire an oblivion of theartificial nature of the whole contrivance, which thus compels themto be their own architects, machinists, scene-painters, and actors! Infact, the artifice succeeds, --becomes grounded in the substance of thesoul: and every one loves to feel how he is thus brought face to facewith the brave, the fair, the woful and the great of all past ages;looks into their eyes, and feels the beatings of their hearts; andreads, over the shoulder, the secret written tablets of the busiestand the largest brains; while the Juggler, by whose cunning the wholestrange beautiful absurdity is set in motion, keeps himself hidden;sings loud with a mouth unmoving as that of a statue, and makes thehuman race cheat itself unanimously and delightfully by the illusionthat he preordains; while as an obscure Fate, he sits invisible, andhardly lets his being be divined by those who cannot flee him. The LyricArt is childish, and the Epic barbarous, compared to this. But of thetrue and perfect Drama it may be said, as of even higher mysteries, Who is sufficient for these things?"--On this _Tragedy of Strafford_, writing it and again writing it, studying for it, and bending himselfwith his whole strength to do his best on it, he expended many strenuousmonths, --"above a year of his life, " he computes, in all. 

For the rest, what Falmouth has to give him he is willing to take, andmingles freely in it. In Hare's Collection there is given a _Lecture_which he read in Autumn, 1841 (Mr. Hare says "1842, " by mistake), to acertain Public Institution in the place, --of which more anon;--a pieceinteresting in this, if not much in any other respect. Doubtless hisfriends the Foxes were at the heart of that lecturing enterprise, andhad urged and solicited him. Something like proficiency in certainbranches of science, as I have understood, characterized one or more ofthis estimable family; love of knowledge, taste for art, wish to consortwith wisdom and wise men, were the tendencies of all; to opulent meanssuperadd the Quaker beneficence, Quaker purity and reverence, there is acircle in which wise men also may love to be. Sterling made acquaintancehere with whatever of notable in worthy persons or things might beafoot in those parts; and was led thereby, now and then, into pleasantreunions, in new circles of activity, which might otherwise havecontinued foreign to him. The good Calvert, too, was now here; andintended to remain;--which he mostly did henceforth, lodging inSterling's neighborhood, so long as lodging in this world was permittedhim. Still good and clear and cheerful; still a lively comrade, withindoors or without, --a diligent rider always, --though now wearing visiblyweaker, and less able to exert himself. 

Among those accidental Falmouth reunions, perhaps the notablest forSterling occurred in this his first season. There is in Falmouth anAssociation called the _Cornwall Polytechnic Society_, established abouttwenty years ago, and supported by the wealthy people of the Town andneighborhood, for the encouragement of the arts in that region; it hasits Library, its Museum, some kind of Annual Exhibition withal; givesprizes, publishes reports: the main patrons, I believe, are Sir CharlesLemon, a well-known country gentleman of those parts, and the Messrs. Fox. To this, so far as he liked to go in it, Sterling was sure to beintroduced and solicited. The Polytechnic meeting of 1841 was unusuallydistinguished; and Sterling's part in it formed one of the pleasantoccurrences for him in Falmouth. It was here that, among otherprofitable as well as pleasant things, he made acquaintance withProfessor Owen (an event of which I too had my benefit in due time, andstill have): the bigger assemblage called _British Association_, whichmet at Plymouth this year, having now just finished its affairs there, Owen and other distinguished persons had taken Falmouth in their routefrom it. Sterling's account of this Polytechnic gala still remains, --inthree Letters to his Father, which, omitting the extraneous portions, I will give in one, --as a piece worth reading among those still-lifepictures:--

 "To Edward Sterling, Esq. , Knightsbridge, London. "FALMOUTH, 10th August, 1841. 

"MY DEAR FATHER, --I was not well for a day or two after you went; andsince, I have been busy about an annual show of the Polytechnic Societyhere, in which my friends take much interest, and for which I have beenacting as one of the judges in the department of the Fine Arts, and havewritten a little Report for them. As I have not said that Falmouth is aseminent as Athens or Florence, perhaps the Committee will not adopt mystatement. But if they do, it will be of some use; for I have hinted, asdelicately as possible, that people should not paint historical picturesbefore they have the power of drawing a decent outline of a pig or acabbage. I saw Sir Charles Lemon yesterday, who was kind as well ascivil in his manner; and promises to be a pleasant neighbor. There areseveral of the British Association heroes here; but not Whewell, or anyone whom I know. "

"_August 17th_. --At the Polytechnic Meeting here we had several veryeminent men; among others, Professor Owen, said to be the first ofcomparative anatomists, and Conybeare the geologist. Both of thesegave evening Lectures; and after Conybeare's, at which I happened to bepresent, I said I would, if they chose, make some remarks on theBusts which happened to be standing there, intended for prizes in thedepartment of the Fine Arts. They agreed gladly. The heads were Homer, Pericles, Augustus, Dante and Michael Angelo. I got into the box-likeplatform, with these on a shelf before me; and began a talk whichmust have lasted some three quarters of an hour; describing partly thecharacters and circumstances of the men, illustrated by anecdotes andcompared with their physiognomies, and partly the several styles ofsculpture exhibited in the Casts, referring these to what I consideredthe 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 had no precedent during any other partof the meeting. Conybeare paid me high compliments; Owen looked muchpleased, --an honor well purchased by a year's hard work;--and everybody, in short, seemed delighted. Susan was not there, and I had nothing tomake me nervous; so that I worked away freely, and got vigorously overthe ground. After so many years' disuse of rhetoric, it was a pleasantsurprise to myself to find that I could still handle the old weaponswithout awkwardness. More by good luck than good guidance, it has donemy health no harm. I have been at Sir Charles Lemon's, though only topay a morning visit, having declined to stay there or dine, the hoursnot suiting me. They were very civil. The person I saw most of washis sister, Lady Dunstanville; a pleasant, well-informed and well-bredwoman. He seems a most amiable, kindly man, of fair good sense andcultivated tastes. --I had a letter to-day from my Mother [in Scotland];who says she sent you one which you were to forward me; which I hopesoon to have. "

"_August 29th_. --I returned yesterday from Carclew, Sir C. Lemon's fineplace about five miles off; where I had been staying a couple of days, with apparently the heartiest welcome. Susan was asked; but wanting aGoverness, could not leave home. 

"Sir Charles is a widower (his Wife was sister to Lord Ilchester)without children; but had a niece staying with him, and his sisterLady Dunstanville, a pleasant and very civil woman. There were also Mr. Bunbury, eldest son of Sir Henry Bunbury, a man of much cultivation andstrong talents; Mr. Fox Talbot, son, I think, of another Ilchesterlady, and brother of _the_ Talbot of Wales, but himself a man oflarge fortune, and known for photogenic and other scientific plans ofextracting sunbeams from cucumbers. He also is a man of known ability, but chiefly employed in that peculiar department. _Item_ ProfessorsLloyd and Owen: the former, of Dublin, son of the late Provost, Ihad seen before and knew; a great mathematician and optician, and adiscoverer in those matters; with a clever little Wife, who has a greatdeal of knowledge, quite free from pretension. Owen is a first-ratecomparative anatomist, they say the greatest since Cuvier; lives inLondon, and lectures there. On the whole, he interested me more than anyof them, --by an apparent force and downrightness of mind, combined withmuch simplicity and frankness. 

"Nothing could be pleasanter and easier than the habits of life, withwhat to me was a very unusual degree of luxury, though probably nothingbut what is common among people of large fortune. The library andpictures are nothing extraordinary. The general tone of good nature, good sense and quiet freedom, was what struck me most; and I thinkbesides this there was a disposition to be cordially courteous towardsme. . . . 

"I took Edward a ride of two hours yesterday on Calvert's pony, and heis improving fast in horsemanship. The school appears to answer verywell. We shall have the Governess in a day or two, which will be a greatsatisfaction. Will you send my Mother this scribble with my love; andbelieve me, "Your affectionate son, "JOHN STERLING. "

One other little event dwells with me, out of those Falmouth times, exact date now forgotten; a pleasant little matter, in which Sterling, and principally the Misses Fox, bright cheery young creatures, wereconcerned; which, for the sake of its human interest, is worth mention. In a certain Cornish mine, said the Newspapers duly specifying it, two miners deep down in the shaft were engaged putting in a shot forblasting: they had completed their affair, and were about to give thesignal for being hoisted up, --one at a time was all their coadjutor atthe top could manage, and the second was to kindle the match, and thenmount with all speed. Now it chanced while they were both still below, one of them thought the match too long; tried to break it shorter, tooka couple of stones, a flat and a sharp, to cut it shorter; did cut itof the due length, but, horrible to relate, kindled it at the same time, and both were still below! Both shouted vehemently to the coadjutor atthe windlass, both sprang at the basket; the windlass man could not moveit with them both. Here was a moment for poor miner Jack and miner Will!Instant horrible death hangs over both, --when Will generously resignshimself: "Go aloft, Jack, " and sits down; "away; in one minute I shallbe in Heaven!" Jack bounds aloft, the explosion instantly follows, bruises his face as he looks over; he is safe above ground: and poorWill? Descending eagerly they find Will too, as if by miracle, buriedunder rocks which had arched themselves over him, and little injured: hetoo is brought up safe, and all ends joyfully, say the Newspapers. 

Such a piece of manful promptitude, and salutary human heroism, wasworth investigating. It was investigated; found to be accurate to theletter, --with this addition and explanation, that Will, an honest, ignorant good man, entirely given up to Methodism, had been perfect inthe "faith of assurance, " certain that _he_ should get to Heaven ifhe died, certain that Jack would not, which had been the ground of hisdecision in that great moment;--for the rest, that he much wishedto learn reading and writing, and find some way of life above groundinstead of below. By aid of the Misses Fox and the rest of that family, a subscription (modest _Anti_-Hudson testimonial) was raised to thisMethodist hero: he emerged into daylight with fifty pounds in hispocket; did strenuously try, for certain months, to learn reading andwriting; found he could not learn those arts or either of them; took hismoney and bought cows with it, wedding at the same time some religiouslikely milkmaid; and is, last time I heard of him, a prosperous modestdairyman, thankful for the upper light and safety from the wrath tocome. Sterling had some hand in this affair: but, as I said, it was thetwo young ladies of the family that mainly did it. 

In the end of 1841, after many hesitations and revisals, _The Election_came out; a tiny Duodecimo without name attached; [24] again inquiring ofthe public what its suffrage was; again to little purpose. My vote hadnever been loud for this step, but neither was it quite adverse; andnow, in reading the poor little Poem over again, after ten years'space, I find it, with a touching mixture of pleasure and repentance, considerably better than it then seemed to me. My encouragement, if notto print this poem, yet to proceed with Poetry, since there was such aresolution for it, might have been a little more decided!

This is a small Piece, but aims at containing great things; a _multumin parvo_ after its sort; and is executed here and there with undeniablesuccess. The style is free and flowing, the rhyme dances along with acertain joyful triumph; everything of due brevity withal. That mixtureof mockery on the surface, which finely relieves the real earnestnesswithin, and flavors even what is not very earnest and might even beinsipid otherwise, is not ill managed: an amalgam difficult to effectwell in writing; nay, impossible in writing, --unless it stand alreadydone and effected, as a general fact, in the writer's mind andcharacter; which will betoken a certain ripeness there. 

As I said, great things are intended in this little Piece; the mottoitself foreshadowing them:--

 "_Fluellen_. Ancient Pistol, I do partly understand your meaning. _Pistol_. Why, then, rejoice therefor. "

A stupid commonplace English Borough has lost its Member suddenly, byapoplexy or otherwise; resolves, in the usual explosive temper of mind, to replace him by one of two others; whereupon strange stirring-up ofrival-attorney and other human interests and catastrophes. "Frank Vane"(Sterling himself), and "Peter Mogg, " the pattern English blockhead ofelections: these are the candidates. There are, of course, fierce rivalattorneys; electors of all creeds and complexions to be canvassed: apoor stupid Borough thrown all into red or white heat; into blazingparoxysms of activity and enthusiasm, which render the inner life of it(and of England and the world through it) luminously transparent, so tospeak;--of which opportunity our friend and his "Muse" take dexterousadvantage, to delineate the same. His pictures are uncommonly good;brief, joyous, sometimes conclusively true: in rigorously compressedshape; all is merry freshness and exuberance: we have leafy summerembowering red bricks and small human interests, presented as in glowingminiature; a mock-heroic action fitly interwoven;--and many a clearglance is carelessly given into the deepest things by the way. Veryhappy also is the little love-episode; and the absorption of all theinterest into that, on the part of Frank Vane and of us, when once thisgallant Frank, --having fairly from his barrel-head stated his own (andJohn Sterling's) views on the aspects of the world, and of course havingquite broken down with his attorney and his public, --handsomely, bystratagem, gallops off with the fair Anne; and leaves free field toMogg, free field to the Hippopotamus 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. 

