in 1596, where this condition was He has ta'en the table wi' his hand, And have they ta'en him, Kinmont Willie, Negotiations failing, Buccleuch determined to rescue Kinmont himself. In the darkness of a stormy night he and his men stole up to Carlisle, broke the citadel, rescued Kinmont, and carried him off in safety, whilst the English lawyers were raising ingenious technical justifications (you can read them at length in the collection of Border papers) of the capture. Those same papers show that the ballad gives the main features of the rescue with surprising accuracy. But I cannot linger over its cheerful numbers. The event might once have provoked a war, but the shadow of the union was already cast. James would do nothing to spoil the splendid prize almost within his grasp, and Elizabeth's statesmen were not like to quarrel with their future master. With the death of Elizabeth (1603) came the union of the crowns, and the Scots riders felt their craft in danger, for they forthwith made a desperate incursion into England, with some idea (it is thought) of staying the event. But they were severely punished, and needs must cower under the now all-powerful crown. The appointment of effective wardens presently ceased. In 1606, by the Act I Jac., Cap. I, the English Parliament repealed the anti-Scots laws, on condition that the Scots Parliament reciprocated; and presently a kindred measure was touched with the Sceptre at Edinburgh. The administration of the Border was left to the ordinary tribunals, and the Laws of the Marches vanished to the lumber room. FRANCIS WATT. From The Nineteenth Century. THE LIMITS OF BIOGRAPHY. For many years in England the follies of great men have been held the property of the fool. No sooner is genius laid upon its bier than the vultures are ready to swoop, and to drag from the dead bones two (or more) volumes of what were once most worthily described as "remains." Neither cancelled cheques nor washing bills are discarded, and if research may uncover a forgotten scandal the bird of prey is happy indeed. With an energy amazing only for its misdirection, the "collector" wanders abroad that he may purchase the secrets of poets he never knew, and may snatch a brief notoriety from the common ridicule. wherein he involves an unapproachable talent. Thus, by a curious ingenuity, Shelley has become a hero of intrigues. The amateur of letters overlooks the poet, the intrepid champion of lost causes, the fearless fighter of other men's battles. Nor does he interest himself in the gay, irresponsible, pleasureseeking adventurer, quick to succor others and to imagine fantastic plots against himself. No, he merely puts him in the dock upon a charge of marital infidelity, and constituting himself at once judge and jury, condemns him (in a lecture) to perpetual obloquy. Thus, too, the gimlet glance of a thousand Paul Prys pierces the letters which John Keats destined only for the eye of Fanny Brawne. Thus, too, note everywhere the same fury of dethrough the indiscretion of pretended tection. The reviews fatten upon the friends, Rossetti has been pictured dead with a ghoulish ferocity; it is alnow as a shivering apostle of senti- most impossible to discover a journal ment, now as an astute, even an un- free from the prevailing frankness; no scrupulous, driver of hard bargains. man's letters are thought too insignifiTo multiply examples were easy, if cant for print; and the Bibliothèque unprofitable. Nor is it difficult to dis- Nationale will soon be too small to concover the motive of this restless curi- tain the vast array of books and pamosity. An interest in letters is neces- phlets which disclose hitherto inviolate sary to a world compelled to read by secrets. The prime heroes of revelaact of Parliament. But compulsion tion are, naturally, Alfred de Musset does not imply understanding, and gos- and George Sand. And they were alsip is far easier of digestion than po- ready the common talk of the marketetry. The revelation of a poet's place; they were France's solitary inintrigue lacks no element of attraction; discretion before the present epidemic it appeals directly to that spirit which of curiosity. Musset, in fact, is the confounds printed matter with litera- Shelley of France. His poems may be ture; it flatters the ambition of those forgotten; it may need the genius of who without toil would feign an inti- Sarah Bernhardt to revivify his plays; macy with the great; and before all but his journey to Venice is still disthings it seems to impart in the guise cussed in railway train and omnibus. of culture a knowledge of life, as it is Nor can it be said that either he or his lived in a sphere of large ideals and accomplice is blameless in the matter. liberal courage. What wonder is it, Even before they had left Italy behind then, that the tragedy of Harriet and they both displayed a desperate zeal in the misery of Fanny Brawne are fa- the open washing of their dirty linen. miliar to many who never read the No sooner had the disconsolate Musset "Ode to the Skylark," and who could been dismissed by his Lélia than all not repeat the first line of Keats's "En- the world was in his confidence, and dymion?" Such a study of literature is Lélia was composing masterpieces of a pleasant relief from the hungry con- sentiment that Sainte-Beuve and the sumption of illustrated magazines and rest might be furnished with the last of dextrously assorted snippets. It bulletin. But gossip, however induspampers the same appetite with a fur- trious, was insufficient to proclaim the tive show of refinement, and in En- intimate sentiments of these twin gland at least the greed of irrelevant souls. First Musset was inspired to information has no serious rival save make a public confession of his love, the football field. But it is with a sin- whereupon George Sand was comcere surprise that you note an increas- pelled, in self-defence, to a counter ing taste for literary revelation on the demonstration. The scandal once awakother side of the Channel. Hitherto ened could not easily be put to rest, France has preserved a suitable dis- and M. Paul de Musset, with finer zeal dain; she has declined to confuse po- than wisdom, rushed in to champion etry with adultery; she has refused his brother. So that no detail in this most honorably to tear open the letter- picnic of love and hate, this orgie of bags of the great; and her appreciation fever and hysteria, is withheld from of literature has been in consequence the curious. Indeed, it is not the fault all the more dignified and single- of the actors if we do not know every minded. But the austerity of French scene of the tedious drama. Alfred, criticism has yielded at last, and its on the one hand, roamed Venice up and very persistence in well-doing intensi- down, while George dying of fies the disgrace