 "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 halls The spheral harmonies of billiard-balls, Drank, hunted, drove, and hid from Virtue's frown His 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 taught To 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 shed Its last full glories on the lawyer's head. 

 "But vain are mortal schemes. The eldest son At Harrier Hall had scarce his stud begun, When Death's pale courser took the Squire away To 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 opposite way:--

 "Now, in her chamber all alone, the maid Her 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 solitude Of rocks and gloomy waters all alone, Where sunshine scarcely breaks on stump or stone To scare the dreamy vision. Thus did she, A star in deepest night, intent but free, Gleam through the eyeless darkness, heeding not Her 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 untied With 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 dress That 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, are Anne's musings, in thisinteresting 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 before Of her too shocking nudity; and shame Flushed 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. 

It must be owned withal, the Piece is crude in parts, and far enoughfrom perfect. Our good painter has yet several things to learn, andto unlearn. His brush is not always of the finest; and dashes about, sometimes, in a recognizably sprawling way: but it hits many a featurewith decisive accuracy and felicity; and on the palette, as usual, liethe richest colors. A grand merit, too, is the brevity of everything; byno means a spontaneous, or quite common merit with Sterling. 

This new poetic Duodecimo, as the last had done and as the next alsodid, met with little or no recognition from the world: which was notvery inexcusable on the world's part; though many a poem with far lessproof of merit than this offers, has run, when the accidents favored it, through its tens of editions, and raised the writer to the demigods fora year or two, if not longer. Such as it is, we may take it as marking, in its small way, in a noticed or unnoticed manner, a new height arrivedat by Sterling in his Poetic course; and almost as vindicating thedetermination he had formed to keep climbing by that method. Poor Poem, or rather Promise of a Poem! In Sterling's brave struggle, this little_Election_ is the highest point he fairly lived to see attained, andopenly demonstrated in print. His next public adventure in this kindwas of inferior worth; and a third, which had perhaps intrinsically gonemuch higher than any of its antecessors, was cut off as a fragment, andhas not hitherto been published. Steady courage is needed on the Poeticcourse, as on all courses!--

Shortly after this Publication, in the beginning of 1842, poor Calvert, long a hopeless sufferer, was delivered by death: Sterling's faithfulfellow-pilgrim could no more attend him in his wayfarings through thisworld. The weary and heavy-laden man had borne his burden well. Sterlingsays of him to Hare: "Since I wrote last, I have lost Calvert; theman with whom, of all others, I have been during late years the mostintimate. Simplicity, benevolence, practical good sense and moralearnestness were his great unfailing characteristics; and no man, Ibelieve, ever possessed them more entirely. His illness had latterlyso prostrated him, both in mind and body, that those who most loved himwere most anxious for his departure. " There was something touching inthis exit; in the quenching of so kind and bright a little life underthe dark billows of death. To me he left a curious old Print of JamesNayler the Quaker, which I still affectionately preserve. 

Sterling, from this greater distance, came perhaps rather seldomer toLondon; but we saw him still at moderate intervals; and, through hisfamily here and other direct and indirect channels, were kept in livelycommunication with him. Literature was still his constant pursuit; and, with encouragement or without, Poetic composition his chosen departmenttherein. On the ill success of _The Election_, or any ill success withthe world, nobody ever heard him utter the least murmur; condolence uponthat or any such subject might have been a questionable operation, by nomeans called for! Nay, my own approval, higher than this of the world, had been languid, by no means enthusiastic. But our valiant friend tookall quietly; and was not to be repulsed from his Poetics either by theworld's coldness or by mine; he labored at his _Strafford_;--determinedto labor, in all ways, till he felt the end of his tether in thisdirection. 

He sometimes spoke, with a certain zeal, of my starting a Periodical:Why not lift up some kind of war-flag against the obese platitudes, andsickly superstitious aperies and impostures of the time? But I had toanswer, "Who will join it, my friend?" He seemed to say, "I, for one;"and there was occasionally a transient temptation in the thought, buttransient only. No fighting regiment, with the smallest attempt towardsdrill, co-operation, commissariat, or the like unspeakable advantages, could be raised in Sterling's time or mine; which truly, to honestfighters, is a rather grievous want. A grievous, but not quite a fatalone. For, failing this, failing all things and all men, there remainsthe solitary battle (and were it by the poorest weapon, the tongue only, or were it even by wise abstinence and silence and without any weapon), such as each man for himself can wage while he has life: an indubitableand infinitely comfortable fact for every man! Said battle shaped itselffor Sterling, as we have long since seen, chiefly in the poetic form, inthe singing or hymning rather than the speaking form; and in that he wascheerfully assiduous according to his light. The unfortunate _Strafford_is far on towards completion; a _Coeur-de-Lion_, of which we shall hearfarther, "_Coeur-de-Lion_, greatly the best of all his Poems, " unluckilynot completed, and still unpublished, already hangs in the wind. 

His Letters to friends continue copious; and he has, as always, aloyally interested eye on whatsoever of notable is passing in the world. Especially on whatsoever indicates to him the spiritual condition of theworld. Of "Strauss, " in English or in German, we now hear nothing more;of Church matters, and that only to special correspondents, less andless. Strauss, whom he used to mention, had interested him only as asign of the times; in which sense alone do we find, for a year or twoback, any notice of the Church, or its affairs by Sterling; and at lasteven this as good as ceases: "Adieu, O Church; thy road is that way, mine is this: in God's name, adieu!" "What we are going _to_, " says heonce, "is abundantly obscure; but what all men are going _from_, is veryplain. "--Sifted out of many pages, not of sufficient interest, here areone or two miscellaneous sentences, about the date we are now arrivedat:--

 _To Dr. Symonds_. 

"_Falmouth, 3d November_, 1841. --Yesterday was my Wedding-day: elevenyears of marriage; and on the whole my verdict is clear for matrimony. I solemnized the day by reading _John Gilpin_ to the children, whowith their Mother are all pretty well. . . . There is a trick of shamElizabethan writing now prevalent, that looks plausible, but in mostcases means nothing at all. Darley has real (lyrical) genius; Taylor, wonderful sense, clearness and weight of purpose; Tennyson, a rich andexquisite fancy. All the other men of our tiny generation that I knowof are, in Poetry, either feeble or fraudulent. I know nothing of theReviewer you ask about. "

 _To his Mother_

"_December 11th_. --I have seen no new books; but am reading your last. I got hold of the two first Numbers of the _Hoggarty Diamond_; andread them with extreme delight. What is there better in Fielding orGoldsmith? The man is a true genius; and, with quiet and comfort, mightproduce masterpieces that would last as long as any we have, and delightmillions of unborn readers. There is more truth and nature in one ofthese papers than in all ----'s Novels together. "--Thackeray, alwaysa close friend of the Sterling house, will observe that this is dated1841, not 1851, and have his own reflections on the matter!

 _To the Same_. 

"_December 17th_. --I am not much surprised at Lady ----'s views ofColeridge's little Book on _Inspiration_. --Great part of the obscurityof the Letters arises from his anxiety to avoid the difficulties andabsurdities of the common views, and his panic terror of saying anythingthat bishops and good people would disapprove. He paid a heavy price, viz. All his own candor and simplicity, in hope of gaining the favor ofpersons like Lady ----; and you see what his reward is! A good lessonfor us all. "

 _To the Same_. 

"_February 1st_, 1842. --English Toryism has, even in my eyes, about asmuch to say for itself as any other form of doctrine; but Irish Toryismis the downright proclamation of brutal injustice, and all in the nameof God and the Bible! It is almost enough to make one turn Mahometan, but for the fear of the four wives. "

 _To his Father_. 

"_March 12th_, 1842. --. . . Important to me as these matters are, italmost seems as if there were something unfeeling in writing of them, under the pressure of such news as ours from India. If the Cabool Troopshave perished, England has not received such a blow from an enemy, noranything approaching it, since Buckingham's Expedition to the Isleof Rhe. Walcheren destroyed us by climate; and Corunna, with all itslosses, had much of glory. But here we are dismally injured by mereBarbarians, in a War on our part shamefully unjust as well as foolish:a combination of disgrace and calamity that would have shocked Augustuseven more than the defeat of Varus. One of the four officers withMacnaghten was George Lawrence, a brother-in-law of Nat Barton; adistinguished man, and the father of five totally unprovided children. He is a prisoner, if not since murdered. Macnaghten I do not pity; hewas the prime author of 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 the ticking of the greatWorld-Horologe as heard there by a good ear. "I willingly add, " so endshe, once, "that I lately found somewhere this fragment of an Arab'slove-song: 'O Ghalia! If my father were a jackass, I would sell him topurchase Ghalia!' A beautiful parallel to the French _'Avec cette sauceon mangerait son pere_. '"

CHAPTER IV. NAPLES: POEMS. 

In the bleak weather of this spring, 1842, he was again abroad for alittle while; partly from necessity, or at least utility; and partly, asI guess, because these circumstances favored, and he could with a goodcountenance indulge a little wish he had long had. In the Italian Tour, which ended suddenly by Mrs. Sterling's illness recalling him, he hadmissed Naples; a loss which he always thought to be considerable;and which, from time to time, he had formed little projects, failureshitherto, for supplying. The rigors of spring were always dangerous tohim in England, and it was always of advantage to get out of them: andthen the sight of Naples, too; this, always a thing to be done some day, was now possible. Enough, with the real or imaginary hope of betteringhimself in health, and the certain one of seeing Naples, and catching aglance of Italy again, he now made a run thither. It was not long afterCalvert's death. The Tragedy of _Strafford_ lay finished in his desk. Several things, sad and bright, were finished. A little intermezzo oframble was not unadvisable. 

His tour by water and by land was brief and rapid enough; hardly abovetwo months in all. Of which the following Letters will, with someabridgment, give us what details are needful:--

 "_To Charles Barton, Esq. , Leamington_. "FALMOUTH, 25th March, 1842. 

"MY DEAR CHARLES, --My attempts to shoot you flying with my paper pelletsturned out very ill. I hope young ladies succeed better when they happento make appointments with you. Even now, I hardly know whether youhave received a Letter I wrote on Sunday last, and addressed to TheCavendish. I sent it thither by Susan's advice. 

"In this missive, --happily for us both, it did not contain ahundred-pound note or any trifle of that kind, --I informed you that Iwas compelled to plan an expedition towards the South Pole; stopping, however, in the Mediterranean; and that I designed leaving this onMonday next for Cadiz or Gibraltar, and then going on to Malta, whenceItaly and Sicily would be accessible. Of course your company would bea great pleasure, if it were possible for you to join me. The delay inhearing from you, through no fault of yours, has naturally put me out alittle; but, on the whole, my plan still holds, and I shall leave thison Monday for Gibraltar, where the _Great Liverpool_ will catch me, andcarry me to Malta. The _Great Liverpool_ leaves Southampton on the 1stof April, and Falmouth on the 2d; and will reach Gibraltar in from fourto five days. 

"Now, if you _should_ be able and disposed to join me, you have only toembark in that sumptuous tea-kettle, and pick me up under the guns ofthe Rock. We could then cruise on to Malta, Sicily, Naples, Rome, &c. , _a discretion_. It is just _possible_, though extremely improbable, that my steamer of Monday (most likely the _Montrose_) may not reachGibraltar so soon as the _Liverpool_. If so, and if you should actuallybe on board, you must stop at Gibraltar. But there are ninety-ninechances to one against this. Write at all events to Susan, to let herknow what you propose. 

"I do not wait till the _Great Liverpool_ 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; but he arrives safe, and not_hurt_ in health, which is something. 

 "_To Mrs. Sterling, Knightsbridge, London_. "MALTA, 14th April, 1842. 

"DEAREST MOTHER, --I am writing to Susan through France, by to-morrow'smail; and will also send you a line, instead of waiting for the longerEnglish conveyance. 

"We reached this the day before yesterday, in the evening; having hada strong breeze against us for a day or two before; which made meextremely uncomfortable, --and indeed my headache is hardly gone yet. From about the 4th to the 9th of the month, we had beautiful weather, and I was happy enough. You will see by the map that the straightestline from Gibraltar to this place goes close along the African coast;which accordingly we saw with the utmost clearness; and found itgenerally a line of mountains, the higher peaks and ridges covered withsnow. We went close in to Algiers; which looks strong, but entirely fromart. The town lies on the slope of a straight coast; and is not at allembayed, though there is some little shelter for shipping within themole. It is a square patch of white buildings huddled together; fringedwith batteries; and commanded by large forts on the ridge above: a mostuncomfortable-looking place; though, no doubt, there are _cafes_ andbilliard-rooms and a theatre within, --for the French like to have theirHouris, &c. , on _this_ side of Paradise, if possible. 

"Our party of fifty people (we had taken some on board at Gibraltar)broke up, on reaching this; never, of course, to meet again. The greaterpart do not proceed to Alexandria. Considering that there was a bundleof midshipmen, ensigns, &c. , we had as much reason among us as couldperhaps be looked for; and from several I gained bits of information andtraits of character, though nothing very remarkable. . . . 

"I have established myself in an inn, rather than go to LadyLouis's; [27] I not feeling quite equal to company, except in moderatedoses. I have, however, seen her a good deal; and dine there to-day, very privately, for Sir John is not quite well, and they will have noguests. The place, however, is full of official banqueting, for variousunimportant reasons. When here before, I was in much distress andanxiety, on my way from Rome; and I suppose this it was that preventedits making the same impression on me as now, when it seems really thestateliest town I have ever seen. The architecture is generally of acorrupt Roman kind; with something of the varied and picturesque look, though much more massive, of our Elizabethan buildings. We have thefinest English summer and a pellucid sky. . . . Your affectionate

 "JOHN STERLING. "

At Naples next, for three weeks, was due admiration of the sceneriesand antiquities, Bay and Mountain, by no means forgetting Art andthe Museum: "to Pozzuoli, to Baiae, round the Promontory ofSorrento;"--above all, "twice to Pompeii, " where the elegance andclassic simplicity of Ancient Housekeeping strikes us much; and again toPaestum, where "the Temple of Neptune is far the noblest building Ihave ever seen; and makes both Greek and Revived Roman seem quitebarbaric. . . . Lord Ponsonby lodges in the same house with me;--but, ofcourse, I do not countenance an adherent of a beaten Party!" [28]--Or letus take this more compendious account, which has much more of human init, from an onward stage, ten days later:--

 "_To Thomas Carlyle, Esq. , Chelsea, London_. "ROME, 13th May, 1842, "MY DEAR CARLYLE, --I hope I wrote to you before leaving England, to tellyou of the necessity for my doing so. Though coming to Italy, therewas little comfort in the prospect of being divided from my family, andpursuits which grew on me every day. However, I tried to make the bestof it, and have gained both health and pleasure. 

"In spite of scanty communications from England (owing to theuncertainty of my position), a word or two concerning you and your dearWife have reached me. Lately it has often occurred to me, that the sightof the Bay of Naples, of the beautiful coast from that to this place, and of Rome itself, all bathed in summer sunshine, and green with springfoliage, would be some consolation to her. [29] Pray give her my love. 

"I have been two days here; and almost the first thing I did was tovisit the Protestant burial-ground, and the graves of those I knew whenhere before. But much as being now alone here, I feel the difference, there is no scene where Death seems so little dreadful and miserable asin the lonelier neighborhoods of this old place. All one's impressions, however, as to that and everything else, appear to me, on reflection, more affected than I had for a long time any notion of, by one's ownisolation. All the feelings and activities which family, friends andoccupation commonly engage, are turned, here in one's solitude, withstrange force into the channels of mere observation and contemplation;and the objects one is conversant with seem to gain a tenfoldsignificance from the abundance of spare interest one now has to bestowon them. This explains to me a good deal of the peculiar effect thatItaly has always had on me: and something of that artistic enthusiasmwhich I remember you used to think so singular in Goethe's _Travels_. Darley, who is as much a brooding hermit in England as here, feltnothing but disappointment from a country which fills me with childishwonder and delight. 

"Of you I have received some slight notice from Mrs. Strachey; who ison her way hither; and will (she writes) be at Florence on the 15th, andhere before the end of the month. She notices having received a Letterof yours which had pleased her much. She now proposes spending thesummer at Sorrento, or thereabouts; and if mere delight of landscape andclimate were enough, Adam and Eve, had their courier taken them to thatregion, might have done well enough without Paradise, --and not beentempted, either, by any Tree of Knowledge; a kind that does not flourishin the Two Sicilies. 

"The ignorance of the Neapolitans, from the highest to the lowest, isvery eminent; and excites the admiration of all the rest of Italy. Inthe great building containing all the Works of Art, and a Libraryof 150, 000 volumes, I asked for the best existing Book (a German onepublished ten years ago) on the Statues in that very Collection; and, after a rabble of clerks and custodes, got up to a dirty priest, whobowing to the ground regretted 'they did not possess it, ' but at lastremembered that 'they _had_ entered into negotiations on the subject, which as yet had been unsuccessful. '--The favorite device on the wallsat Naples is a vermilion Picture of a Male and Female Soul respectivelyup to the waist (the waist of a _soul_) in fire, and an Angel aboveeach, watering the sufferers from a watering-pot. This is intendedto gain alms for Masses. The same populace sit for hours on the Mole, listening to rhapsodists who recite Ariosto. I have seen I think five ofthem all within a hundred yards of each other, and some sets of fiddlersto boot. Yet there are few parts of the world where I have seen lesslaughter than there. The Miracle of Januarius's Blood is, on the whole, my most curious experience. The furious entreaties, shrieks and sobs, ofa set of old women, yelling till the Miracle was successfully performed, are things never to be forgotten. 

"I spent three weeks in this most glittering of countries, and saw mostof the usual wonders, --the Paestan Temples being to me much the mostvaluable. But Pompeii and all that it has yielded, especially the FrescoPaintings, have also an infinite interest. When one considers that thisprodigious series of beautiful designs supplied the place of our commonroom-papers, --the wealth of poetic imagery among the Ancients, and thecorresponding traditional variety and elegance of pictorial treatment, seem equally remarkable. The Greek and Latin Books do not give one quiteso fully this sort of impression; because they afford no direct measureof the extent of their own diffusion. But these are ornaments from thesmaller class of decent houses in a little Country Town; and the greaternumber of them, by the slightness of the execution, show very clearlythat they were adapted to ordinary taste, and done by mere artisans. In general clearness, symmetry and simplicity of feeling, I cannot saythat, on the whole, the works of Raffaelle equal them; though of coursehe has endless beauties such as we could not find unless in the greatoriginal works from which these sketches at Pompeii were taken. Yet withall my much increased reverence for the Greeks, it seems more plain thanever that they had hardly anything of the peculiar devotional feeling ofChristianity. 

"Rome, which I loved before above all the earth, now delights me morethan ever;--though at this moment there is rain falling that would notdiscredit Oxford Street. The depth, sincerity and splendor that thereonce was in the semi-paganism of the old Catholics comes out in St. Peter's and its dependencies, almost as grandly as does Greek and RomanArt in the Forum and the Vatican Galleries. I wish you were here: but, at all events, hope to see you and your Wife once more during thissummer. 

 "Yours, "JOHN STERLING. "

At Paris, where he stopped a day and night, and generally through hiswhole journey from Marseilles to Havre, one thing attended him: theprevailing epidemic of the place and year; now gone, and nigh forgotten, as other influenzas are. He writes to his Father: "I have not yet met asingle Frenchman, who could give me any rational explanation _why_they were all in such a confounded rage against us. Definite causes ofquarrel a statesman may know how to deal with, inasmuch as the removalof them may help to settle the dispute. But it must be a puzzling taskto negotiate about instincts; to which class, as it seems to me, wemust have recourse for an understanding of the present abhorrence whicheverybody on the other side of the Channel not only feels, but makes apoint to boast of, against the name of Britain. France is slowly arming, especially with Steam, _en attendant_ a more than possible contest, inwhich they reckon confidently on the eager co-operation of the Yankees;as, _vice versa_, an American told me that his countrymen do on that ofFrance. One person at Paris (M. ---- whom you know) provoked me totell him that 'England did not want another battle of Trafalgar; but ifFrance did, she might compel England to gratify her. '"--After a coupleof pleasant and profitable months, he was safe home again in the firstdays of June; and saw Falmouth not under gray iron skies, and whirls ofMarch dust, but bright with summer opulence and the roses coming out. 

It was what I call his "_fifth_ peregrinity;" his fifth and last. Hesoon afterwards came up to London; spent a couple of weeks, with all hisold vivacity, among us here. The AEsculapian oracles, it would appear, gave altogether cheerful prophecy; the highest medical authority"expresses the most decided opinion that I have gradually mended forsome years; and in truth I have not, for six or seven, been so freefrom serious symptoms of illness as at present. " So uncertain are alloracles, AEsculapian and other!

During this visit, he made one new acquaintance which he muchvalued; drawn thither, as I guess, by the wish to take counsel about_Strafford_. He writes to his Clifton friend, under date, 1st July 1842:"Lockhart, of the _Quarterly Review_, I made my first oral acquaintancewith; and found him as neat, clear and cutting a brain as you wouldexpect; but with an amount of knowledge, good nature and liberalanti-bigotry, that would much surprise many. The tone of his childrentowards him seemed to me decisive of his real kindness. He quiteagreed with me as to the threatening seriousness of our present socialperplexities, and the necessity and difficulty of doing somethingeffectual for so satisfying the manual multitude as not to overthrow alllegal security. . . . 

"Of other persons whom I saw in London, " continues he, "there areseveral that would much interest you, --though I missed Tennyson, bya mere chance. . . . John Mill has completely finished, and sent to thebookseller, his great work on Logic; the labor of many years of asingularly subtle, patient and comprehensive mind. It will be our chiefspeculative monument of this age. Mill and I could not meet above twoor three times; but it was with the openness and freshness of school-boyfriends, though our friendship only dates from the manhood of both. "

He himself was busier than ever; occupied continually with all manner ofPoetic interests. _Coeur-de-Lion_, a new and more elaborate attempt inthe mock-heroic or comico-didactic vein, had been on hand for some time, the scope of it greatly deepening and expanding itself since it firsttook hold of him; and now, soon after the Naples journey, it rose intoshape on the wider plan; shaken up probably by this new excitement, andindebted to Calabria, Palermo and the Mediterranean scenes for much ofthe vesture it had. With this, which opened higher hopes for him thanany of his previous efforts, he was now employing all his time andstrength;--and continued to do so, this being the last effort grantedhim among us. 

Already, for some months, _Strafford_ lay complete: but how to get itfrom the stocks; in what method to launch it? The step was questionable. Before going to Italy he had sent me the Manuscript; still loyal andfriendly; and willing to hear the worst that could be said of his poeticenterprise. I had to afflict him again, the good brave soul, with thedeliberate report that I could _not_ accept this Drama as his Pictureof the Life of Strafford, or as any _Picture_ of that strange Fact. Towhich he answered, with an honest manfulness, in a tone which is nowpathetic enough to me, that he was much grieved yet much obliged, anduncertain how to decide. On the other hand, Mr. Hare wrote, warmlyeulogizing. Lockhart too spoke kindly, though taking some exceptions. It was a questionable case. On the whole, _Strafford_ remained, for thepresent, unlaunched; and _Coeur de-Lion_ was getting its first timbersdiligently laid down. So passed, in peaceable seclusion, in wholesomeemployment and endeavor, the autumn and winter of 1842-43. OnChristmas-day, he reports to his Mother:--

"I wished to write to you yesterday; but was prevented by the importantbusiness of preparing a Tree, in the German fashion, for the children. This project answered perfectly, as it did last year; and gave them thegreatest pleasure. I wish you and my Father could have been here to seetheir merry faces. Johnny was in the thick of the fun, and much happierthan Lord Anson on capturing the galleon. We are all going on well andquietly, but with nothing very new among us. . . . The last book I havelighted on is Moffat's _Missionary Labors in South Africa_; which isworth reading. There is the best collection of lion stories in it that Ihave ever seen. But the man is, also, really a very good fellow; and fitfor something much better than most lions are. He is very ignorant, and mistaken in some things; but has strong sense and heart; and hisNarrative adds another to the many proofs of the enormous power ofChristianity on rude minds. Nothing can be more chaotic, that is humanat all, than the notions of these poor Blacks, even after what is calledtheir conversion; but the effect is produced. They do adopt pantaloons, and abandon polygamy; and I suppose will soon have newspapers andliterary soirees. "

CHAPTER V. DISASTER ON DISASTER. 

DURING all these years of struggle and wayfaring, his Father's householdat Knightsbridge had stood healthful, happy, increasing in wealth, freediligence, solidity and honest prosperity: a fixed sunny islet, towardswhich, in all his voyagings and overclouded roamings, he could look withsatisfaction, as to an ever-open port of refuge. 

The elder Sterling, after many battles, had reached his field ofconquest in these years; and was to be regarded as a victorious man. Wealth sufficient, increasing not diminishing, had rewarded his laborsin the _Times_, which were now in their full flower; he had influenceof a sort; went busily among busy public men; and enjoyed, in thequestionable form attached to journalism and anonymity, a socialconsideration and position which were abundantly gratifying to him. Asingular figure of the epoch; and when you came to know him, which itwas easy to fail of doing if you had not eyes and candid insight, agallant, truly gifted, and manful figure, of his kind. We saw much ofhim in this house; much of all his family; and had grown to love themall right well, --him too, though that was the difficult part of thefeat. For in his Irish way he played the conjurer very much, --"threehundred and sixty-five opinions in the year upon every subject, " as awag once said. In fact his talk, ever ingenious, emphatic and spiritedin detail, was much defective in earnestness, at least in clearearnestness, of purport and outcome; but went tumbling as if in merewelters of explosive unreason; a volcano heaving under vague deluges ofscoriae, ashes and imponderous pumice-stones, you could not say in whatdirection, nor well whether in any. Not till after good study did yousee the deep molten lava-flood, which simmered steadily enough, andshowed very well by and by whither it was bound. For I must sayof Edward Sterling, after all his daily explosive sophistries, andfallacies of talk, he had a stubborn instinctive sense of what wasmanful, strong and worthy; recognized, with quick feeling, the charlatanunder his solemnest wig; knew as clearly as any man a pusillanimoustailor in buckram, an ass under the lion's skin, and did with his wholeheart despise the same. 

The sudden changes of doctrine in the _Times_, which failed not toexcite loud censure and indignant amazement in those days, were firstintelligible to you when you came to interpret them as his changes. These sudden whirls from east to west on his part, and total changes ofparty and articulate opinion at a day's warning, lay in the nature ofthe man, and could not be helped; products of his fiery impatience, of the combined impetuosity and limitation of an intellect, which didnevertheless continually gravitate towards what was loyal, true andright on all manner of subjects. These, as I define them, were the merescoriae and pumice wreck of a steady central lava-flood, which truly wasvolcanic and explosive to a strange degree, but did rest as few otherson the grand fire-depths of the world. Thus, if he stormed along, tenthousand strong, in the time of the Reform Bill, indignantly denouncingToryism and its obsolete insane pretensions; and then if, after someexperience of Whig management, he discerned that Wellington and Peel, by whatever name entitled, were the men to be depended on byEngland, --there lay in all this, visible enough, a deeper consistencyfar more important than the superficial one, so much clamored after bythe vulgar. Which is the lion's-skin; which is the real lion? Let a man, if he is prudent, ascertain that before speaking;--but above and beyondall things, _let_ him ascertain it, and stand valiantly to it whenascertained! In the latter essential part of the operation EdwardSterling was honorably successful to a really marked degree; in theformer, or prudential part, very much the reverse, as his history in theJournalistic department at least, was continually teaching him. 

An amazingly impetuous, hasty, explosive man, this "Captain Whirlwind, "as I used to call him! Great sensibility lay in him, too; a realsympathy, and affectionate pity and softness, which he had anover-tendency to express even by tears, --a singular sight in so leoninea man. Enemies called them maudlin and hypocritical, these tears; butthat was nowise the complete account of them. On the whole, there didconspicuously lie a dash of ostentation, a self-consciousness apt tobecome loud and braggart, over all he said and did and felt: this wasthe alloy of the man, and you had to be thankful for the abundant goldalong with it. 

Quizzing enough he got among us for all this, and for the singular_chiaroscuro_ manner of procedure, like that of an ArchimagusCagliostro, or Kaiser Joseph Incognito, which his anonymousknown-unknown thunderings in the _Times_ necessitated in him; and muchwe laughed, --not without explosive counter-banterings on his part;--but, in fine, one could not do without him; one knew him at heart for a rightbrave man. "By Jove, sir!" thus he would swear to you, with radiantface; sometimes, not often, by a deeper oath. With persons of dignity, especially with women, to whom he was always very gallant, he hadcourtly delicate manners, verging towards the wire-drawn and elaborate;on common occasions, he bloomed out at once into jolly familiarity ofthe gracefully boisterous kind, reminding you of mess-rooms and oldDublin days. His off-hand mode of speech was always precise, emphatic, ingenious: his laugh, which was frequent rather than otherwise, had asincerity of banter, but no real depth of sense for the ludicrous; andsoon ended, if it grew too loud, in a mere dissonant scream. He wasbroad, well-built, stout of stature; had a long lowish head, sharp grayeyes, with large strong aquiline face to match; and walked, or sat, inan erect decisive manner. A remarkable man; and playing, especially inthose years 1830-40, a remarkable part in the world. 

For it may be said, the emphatic, big-voiced, always influential andoften strongly unreasonable _Times_ Newspaper was the express emblem ofEdward Sterling; he, more than any other man or circumstance, _was_the _Times_ Newspaper, and thundered through it to the shaking of thespheres. And let us assert withal that his and its influence, in thosedays, was not ill grounded but rather well; that the loud manifoldunreason, often enough vituperated and groaned over, was of the surfacemostly; that his conclusions, unreasonable, partial, hasty as they mightat first be, gravitated irresistibly towards the right: in virtue ofwhich grand quality indeed, the root of all good insight in man, his_Times_ oratory found acceptance and influential audience, amid the loudwhirl of an England itself logically very stupid, and wise chiefly byinstinct. 

England listened to this voice, as all might observe; and to one whoknew England and it, the result was not quite a strange one, and washonorable rather than otherwise to both parties. A good judge of men'stalents has been heard to say of Edward Sterling: "There is not a_faculty of improvising_ equal to this in all my circle. Sterling rushesout into the clubs, into London society, rolls about all day, copiouslytalking modish nonsense or sense, and listening to the like, with themultifarious miscellany of men; comes home at night; redacts it into a_Times_ Leader, --and is found to have hit the essential purport of theworld's immeasurable babblement that day, with an accuracy beyond allother men. This is what the multifarious Babel sound did mean to say inclear words; this, more nearly than anything else. Let the most giftedintellect, capable of writing epics, try to write such a Leader for theMorning Newspapers! No intellect but Edward Sterling's can do it. An improvising faculty without parallel in my experience. "--In this"improvising faculty, " much more nobly developed, as well as in otherfaculties and qualities with unexpectedly new and improved figure, JohnSterling, to the accurate observer, showed himself very much the son ofEdward. 

Connected with this matter, a remarkable Note has come into my hands;honorable to the man I am writing of, and in some sort to another higherman; which, as it may now (unhappily for us all) be published withoutscruple, I will not withhold here. The support, by Edward Sterlingand the _Times_, of Sir Robert Peel's first Ministry, and generally ofPeel's statesmanship, was a conspicuous fact in its day; but the returnit met with from the person chiefly interested may be considered wellworth recording. The following Letter, after meandering through I knownot what intricate conduits, and consultations of the MysteriousEntity whose address it bore, came to Edward Sterling as the realflesh-and-blood proprietor, and has been found among his papers. It ismarked _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 imputation of an interested motive, or anyimpediment from scrupulous feelings of delicacy, express my deep senseof the powerful support which that Government over which I had the honorto preside received from the _Times_ Newspaper. 

"If I do not offer the expressions of personal gratitude, it is becauseI feel that such expressions would do injustice to the character of asupport which was given exclusively on the highest and most independentgrounds of public principle. I can say this with perfect truth, as Iam addressing one whose person even is unknown to me, and who during mytenure of power studiously avoided every species of intercourse whichcould throw a suspicion upon the motives by which he was actuated. Ishould, however, be doing injustice to my own feelings, if I were toretire from Office without one word of acknowledgment; without atleast assuring you of the admiration with which I witnessed, during thearduous contest in which I was engaged, the daily exhibition of thatextraordinary ability to which I was indebted for a support, the morevaluable because it was an impartial and discriminating support. --I havethe honor to be, Sir, "Ever your most obedient and faithful servant, "ROBERT PEEL. "

To which, with due loftiness and diplomatic gravity and brevity, there is Answer, Draught of Answer in Edward Sterling's hand, from theMysterious Entity so honored, in the following terms:--

 "_To the Right Hon. Sir Robert Peel, Bart. , &c. &c. &c_. 

"SIR, --It gives me sincere satisfaction to learn from the Letter withwhich you have honored me, bearing yesterday's date, that you estimateso highly the efforts which have been made during the last five monthsby the _Times_ Newspaper to support the cause of rational and wholesomeGovernment which his Majesty had intrusted to your guidance; and thatyou appreciate fairly the disinterested motive, of regard to the publicwelfare, and to that alone, through which this Journal has been promptedto pursue a policy in accordance with that of your Administration. Itis, permit me to say, by such motives only, that the _Times_, eversince I have known it, has been influenced, whether in defence of theGovernment of the day, or in constitutional resistance to it: and indeedthere exist no other motives of action for a Journalist, compatibleeither with the safety of the press, or with the political morality ofthe great bulk of its readers. --With much respect, I have the honor tobe, Sir, &c. &c. &c. 

 "THE EDITOR OF THE 'TIMES. '"

Of this Note I do not think there was the least whisper during EdwardSterling's lifetime; which fact also one likes to remember of him, so ostentatious and little-reticent a man. For the rest, his loyaladmiration of Sir Robert Peel, --sanctioned, and as it were almostconsecrated to his mind, by the great example of the Duke ofWellington, whom he reverenced always with true hero-worship, --was nota journalistic one, but a most intimate authentic feeling, sufficientlyapparent in the very heart of his mind. Among the many opinions "liableto three hundred and sixty-five changes in the course of the year, " thisin reference to Peel and Wellington was one which ever changed, but wasthe same all days and hours. To which, equally genuine, and coming stilloftener to light in those times, there might one other be added, one andhardly more: fixed contempt, not unmingled with detestation, for DanielO'Connell. This latter feeling, we used often laughingly to say, washis grand political principle, the one firm centre where all else wentrevolving. But internally the other also was deep and constant; andindeed these were properly his _two_ centres, --poles of the same axis, negative and positive, the one presupposing the other. 

O'Connell he had known in young Dublin days;--and surely no man couldwell venerate another less! It was his deliberate, unalterable opinionof the then Great O, that good would never come of him; that onlymischief, and this in huge measure, would come. That however showy, andadroit in rhetoric and management, he was a man of incurably commonplaceintellect, and of no character but a hollow, blustery, pusillanimousand unsound one; great only in maudlin patriotisms, in speciosities, astucities, --in the miserable gifts for becoming Chief _Demagogos_, Leader of a deep-sunk Populace towards _its_ Lands of Promise; whichtrade, in any age or country, and especially in the Ireland of this age, our indignant friend regarded (and with reason) as an extremely ugly onefor a man. He had himself zealously advocated Catholic Emancipation, and was not without his Irish patriotism, very different from the Orangesort; but the "Liberator" was not admirable to him, and grew daily lessso to an extreme degree. Truly, his scorn of the said Liberator, nowriding in supreme dominion on the wings of _blarney_, devil-ward of asurety, with the Liberated all following and huzzaing; his fierce gustsof wrath and abhorrence over him, --rose occasionally almost to thesublime. We laughed often at these vehemences:--and they were not whollylaughable; there was something very serious, and very true, in them!This creed of Edward Sterling's would not now, in either pole of itsaxis, look so strange as it then did in many quarters. 

During those ten years which might be defined as the culminating periodof Edward Sterling's life, his house at South Place, Knights bridge, hadworn a gay and solid aspect, as if built at last on the high table-landof sunshine and success, the region of storms and dark weather nowall victoriously traversed and lying safe below. Health, work, wages, whatever is needful to a man, he had, in rich measure; and a frank stoutheart to guide the same: he lived in such style as pleased him; drovehis own chariot up and down (himself often acting as Jehu, and remindingyou a little of _Times_ thunder even in driving); consorted, aftera fashion, with the powerful of the world; saw in due vicissitude amiscellany of social faces round him, --pleasant parties, which he likedwell enough to garnish by a lord; "Irish lord, if no better might be, "as the banter went. For the rest, he loved men of worth and intellect, and recognized them well, whatever their title: this was his own patentof worth which Nature had given him; a central light in the man, which illuminated into a kind of beauty, serious or humorous, all theartificialities he had accumulated on the surface of him. So rolled hisdays, not quietly, yet prosperously, in manifold commerce with men. At one in the morning, when all had vanished into sleep, his lampwas kindled in his library; and there, twice or thrice a week, for athree-hours' space, he launched his bolts, which next morning were toshake the high places of the world. 

John's relation to his Father, when one saw John here, was altogetherfrank, joyful and amiable: he ignored the _Times_ thunder for most part, coldly taking the Anonymous for non-extant; spoke of it floutingly, ifhe spoke at all: indeed a pleasant half-bantering dialect was thecommon one between Father and Son; and they, especially with the gentle, simple-hearted, just-minded Mother for treble-voice between them, made avery pretty glee-harmony together. 

So had it lasted, ever since poor John's voyagings began; his Father'shouse standing always as a fixed sunny islet with safe harbor for him. So it could not always last. This sunny islet was now also to break andgo down: so many firm islets, fixed pillars in his fluctuating world, pillar after pillar, were to break and go down; till swiftly all, soto speak, were sunk in the dark waters, and he with them! Our littleHistory is now hastening to a close. 

In the beginning of 1843 news reached us that Sterling had, in his tooreckless way, encountered a dangerous accident: maids, in the room wherehe was, were lifting a heavy table; he, seeing them in difficulty, hadsnatched at the burden; heaved it away, --but had broken a blood-vesselby the business; and was now, after extensive hemorrhage, lyingdangerously ill. The doctors hoped the worst was over; but the case wasevidently serious. In the same days, too, his Mother had been seizedhere by some painful disease, which from its continuance grew alarming. Sad omens for Edward Sterling, who by this time had as good as ceasedwriting or working in the _Times_, having comfortably winded up hisaffairs there; and was looking forward to a freer idle life befittinghis advanced years henceforth. Fatal eclipse had fallen over thathousehold of his; never to be lifted off again till all darkened intonight. 

By dint of watchful nursing, John Sterling got on foot once more: buthis Mother did not recover, quite the contrary. Her case too grew veryquestionable. Disease of the heart, said the medical men at last; notimmediately, not perhaps for a length of years, dangerous to life, saidthey; but without hope of cure. The poor lady suffered much; and, thoughaffecting hope always, grew weaker and weaker. John ran up to Town inMarch; I saw him, on the morrow or next day after, in his own room atKnightsbridge: he had caught fresh cold overnight, the servant havingleft his window up, but I was charged to say nothing of it, not toflutter the already troubled house: he was going home again that veryday, and nothing ill would come of it. We understood the family atFalmouth, his Wife being now near her confinement again, could at anyrate comport with no long absence. He was cheerful, even rudely merry;himself pale and ill, his poor Mother's cough audible occasionallythrough the wall. Very kind, too, and gracefully affectionate; but Iobserved a certain grimness in his mood of mind, and under his lightlaughter lay something unusual, something stern, as if already dimmedin the coming shadows of Fate. "Yes, yes, you are a good man: but Iunderstand they mean to appoint you to Rhadamanthus's post, which hasbeen vacant for some time; and you will see how you like that!" Thiswas one of the things he said; a strange effulgence of wild drolleryflashing through the ice of earnest pain and sorrow. He looked palerthan usual: almost for the first time, I had myself a twinge ofmisgiving as to his own health; for hitherto I had been used to blameas much as pity his fits of dangerous illness, and would often angrilyremonstrate with him that he might have excellent health, would he buttake reasonable care of himself, and learn the art of sitting still. Alas, as if he _could_ learn it; as if Nature had not laid her ban onhim even there, and said in smiles and frowns manifoldly, "No, that thoushalt not learn!"

He went that day; he never saw his good true Mother more. Very shortlyafterwards, in spite of doctors' prophecies, and affectionate illusions, she grew alarmingly and soon hopelessly worse. Here are his last twoLetters to her:--

 "_To Mrs. Sterling, Knightsbridge, London_. "FALMOUTH 8th April, 1843. 

"DEAREST MOTHER, --I could do you no good, but it would be the greatestcomfort to me if I could be near you. Nothing would detain me butSusan's condition. I feel that until her confinement is over, I ought toremain here, --unless you wished me to go to you; in which case she wouldbe the first to send me off. Happily she is doing as well as possible, and seems even to gain strength every day. She sends her love to you. 

"The children are all doing well. I rode with Edward to-day through someof the pleasant lanes in the neighborhood; and was delighted, as I haveoften been at the same season, to see the primroses under every hedge. It is pleasant to think that the Maker of them can make other flowersfor the gardens of his other mansions. We have here a softness in theair, a smoothness of the clouds, and a mild sunshine, that combine inlovely peace with the first green of spring and the mellow whiteness ofthe sails upon the quiet sea. The whole aspect of the world is full ofa quiet harmony, that influences even one's bodily frame, and seems tomake one's very limbs aware of something living, good and immortal inall around us. Knowing how you suffer, and how weak you are, anything isa blessing to me that helps me to rise out of confusion and grief intothe sense of God and joy. I could not indeed but feel how much happier Ishould have been, this morning, had you been with me, and delighting asyou would have done in all the little as well as the large beauty of theworld. But it was still a satisfaction to feel how much I owe to you ofthe power of perceiving meaning, reality and sweetness in all healthfullife. And thus I could fancy that you were still near me; and that Icould see you, as I have so often seen you, looking with earnest eyes atwayside flowers. 

"I would rather not have written what must recall your thoughts to yourpresent sufferings: but, dear Mother, I wrote only what I felt; andperhaps you would rather have it so, than that I should try to findother topics. I still hope to be with you before long. Meanwhile andalways, God bless you, is the prayer of

 "Your affectionate son, "JOHN STERLING. "

 _To the same_. "FALMOUTH, 12th April, 1843. 

"DEAREST MOTHER, --I have just received my Father's Letter; which givesme at least the comfort of believing that you do not suffer very muchpain. That your mind has remained so clear and strong, is an infiniteblessing. 

"I do not know anything in the world that would make up to me at all forwanting the recollection of the days I spent with you lately, when I wasamazed at the freshness and life of all your thoughts. It brought backfar-distant years, in the strangest, most peaceful way. I felt myselfwalking with you in Greenwich Park, and on the seashore at Sandgate;almost even I seemed a baby, with you bending over me. Dear Mother, there is surely something uniting us that cannot perish. I seem so sureof a love which shall last and reunite us, that even the remembrance, painful as that is, of all my own follies and ill tempers, cannot shakethis faith. When I think of you, and know how you feel towards me, andhave felt for every moment of almost forty years, it would be too darkto believe that we shall never meet again. It was from you that I firstlearnt to think, to feel, to imagine, to believe; and these powers, which cannot be extinguished, will one day enter anew into communionwith you. I have bought it very dear by the prospect of losing you inthis world, --but since you have been so ill, everything has seemed to meholier, loftier and more lasting, more full of hope and final joy. 

"It would be a very great happiness to see you once more even here; butI do not know if that will be granted to me. But for Susan's state, Ishould not hesitate an instant; as it is, my duty seems to be to remain, and I have no right to repine. There is no sacrifice that she would notmake for me, and it would be too cruel to endanger her by mere anxietyon my account. Nothing can exceed her sympathy with my sorrow. But shecannot know, no one can, the recollections of all you have been anddone for me; which now are the most sacred and deepest, as well asmost beautiful, thoughts that abide with me. May God bless you, dearestMother. It is much to believe that He feels for you all that you haveever felt for your children. 

 "JOHN STERLING. "

A day or two after this, "on Good Friday, 1843, " his Wife got happilythrough her confinement, bringing him, he writes, "a stout little girl, who and the Mother are doing as well as possible. " The little girl stilllives and does well; but for the Mother there was another lot. Till theMonday following she too did altogether well, he affectionately watchingher; but in the course of that day, some change for the worse wasnoticed, though nothing to alarm either the doctors or him; he watchedby her bedside all night, still without alarm; but sent again in themorning, Tuesday morning, for the doctors, --Who did not seem ableto make much of the symptoms. She appeared weak and low, but made noparticular complaint. The London post meanwhile was announced; Sterlingwent into another room to learn what tidings of his Mother it broughthim. Returning speedily with a face which in vain strove to be calm, his Wife asked, How at Knightsbridge? "My Mother is dead, " answeredSterling; "died on Sunday: She is gone. " "Poor old man!" murmured theother, thinking of old Edward Sterling now left alone in the world; andthese were her own last words: in two hours more she too was dead. Intwo hours Mother and Wife were suddenly both snatched away from him. 

"It came with awful suddenness!" writes he to his Clifton friend. "Stillfor a short time I had my Susan: but I soon saw that the medicalmen were in terror; and almost within half an hour of that fatalKnightsbridge news, I began to suspect our own pressing danger. Ireceived her last breath upon my lips. Her mind was much sunk, andher perceptions slow; but a few minutes before the last, she must havecaught the idea of dissolution; and signed that I should kiss her. Shefaltered painfully, 'Yes! yes!'--returned with fervency the pressure ofmy lips; and in a few moments her eyes began to fix, her pulse to cease. She too is gone from me!" It was Tuesday morning, April 18th, 1843. HisMother had died on the Sunday before. 

He had loved his excellent kind Mother, as he ought and well might: inthat good heart, in all the wanderings of his own, there had ever beena shrine of warm pity, of mother's love and blessed soft affectionsfor him; and now it was closed in the Eternities forevermore. His poorLife-partner too, his other self, who had faithfully attended him solong in all his pilgrimings, cheerily footing the heavy tortuous waysalong with him, can follow him no farther; sinks now at his side: "Therest of your pilgrimings alone, O Friend, --adieu, adieu!" She toois forever hidden from his eyes; and he stands, on the sudden, verysolitary amid the tumult of fallen and falling things. "My little babygirl is doing well; poor little wreck cast upon the sea-beach of life. My children require me tenfold now. What I shall do, is all confusionand darkness. "

The younger Mrs. Sterling was a true good woman; loyal-hearted, willingto do well, and struggling wonderfully to do it amid her languors andinfirmities; rescuing, in many ways, with beautiful female heroism andadroitness, what of fertility their uncertain, wandering, unfertileway of life still left possible, and cheerily making the most of it. Agenial, pious and harmonious fund of character was in her; and withal anindolent, half-unconscious force of intellect, and justness and delicacyof perception, which the casual acquaintance scarcely gave her creditfor. Sterling much respected her decision in matters literary; oftenaltering and modifying where her feeling clearly went against him; andin verses especially trusting to her ear, which was excellent, while heknew his own to be worth little. I remember her melodious rich plaintivetone of voice; and an exceedingly bright smile which she sometimes had, effulgent with sunny gayety and true humor, among other fine qualities. 

Sterling has lost much in these two hours; how much that has long beencan never again be for him! Twice in one morning, so to speak, has amighty wind smitten the corners of his house; and much lies in dismalruins round him. 

CHAPTER VI. VENTNOR: DEATH. 

In this sudden avalanche of sorrows Sterling, weak and worn as we haveseen, bore up manfully, and with pious valor fronted what had come uponhim. He was not a man to yield to vain wailings, or make repinings atthe unalterable: here was enough to be long mourned over; but here, for the moment, was very much imperatively requiring to be done. Thatevening, he called his children round him; spoke words of religiousadmonition and affection to them; said, "He must now be a Mother as wellas Father to them. " On the evening of the funeral, writes Mr. Hare, hebade them good-night, adding these words, "If I am taken from you, Godwill take care of you. " He had six children left to his charge, two ofthem infants; and a dark outlook ahead of them and him. The good Mrs. Maurice, the children's young Aunt, present at this time and oftenafterwards till all ended, was a great consolation. 

Falmouth, it may be supposed, had grown a sorrowful place to him, peopled with haggard memories in his weak state; and now again, as hadbeen usual with him, change of place suggested itself as a desirablealleviation;--and indeed, in some sort, as a necessity. He has "friendshere, " he admits to himself, "whose kindness is beyond all price, alldescription;" but his little children, if anything befell him, have norelative within two hundred miles. He is now sole watcher over them; andhis very life is so precarious; nay, at any rate, it would appear, hehas to leave Falmouth every spring, or run the hazard of worse. Oncemore, what is to be done? Once more, --and now, as it turned out, for thelast time. 

A still gentler climate, greater proximity to London, where his BrotherAnthony now was and most of his friends and interests were: theseconsiderations recommended Ventnor, in the beautiful Southeastern cornerof the Isle of Wight; where on inquiry an eligible house was found forsale. The house and its surrounding piece of ground, improvable both, were purchased; he removed thither in June of this year 1843; and setabout improvements and adjustments on a frank scale. By the decease ofhis Mother, he had become rich in money; his share of the West-Indiaproperties having now fallen to him, which, added to his formerincomings, made a revenue he could consider ample and abundant. Falmouthfriends looked lovingly towards him, promising occasional visits; oldHerstmonceux, which he often spoke of revisiting but never did, was notfar off; and London, with all its resources and remembrances, was nowagain accessible. He resumed his work; and had hopes of again achievingsomething. 

The Poem of _Coeur-de-Lion_ has been already mentioned, and the widerform and aim it had got since he first took it in hand. It was above ayear before the date of these tragedies and changes, that he had sentme a Canto, or couple of Cantos, of _Coeur-de-Lion_; loyally againdemanding my opinion, harsh as it had often been on that side. Thistime I felt right glad to answer in another tone: "That here was realfelicity and ingenuity, on the prescribed conditions; a decisivelyrhythmic quality in this composition; thought and phraseology actually_dancing_, after a sort. What the plan and scope of the Work might be, he had not said, and I could not judge; but here was a light opulence ofairy fancy, picturesque conception, vigorous delineation, all marchingon as with cheerful drum and fife, if without more rich and complicatedforms of melody: if a man _would_ write in metre, this sure enoughwas the way to try doing it. " For such encouragement from that stintedquarter, Sterling, I doubt not, was very thankful; and of course itmight co-operate with the inspirations from his Naples Tour to furtherhim a little in this his now chief task in the way of Poetry; a thoughtwhich, among my many almost pathetic remembrances of contradictions tohis Poetic tendency, is pleasant for me. 

But, on the whole, it was no matter. With or without encouragement, hewas resolute to persevere in Poetry, and did persevere. When I think nowof his modest, quiet steadfastness in this business of Poetry; how, inspite of friend and foe, he silently persisted, without wavering, inthe form of utterance he had chosen for himself; and to what length hecarried it, and vindicated himself against us all;--his character comesout in a new light to me, with more of a certain central inflexibilityand noble silent resolution than I had elsewhere noticed in it. Thissummer, moved by natural feelings, which were sanctioned, too, and in asort sanctified to him, by the remembered counsel of his late Wife, he printed the _Tragedy of Strafford_. But there was in the public nocontradiction to the hard vote I had given about it: the littleBook fell dead-born; and Sterling had again to take hisdisappointment;--which it must be owned he cheerfully did; and, resoluteto try it again and ever again, went along with his _Coeur-de-Lion_, as if the public had been all with him. An honorable capacity to standsingle against the whole world; such as all men need, from time to time!After all, who knows whether, in his overclouded, broken, flighty wayof life, incapable of long hard drudgery, and so shut out from the solidforms of Prose, this Poetic Form, which he could well learn as he couldall forms, was not the suitablest for him?

This work of _Coeur-de-Lion_ he prosecuted steadfastly in his new home;and indeed employed on it henceforth all the available days that wereleft him in this world. As was already said, he did not live to completeit; but some eight Cantos, three or four of which I know to possess highworth, were finished, before Death intervened, and there he had to leaveit. Perhaps it will yet be given to the public; and in that case bebetter received than the others were, by men of judgment; and serve toput Sterling's Poetic pretensions on a much truer footing. I can say, that to readers who do prefer a poetic diet, this ought to be welcome:if you can contrive to love the thing which is still called "poetry" inthese days, here is a decidedly superior article in that kind, --richerthan one of a hundred that you smilingly consume. 

In this same month of June, 1843, while the house at Ventnor wasgetting ready, Sterling was again in London for a few days. Of courseat Knightsbridge, now fallen under such sad change, many private mattersneeded to be settled by his Father and Brother and him. Captain Anthony, now minded to remove with his family to London and quit the militaryway of life, had agreed to purchase the big family house, which he stilloccupies; the old man, now rid of that encumbrance, retired to a smallerestablishment of his own; came ultimately to be Anthony's guest, andspent his last days so. He was much lamed and broken, the half of hisold life suddenly torn away;--and other losses, which he yet knew notof, lay close ahead of him. In a year or two, the rugged old man, bornedown by these pressures, quite gave way; sank into paralytic andother infirmities; and was released from life's sorrows, under his sonAnthony's roof, in the fall of 1847. --The house in Knightsbridge was, at the time we now speak of, empty except of servants; Anthony havingreturned to Dublin, I suppose to conclude his affairs there, prior toremoval. John lodged in a Hotel. 

We had our fair share of his company in this visit, as in all the pastones; but the intercourse, I recollect, was dim and broken, a disastrousshadow hanging over it, not to be cleared away by effort. Two Americangentlemen, acquaintances also of mine, had been recommended to him, byEmerson most likely: one morning Sterling appeared here with a strenuousproposal that we should come to Knightsbridge, and dine with him andthem. Objections, general dissuasions were not wanting: The empty darkhouse, such needless trouble, and the like;--but he answered in hisquizzing way, "Nature herself prompts you, when a stranger comes, togive him a dinner. There are servants yonder; it is all easy; come; bothof you are bound to come. " And accordingly we went. I remember it asone of the saddest dinners; though Sterling talked copiously, and ourfriends, Theodore Parker one of them, were pleasant and distinguishedmen. All was so haggard in one's memory, and half consciously in one'santicipations; sad, as if one had been dining in a will, in the crypt ofa mausoleum. Our conversation was waste and logical, I forget quite onwhat, not joyful and harmoniously effusive: Sterling's silent sadnesswas painfully apparent through the bright mask he had bound himselfto wear. Withal one could notice now, as on his last visit, a certainsternness of mood, unknown in better days; as if strange gorgon-facesof earnest Destiny were more and more rising round him, and the time forsport were past. He looked always hurried, abrupt, even beyond wont; andindeed was, I suppose, overwhelmed in details of business. 

One evening, I remember, he came down hither, designing to have afreer talk with us. We were all sad enough; and strove rather to avoidspeaking of what might make us sadder. Before any true talk had beengot into, an interruption occurred, some unwelcome arrival; Sterlingabruptly rose; gave me the signal to rise; and we unpolitely walkedaway, adjourning to his Hotel, which I recollect was in the Strand, nearHungerford Market; some ancient comfortable quaint-looking place, offthe street; where, in a good warm queer old room, the remainder of ourcolloquy was duly finished. We spoke of Cromwell, among other thingswhich I have now forgotten; on which subject Sterling was trenchant, positive, and in some essential points wrong, --as I said I wouldconvince him some day. "Well, well!" answered he, with a shake ofthe head. --We parted before long; bedtime for invalids being come:he escorted me down certain carpeted backstairs, and would not beforbidden: we took leave under the dim skies;--and alas, little as Ithen dreamt of it, this, so far as I can calculate, must have been thelast time I ever saw him in the world. Softly as a common evening, thelast of the evenings had passed away, and no other would come for meforevermore. 

Through the summer he was occupied with fitting up his new residence, selecting governesses, servants; earnestly endeavoring to set his housein order, on the new footing it had now assumed. Extensive improvementsin his garden and grounds, in which he took due interest to thelast, were also going on. His Brother, and Mr. Maurice hisbrother-in-law, --especially Mrs. Maurice the kind sister, faithfullyendeavoring to be as a mother to her poor little nieces, --wereoccasionally with him. All hours available for labor on his literarytasks, he employed, almost exclusively I believe, on _Coeur-de-Lion_;with what energy, the progress he had made in that Work, and in the artof Poetic composition generally, amid so many sore impediments, besttestifies. I perceive, his life in general lay heavier on him than ithad done before; his mood of mind is grown more sombre;--indeed the verysolitude of this Ventnor as a place, not to speak of other solitudes, must have been new and depressing. But he admits no hypochondria, now orever; occasionally, though rarely, even flashes of a kind of wild gayetybreak through. He works steadily at his task, with all the strength lefthim; endures the past as he may, and makes gallant front against theworld. "I am going on quietly here, rather than happily, " writes he tohis friend Newman; "sometimes quite helpless, not from distinct illness, but from sad thoughts and a ghastly dreaminess. The heart is gone out ofmy life. My children, however, are doing well; and the place is cheerfuland mild. "

From Letters of this period I might select some melancholy enough; butwill prefer to give the following one (nearly the last I can give), asindicative of a less usual temper:--

 "_To Thomas Carlyle, Esq. , Chelsea, London_. "VENTNOR, 7th December, 1843. 

"MY DEAR CARLYLE, --My Irish Newspaper was _not_ meant as a hint thatI wanted a Letter. It contained an absurd long Advertisement, --someproject for regenerating human knowledge, &c. &c. ; to which I prefixedmy private mark (a blot), thinking that you might be pleased to know ofa fellow-laborer somewhere in Tipperary. 

"Your Letter, like the Scriptural oil, --(they had no patent lamps then, and used the best oil, 7s. Per gallon), --has made my face to shine. There is but one person in the world, I shall not tell you who, fromwhom a Letter would give me so much pleasure. It would be nearly as goodat Pekin, in the centre of the most enlightened Mandarins; but here atVentnor, where there are few Mandarins and no enlightenment, --fountainsin the wilderness, even were they miraculous, are nothing compared withyour handwriting. Yet it is sad that you should be so melancholy. Ioften think that though Mercury was the pleasanter fellow, and probablythe happier, Saturn was the greater god;--rather cannibal or so, but oneexcuses it in him, as in some other heroes one knows of. 

"It is, as you say, your destiny to write about Cromwell: and youwill make a book of him, at which the ears of our grandchildren willtingle;--and as one may hope that the ears of human nature will begrowing longer and longer, the tingling will be proportionately greaterthan we are accustomed to. Do what you can, I fear there will be littlegain from the Royalists. There is something very small about the biggestof them that I have ever fallen in with, unless you count old Hobbes aRoyalist. 

"Curious to see that you have them exactly preserved in the CountryGentlemen of our day; while of the Puritans not a trace remains exceptin History. Squirism had already, in that day, become the _caputmortuum_ that it is now; and has therefore, like other mummies, beenable to last. What was opposed to it was the Life of Puritanism, --thenon the point of disappearing; and it too has left its mummy at ExeterHall on the platform and elsewhere. One must go back to the MiddleAges to see Squirism as rampant and vivacious as Biblicism was in theSeventeenth Century: and I suppose our modern Country Gentlemen areabout as near to what the old Knights and Barons were who fought theCrusades, as our modern Evangelicals to the fellows who sought the Lordby the light of their own pistol-shots. 

"Those same Crusades are now pleasant matter for me. You remember, orperhaps you do not, a thing I once sent you about Coeur-de-Lion. Longsince, I settled to make the Cantos you saw part of a larger Book; andworked at it, last autumn and winter, till I had a bad illness. I amnow at work on it again; and go full sail, like _my_ hero. There are sixCantos done, roughly, besides what you saw. I have struck out mostof the absurdest couplets, and given the whole a higher though stillsportive tone. It is becoming a kind of _Odyssey_, with a laughing andChristian Achilles for hero. One may manage to wrap, in that chivalrousbrocade, many things belonging to our Time, and capable of interestingit. The thing is not bad; but will require great labor. Only it is laborthat I thoroughly like; and which keeps the maggots out of one's brain, until their time. 

"I have never spoken to you, never been able to speak to you, of thechange in my life, --almost as great, one fancies, as one's own death. Even now, although it seems as if I had so much to say, I cannot. Ifone could imagine--. . . But it is no use; I cannot write wisely onthis matter. I suppose no human being was ever devoted to another moreentirely than she; and that makes the change not less but more bearable. It seems as if she could not be gone quite; and that indeed is my faith. 

"Mr. James, your New-England friend, was here only for a few days; I sawhim several times, and liked him. They went, on the 24th of last month, back to London, --or so purposed, --because there is no pavement here forhim to walk on. I want to know where he is, and thought I should be ableto learn from you. I gave him a Note for Mill, who perhaps may have seenhim. I think this is all at present from, "Yours, "JOHN STERLING. "

Of his health, all this while, we had heard little definite; andunderstood that he was very quiet and careful; in virtue of which grandimprovement we vaguely considered all others would follow. Once let himlearn well to be _slow_ as the common run of men are, would not all besafe and well? Nor through the winter, or the cold spring months, didbad news reach us; perhaps less news of any kind than had been usual, which seemed to indicate a still and wholesome way of life and work. Nottill "April 4th, 1844, " did the new alarm occur: again on some slightaccident, the breaking of a blood-vessel; again prostration underdangerous sickness, from which this time he never rose. 

There had been so many sudden failings and happy risings again in ourpoor Sterling's late course of health, we had grown so accustomed tomingle blame of his impetuosity with pity for his sad overthrows, we didnot for many weeks quite realize to ourselves the stern fact that hereat length had the peculiar fall come upon us, --the last of allthese falls! This brittle life, which had so often held together andvictoriously rallied under pressures and collisions, could not rallyalways, and must one time be shivered. It was not till the summer cameand no improvement; and not even then without lingering glimmers of hopeagainst hope, that I fairly had to own what had now come, what was nowday by day sternly advancing with the steadiness of Time. 

From the first, the doctors spoke despondently; and Sterling himselffelt well that there was no longer any chance of life. He had often saidso, in his former illnesses, and thought so, yet always till now withsome tacit grain of counter-hope; he had never clearly felt so as now:Here _is_ the end; the great change is now here!--Seeing how it was, then, he earnestly gathered all his strength to do this last act ofhis tragedy, as he had striven to do the others, in a pious and manfulmanner. As I believe we can say he did; few men in any time _more_piously or manfully. For about six months he sat looking steadfastly, atall moments, into the eyes of Death; he too who had eyes to _see_ Deathand the Terrors and Eternities; and surely it was with perfect courageand piety, and valiant simplicity of heart, that he bore himself, anddid and thought and suffered, in this trying predicament, more terriblethan the usual death of men. All strength left to him he still employedin working: day by day the end came nearer, but day by day also some newportion of his adjustments was completed, by some small stage histask was nearer done. His domestic and other affairs, of all sorts, hesettled to the last item. Of his own Papers he saved a few, giving briefpertinent directions about them; great quantities, among which a certainAutobiography begun some years ago at Clifton, he ruthlessly burnt, judging that the best. To his friends he left messages, memorials ofbooks: I have a _Gough's Camden_, and other relics, which came to me inthat way, and are among my sacred possessions. The very Letters of hisfriends he sorted and returned; had each friend's Letters made into apacket, sealed with black, and duly addressed for delivery when the timeshould come. 

At an early period of his illness, all visitors had of course beenexcluded, except his most intimate ones: before long, so soon as the endbecame apparent, he took leave even of his Father, to avoid excitementsand intolerable emotions; and except his Brother and the Maurices, whowere generally about him coming and going, none were admitted. Thislatter form of life, I think, continued for above three months. Men werestill working about his grounds, of whom he took some charge; needfulworks, great and small, let them not pause on account of him. He stillrose from bed; had still some portion of his day which he could spendin his Library. Besides business there, he read a good deal, --earnestbooks; the Bible, most earnest of books, his chief favorite. He stilleven wrote a good deal. To his eldest Boy, now Mr. Newman's ward, whohad been removed to the Maurices' since the beginning of this illness, he addressed, every day or two, sometimes daily, for eight ornine weeks, a Letter, of general paternal advice and exhortation;interspersing sparingly, now and then, such notices of his own feelingsand condition as could be addressed to a boy. These Letters, I havelately read: they give, beyond any he has written, a noble image of theintrinsic Sterling;--the same face we had long known; but painted nowas on the azure of Eternity, serene, victorious, divinely sad; the dustsand extraneous disfigurements imprinted on it by the world, nowwashed away. One little Excerpt, not the best, but the fittest for itsneighborhood here, will be welcome to the 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, withno event that I know of. There is nothing except books to occupy me. But you may suppose that my thoughts often move towards you, and thatI fancy what you may be doing in the great City, --the greatest on theEarth, --where I spent so many years of my life. I first saw London whenI was between eight and nine years old, and then lived in or near it forthe whole of the next ten, and more there than anywhere else for sevenyears longer. Since then I have hardly ever been a year without seeingthe place, and have often lived in it for a considerable time. ThereI grew from childhood to be a man. My little Brothers and Sisters, andsince, my Mother, died and are buried there. There I first saw yourMamma, and was there married. It seems as if, in some strange way, London were a part of Me or I of London. I think of it often, not asfull of noise and dust and confusion, but as something silent, grand andeverlasting. 

"When I fancy how you are walking in the same streets, and moving alongthe same river, that I used to watch so intently, as if in a dream, whenyounger than you are, --I could gladly burst into tears, not ofgrief, but with a feeling that there is no name for. Everything is sowonderful, great and holy, so sad and yet not bitter, so full of Deathand so bordering on Heaven. Can you understand anything of this? Ifyou can, you will begin to know what a serious matter our Life is;how unworthy and stupid it is to trifle it away without heed; what awretched, insignificant, worthless creature any one comes to be, whodoes not as soon as possible bend his whole strength, as in stringing astiff bow, to doing whatever task lies first before him. . . . 

"We have a mist here to-day from the sea. It reminds me of that which Iused to see from my house in St, Vincent, rolling over the great volcanoand the mountains round it. I used to look at it from our windows withyour Mamma, and you a little baby in her arms. 

"This Letter is not so well written as I could wish, but I hope you willbe able to read it. 

 "Your affectionate Papa, "JOHN STERLING. "

These Letters go from June 9th to August 2d, at which latter datevacation-time arrived, and the Boy returned to him. The Letters arepreserved; and surely well worth preserving. 

In this manner he wore the slow doomed months away. Day after day hislittle period of Library went on waning, shrinking into less and less;but I think it never altogether ended till the general end came. --Forcourage, for active audacity we had all known Sterling; but such a fundof mild stoicism, of devout patience and heroic composure, we didnot hitherto know in him. His sufferings, his sorrows, all hisunutterabilities in this slow agony, he held right manfully down;marched loyally, as at the bidding of the Eternal, into the dreadKingdoms, and no voice of weakness was heard from him. Poor nobleSterling, he had struggled so high and gained so little here! But thisalso he did gain, to be a brave man; and it was much. 

Summer passed into Autumn: Sterling's earthly businesses, to the lastdetail of them, were now all as good as done: his strength too waswearing to its end, his daily turn in the Library shrunk now to a span. He had to hold himself as if in readiness for the great voyage at anymoment. One other Letter I must give; not quite the last message I hadfrom Sterling, but the last that can be inserted here: a brief Letter, fit to be forever memorable to the receiver of it:--

 "_To Thomas Carlyle, Esq. , Chelsea, London_. "HILLSIDE, VENTNOR, 10th August, 1844. 

MY DEAR CARLYLE, --For the first time for many months it seems possibleto send you a few words; merely, however, for Remembrance and Farewell. On higher matters there is nothing to say. I tread the common road intothe great darkness, without any thought of fear, and with very much ofhope. Certainty indeed I have none. With regard to You and Me I cannotbegin to write; having nothing for it but to keep shut the lid of thosesecrets with all the iron weights that are in my power. Towards me it isstill more true than towards England that no man has been and done likeyou. Heaven bless you! If I can lend a hand when THERE, that will not bewanting. It is all very strange, but not one hundredth part so sad as itseems to the standers-by. 

"Your Wife knows my mind towards her, and will believe it withoutasseverations. 

 "Yours to the last, "JOHN STERLING. "

It was a bright Sunday morning when this letter came to me: if in thegreat Cathedral of Immensity I did no worship that day, the fault surelywas my own. Sterling affectionately refused to see me; which also waskind and wise. And four days before his death, there are some stanzas ofverse for me, written as if in star-fire and immortal tears; which areamong my sacred possessions, to be kept for myself alone. 

His business with the world was done; the one business now to awaitsilently what may lie in other grander worlds. "God is great, " he waswont to say: "God is great. " The Maurices were now constantly near him;Mrs. Maurice assiduously watching over him. On the evening of Wednesdaythe 18th of September, his Brother, as he did every two or three days, came down; found him in the old temper, weak in strength but not verysensibly weaker; they talked calmly together for an hour; then Anthonyleft his bedside, and retired for the night, not expecting any change. But suddenly, about eleven o'clock, there came a summons and alarm:hurrying to his Brother's room, he found his Brother dying; and ina short while more the faint last struggle was ended, and all thosestruggles and strenuous often-foiled endeavors of eight-and-thirty yearslay hushed in death. 

CHAPTER VII. CONCLUSION. 

Sterling was of rather slim but well-boned wiry figure, perhaps an inchor two from six feet in height; of blonde complexion, without color, yetnot pale or sickly; dark-blonde hair, copious enough, which he usuallywore short. The general aspect of him indicated freedom, perfectspontaneity, with a certain careless natural grace. In his apparel, youcould notice, he affected dim colors, easy shapes; cleanly always, yeteven in this not fastidious or conspicuous: he sat or stood, oftenest, in loose sloping postures; walked with long strides, body carelesslybent, head flung eagerly forward, right hand perhaps grasping acane, and rather by the middle to swing it, than by the end to use itotherwise. An attitude of frank, cheerful impetuosity, of hopeful speedand alacrity; which indeed his physiognomy, on all sides of it, offeredas the chief expression. Alacrity, velocity, joyous ardor, dwelt in theeyes too, which were of brownish gray, full of bright kindly life, rapid and frank rather than deep or strong. A smile, half of kindlyimpatience, half of real mirth, often sat on his face. The head waslong; high over the vertex; in the brow, of fair breadth, but not highfor such a man. 

In the voice, which was of good tenor sort, rapid and strikinglydistinct, powerful too, and except in some of the higher notesharmonious, there was a clear-ringing _metallic_ tone, --which I oftenthought was wonderfully physiognomic. A certain splendor, beautiful, but not the deepest or the softest, which I could call a splendor asof burnished metal, --fiery valor of heart, swift decisive insight andutterance, then a turn for brilliant elegance, also for ostentation, rashness, &c. &c. , --in short, a flash as of clear-glancing sharp-cuttingsteel, lay in the whole nature of the man, in his heart and in hisintellect, marking alike the excellence and the limits of them both. His laugh, which on light occasions was ready and frequent, had in it nogreat depth of gayety, or sense for the ludicrous in men or things; youmight call it rather a good smile become vocal than a deep real laugh:with his whole man I never saw him laugh. A clear sense of the humoroushe had, as of most other things; but in himself little or no truehumor;--nor did he attempt that side of things. To call him deficientin sympathy would seem strange, him whose radiances and resonances wentthrilling over all the world, and kept him in brotherly contact withall: but I may say his sympathies dwelt rather with the high and sublimethan with the low or ludicrous; and were, in any field, rather light, wide and lively, than deep, abiding or great. 

There is no Portrait of him which tolerably resembles. The miniatureMedallion, of which Mr. Hare has given an Engraving, offers us, withno great truth in physical details, one, and not the best, superficialexpression of his face, as if that with vacuity had been what the facecontained; and even that Mr. Hare's engraver has disfigured into thenearly or the utterly irrecognizable. Two Pencil-sketches, which noartist could approve of, hasty sketches done in some social hour, oneby his friend Spedding, one by Banim the Novelist, whom he slightlyknew and had been kind to, tell a much truer story so far as they go:of these his Brother has engravings; but these also I must suppress asinadequate for strangers. 

Nor in the way of Spiritual Portraiture does there, after so muchwriting and excerpting, anything of importance remain for me to say. John Sterling and his Life in this world were--such as has been alreadysaid. In purity of character, in the so-called moralities, in all mannerof proprieties of conduct, so as tea-tables and other human tribunalsrule them, he might be defined as perfect, according to the world'spattern: in these outward tangible respects the world's criticism of himmust have been praise and that only. An honorable man, and good citizen;discharging, with unblamable correctness, all functions and dutieslaid on him by the customs (_mores_) of the society he lived in, --withcorrectness and something more. In all these particulars, a manperfectly _moral_, or of approved virtue according to the rules. 

Nay in the far more essential tacit virtues, which are not marked onstone tables, or so apt to be insisted on by human creatures over teaor elsewhere, --in clear and perfect fidelity to Truth wherever found, in childlike and soldier-like, pious and valiant loyalty to the Highest, and what of good and evil that might send him, --he excelled among goodmen. The joys and the sorrows of his lot he took with true simplicityand acquiescence. Like a true son, not like a miserable mutinous rebel, he comported himself in this Universe. Extremity of distress--and surelyhis fervid temper had enough of contradiction in this world--could nottempt him into impatience at any time. By no chance did you ever hearfrom him a whisper of those mean repinings, miserable arraignings andquestionings of the Eternal Power, such as weak souls even well disposedwill sometimes give way to in the pressure of their despair; to the likeof this he never yielded, or showed the least tendency to yield;--whichsurely was well on his part. For the Eternal Power, I still remark, will not answer the like of this, but silently and terribly accounts itimpious, blasphemous and damnable, and now as heretofore will visit itas such. Not a rebel but a son, I said; willing to suffer whenHeaven said, Thou shalt;--and withal, what is perhaps rarer in such acombination, willing to rejoice also, and right cheerily taking the goodthat was sent, whensoever or in whatever form it came. 

A pious soul we may justly call him; devoutly submissive to the willof the Supreme in all things: the highest and sole essential form whichReligion can assume in man, and without which all forms of religion area mockery and a delusion in man. Doubtless, in so clear and filial aheart there must have dwelt the perennial feeling of silent worship;which silent feeling, as we have seen, he was eager enough to express byall good ways of utterance; zealously adopting such appointed forms andcreeds as the dignitaries of the World had fixed upon and solemnly namedrecommendable; prostrating his heart in such Church, by such accreditedrituals and seemingly fit or half-fit methods, as his poor time andcountry had to offer him, --not rejecting the said methods till theystood convicted of palpable unfitness and then doing it right gentlywithal, rather letting them drop as pitiably dead for him, than angrilyhurling them out of doors as needing to be killed. By few Englishmenof his epoch had the thing called Church of England been more loyallyappealed to as a spiritual mother. 

And yet, as I said before, it may be questioned whether piety, what wecall devotion or worship, was the principle deepest in him. In spite ofhis Coleridge discipleship, and his once headlong operations followingthereon, I used to judge that his piety was prompt and pure rather thangreat or intense; that, on the whole, religious devotion was not thedeepest element of him. His reverence was ardent and just, ever readyfor the thing or man that deserved revering, or seemed to deserve it:but he was of too joyful, light and hoping a nature to go to the depthsof that feeling, much more to dwell perennially in it. He had no fearin his composition; terror and awe did not blend with his respect ofanything. In no scene or epoch could he have been a Church Saint, afanatic enthusiast, or have worn out his life in passive martyrdom, sitting patient in his grim coal-mine, looking at the "three ells" ofHeaven high overhead there. In sorrow he would not dwell; all sorrowhe swiftly subdued, and shook away from him. How could you have made anIndian Fakir of the Greek Apollo, "whose bright eye lends brightness, and never yet saw a shadow"?--I should say, not religious reverence, rather artistic admiration was the essential character of him: a factconnected with all other facts in the physiognomy of his life and self, and giving a tragic enough character to much of the history he had amongus. 

Poor Sterling, he was by nature appointed for a Poet, then, --a Poetafter his sort, or recognizer and delineator of the Beautiful; and notfor a Priest at all? Striving towards the sunny heights, out of sucha level and through such an element as ours in these days is, he hadstrange aberrations appointed him, and painful wanderings amidthe miserable gaslights, bog-fires, dancing meteors and putridphosphorescences which form the guidance of a young human soul atpresent! Not till after trying all manner of sublimely illuminatedplaces, and finding that the basis of them was putridity, artificial gasand quaking bog, did he, when his strength was all done, discover histrue sacred hill, and passionately climb thither while life was fastebbing!--A tragic history, as all histories are; yet a gallant, braveand noble one, as not many are. It is what, to a radiant son of theMuses, and bright messenger of the harmonious Wisdoms, this poorworld--if he himself have not strength enough, and _inertia_ enough, andamid his harmonious eloquences silence enough--has provided at present. Many a high-striving, too hasty soul, seeking guidance towards eternalexcellence from the official Black-artists, and successful Professorsof political, ecclesiastical, philosophical, commercial, general andparticular 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 thedue strength, --alas, mere want of the due _inertia_ chiefly; which isso common a gift for most part; and proves so inexorably needful withal!But he was good and generous and true; joyful where there wasjoy, patient and silent where endurance was required of him; shookinnumerable sorrows, and thick-crowding forms of pain, gallantly awayfrom him; fared frankly forward, and with scrupulous care to tread on noone's toes. True, above all, one may call him; a man of perfect veracityin thought, word and deed. Integrity towards all men, --nay integrityhad ripened with him into chivalrous generosity; there was no guile orbaseness anywhere found in him. Transparent as crystal; he could nothide anything sinister, if such there had been to hide. A more perfectlytransparent soul I have never known. It was beautiful, to read all thoseinterior movements; the little shades of affectations, ostentations;transient spurts of anger, which never grew to the length of settledspleen: all so naive, so childlike, the very faults grew beautiful toyou. 

And so he played his part among us, and has now ended it: in this firsthalf of the Nineteenth Century, such was the shape of human destiniesthe world and he made out between them. He sleeps now, in the littleburying-ground of Bonchurch; bright, ever-young in the memory of othersthat must grow old; and was honorably released from his toils before thehottest of the day. 

All that remains, in palpable shape, of John Sterling's activities inthis world are those Two poor Volumes; scattered fragments gathered fromthe general waste of forgotten ephemera by the piety of a friend: aninconsiderable memorial; not pretending to have achieved greatness;only disclosing, mournfully, to the more observant, that a promise ofgreatness was there. Like other such lives, like all lives, this is atragedy; high hopes, noble efforts; under thickening difficulties andimpediments, ever-new nobleness of valiant effort;--and the resultdeath, with conquests by no means corresponding. A life which cannotchallenge the world's attention; yet which does modestly solicit it, andperhaps on clear study will be found to reward it. 

On good evidence let the world understand that here was a remarkablesoul born into it; who, more than others, sensible to its influences, took intensely into him such tint and shape of feature as the world hadto offer there and then; fashioning himself eagerly by whatsoever ofnoble presented itself; participating ardently in the world's battle, and suffering deeply in its bewilderments;--whose Life-pilgrimageaccordingly is an emblem, unusually significant, of the world's ownduring those years of his. A man of infinite susceptivity; who caughteverywhere, more than others, the color of the element he lived in, theinfection of all that was or appeared honorable, beautiful and manful inthe tendencies of his Time;--whose history therefore is, beyond others, emblematic of that of his Time. 

In Sterling's Writings and Actions, were they capable of being wellread, we consider that there is for all true hearts, and especially foryoung noble seekers, and strivers towards what is highest, a mirror inwhich some shadow of themselves and of their immeasurably complexarena will profitably present itself. Here also is one encompassed andstruggling even as they now are. This man also had said to himself, notin mere Catechism-words, but with all his instincts, and the questionthrilled in every nerve of him, and pulsed in every drop of his blood:"What is the chief end of man? Behold, I too would live and work asbeseems a denizen of this Universe, a child of the Highest God. By whatmeans is a noble life still possible for me here? Ye Heavens andthou Earth, oh, how?"--The history of this long-continued prayer andendeavor, lasting in various figures for near forty years, may now andfor some time coming have something to say to men!

Nay, what of men or of the world? Here, visible to myself, for somewhile, was a brilliant human presence, distinguishable, honorableand lovable amid the dim common populations; among the million littlebeautiful, once more a beautiful human soul: whom I, among others, recognized and lovingly walked with, while the years and the hours were. Sitting now by his tomb in thoughtful mood, the new times bring anew duty for me. "Why write the Life of Sterling?" I imagine I had acommission higher than the world's, the dictate of Nature herself, to dowhat is now done. _Sic prosit_. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: _John Sterling's Essays and Tales, with Life_ by Archdeacon Hare. Parker; London, 1848. ]

[Footnote 2: _Commons Journals_, iv. 15 (l0th January, 1644-5); and again v. 307&c. , 498 (18th September, 1647-15th March, 1647-8). ]

[Footnote 3: _Literary Chronicle_, New Series; London, Saturday, 21 June, 1828, Art. II. ]

[Footnote 4: "The Letters of Vetus from March 10th to May 10th, 1812" (secondedition, London, 1812): Ditto, "Part III. , with a Preface and Notes"(ibid. 1814). ]

[Footnote 5: Here, in a Note, is the tragic little Register, with whatindications for us may lie in it:--

 (l. ) Robert Sterling died, 4th June, 1815, at Queen Square, in his fourth year (John being now nine). (2. ) Elizabeth died, 12th March, 1818, at Blackfriars Road, in her second year. (3. ) Edward, 30th March, 1818 (same place, same month and year), in his ninth. (4. ) Hester, 21st July, 1818 (three months later), at Blackheath, in her eleventh. (5. ) Catherine Hester Elizabeth, 16th January, 1821, in Seymour Street. ]

[Footnote 6: _History of the English Universities_. (Translated from the German. )]

[Footnote 7: Mrs. Anthony Sterling, very lately Miss Charlotte Baird. ]

[Footnote 8: _Biography_, by Hare, pp. Xvi-xxvi. ]

[Footnote 9: _Biography_, by Mr. Hare, p. Xli. ]

[Footnote 10: Hare, pp. Xliii-xlvi. ]

[Footnote 11: Hare, xlviii, liv, lv. ]

[Footnote 12: Hare, p. Lvi. ]

[Footnote 13: P. Lxxviii. ]

[Footnote 14: Given in Hare (ii. 188-193). ]

[Footnote 15: Came out, as will soon appear, in _Blackwood_ (February, 1838). ]

[Footnote 16: "_Hotel de l'Europe, Berlin_, " added in Mrs. Sterling's hand. ]

[Footnote 17: Hare, ii. 96-167. ]

[Footnote 18: Ib. I. 129, 188. ]

[Footnote 19: Here in a Note they are, if they can be important to anybody. Themarks of interrogation, attached to some Names as not yet consulted orotherwise questionable, are in the Secretary's hand:--

 J. D. Acland, Esq. H. Malden, Esq. Hon. W. B. Baring. J. S. Mill, Esq. Rev. J. W. Blakesley. R. M. Milnes, Esq. W. Boxall, Esq. R. Monteith, Esq. T. Carlyle, Esq. S. A. O'Brien, Esq. Hon. R. Cavendish (?) Sir F. Palgrave (?) H. N. Coleridge, Esq. (?) W. F. Pollok, Esq. J. W. Colville, Esq. Philip Pusey, Esq. Allan Cunningham, Esq. (?) A. Rio, Esq. Rev. H. Donn. C. Romilly, Esq. F. H. Doyle, Esq. James Spedding, Esq. C. L. Eastlake, Esq. Rev. John Sterling. Alex. Ellice, Esq. Alfred Tennyson, Esq. J. F. Elliott, Esq. Rev. Connop Thirlwall. Copley Fielding, Esq. Rev. W. Hepworth Thompson. Rev. J. C. Hare. Edward Twisleton, Esq. Sir Edmund Head (?) G. S. Venables, Esq. D. D. Heath, Esq. Samuel Wood, Esq. G. C. Lewis, Esq. Rev. T. Worsley. H. L. Lushington, Esq. The Lord Lyttleton. James Spedding, _Secretary_. C. Macarthy, Esq. 8th August, 1838. ]

[Footnote 20: Hare, p. Cxviii. ]

[Footnote 21: Of Sterling himself, I suppose. ]

[Footnote 22: Hare, ii. P. 252. ]

[Footnote 23: _Poems by John Sterling_. London (Moxon), 1839. ]

[Footnote 24: _The Election: a Poem, in Seven Books_. London, Murray, 1841. ]

[Footnote 25: Pp. 7, 8. ]

[Footnote 26: Pp. 89-93. ]

[Footnote 27: Sister of Mrs. Strachey and Mrs. Buller: Sir John Louis was now ina high Naval post at Malta. ]

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

[Footnote 29: Death of her Mother, four mouths before. (_Note of_ 1870. )]