of its ultimate sur- fever; George, on the other, began her render. flirtation with the ineffable Pagello Reticence being at an end, you may when the poet lay on the verge of nad was ness, and even threatened the lover who had broken her heart with the terrors of a lunatic asylum. So much was already whispered in the ear of a confiding public when Madame Colet came, with the added result of her investigation; then there followed a mob of curious physicians, who held each his hand at his victim's pulse, and registered every change of temperature which afflicted the sensitive ardor of those unhappy lovers, until at last Musset, the refined and elegant, became the hero of half-a-dozen cheap novels, and was forced through the mask of an actor to recite bad verses in a provincial theatre. a Yet indignity lives in cycles, and for a while the scandal of Venice was forgotten, only to be revived with fiercer energy and a flood of "documents inédits." And to-day the war rages more briskly than ever. The Sandistes, led by M. le Vicomte de Spoëlberch de Lovenjoul, are prompt in the attack, while M. Maurice Clouard, with an eager band of Mussetistes at his back, is inexorable in defence. Blame and praise are awarded with a liberal hand, and it does not occur to any single one of these critics that no one may be an arbiter of another's love or hate. A man and a woman engage in an equal duel; now he, now she receives the deeper wound; but each is free to retire from the combat at pleasure, and it is an idle justice which should find condemnation of either after sixty years. However, French literature is occupied for the moment with the "Amoureux de Venise," and in M. Paul Mariéton these unfortunates have found their historian. In his recently published "Histoire d'Amour" (Paris: Havard), this writer has investigated the mystery with the diligence of an ancient scholiast. Moreover his impartiality is above suspicion; he has put George Sand in one scale, Alfred de Musset in the other, and he has held the balance with an equal hand. The work is well done; but that is not so wonderful as that it should be done at all. Another flood of rhetoric overwhelms us; once more we are invited VOL. XIV. 707 LIVING AGE. to contemplate the love-letters which passed between two persons who, apart from their printed works, are complete strangers to us. Once more we are present at a triangular duel which concerns no living man except the amiable and amazing Doctor Pagello. Now of Doctor Pagello there was many a dark hint in the ancient controversy. But, since he had not yet rushed into the fray with his own little bundle of "copy," he alone of the actors in the drama was enveloped in a mysterious atmosphere of reticence. However, he too has broken silence at last; in fact, he first broke silence in 1881, and M. Mariéton finds his restraint remarkable. Yet a sin grows no lighter for keeping, and the reflection of half a century might, with the wisdom of old age, have counselled prudence. Call no man happy, said the Persian king, until his life is finished; call no man discreet until death takes away the opportunity of betrayal. And yet how shall we be angry with Doctor Pagello? For, though he is beyond the hope of pardon, though he has revealed another's secret, he has added a new character to fiction and experience. We have no right to contemplate him, but he himself cries for attention, and assuredly his own Italy, rich in farce, provides no more amusing figure. The one surprising event of his life OCcurred more than sixty years ago. George Sand, his lover, Alfred de Musset, his defeated rival, have long since won death and immortality; but Doctor Pagello remains unknown to the world and constant to his profession. Had he only been able to hold his tongue, he might have smiled at the past with infinite satisfaction. He might have become the Man in the Iron Mask to the amateurs of tittletattle. Unhappily temptation proved irresistible. He too, as well as his betters, had kept a record of his love, some fragments of which found their way into print fifteen years since, and, not content with a single revelation, he has now surrendered himself a willing subject to the interviewer. And here her verses ring with melody and are quick with passion; it must know the tragedy of her life; it must look over her shoulder as she takes her intimates into her confidence; it must discover the lover who ignobly deserted her, and whose name, she said, should never be betrayed. (The critics have decreed otherwise). And the publication of her correspondence has won for her the title of "poor Madame Valmore," in which the pity is very near to contempt. Now, any one who will prudence may know that her career was he shows himself a true character of comedy. Anxious to create an impression of sublime indifference, he is yet found mumbling over the cup from which "the Sand" (as he styles her) was wont to drink the tea of her inspiration. He is eager to display to the interviewer's admiring eye the declaration of love written by the love-sick lady and addressed "au stupide Pagello." Meanwhile his son is present to extol the broad shoulders of his father-there at least he was Musset's superior-and to applaud which would risk nothing even for Lélia's love. Also he seizes the occasion to throw ridicule upon "the Sand's" beauty, whereof, says he, his uncle Robert had but a poor opinion. It is all very comic, despite its provincialism, and while you are willing to believe that the Italian knight errant had no comprehension of "the Sand's" temperament, and that he was never so happy as when he shook the dust of Paris from his shoes, and hastily returned to the practice of medicine at Venice, you are not surprised that he remembers with the suspicion of a smirk the guilty intrigue of sixty years ago. But the interest in the Venetian fugitives is in no wise exhausted; the aged doctor promises fresh revelations, and half-a-dozen other monuments of research will presently be erected. Meanwhile Alfred de Musset does not wholly engross the interest of those who prefer gossip to literature. It is but a few months since the "Correspondance Intime de Marceline Desbordes-Valmore" (Paris: Lemerre) was thrust upon the world. Now Madame Desbordes-Valmore is a poet who is admired far more widely than she is read. Verlaine has given her a place among his "poètes maudits;" Sainte-Beuve, with his inevitable surety of judgment, has told us precisely what we have a right to know of her unhappiness. Her poems remain to produce the true impression of her sorrow and of her patience, and to present such a revelation of self as she chose to make. But the world is not content; it cares not that one long fight with poverty, and that her spirit, born for freedom, was chained until her death by the lack of money. There is not one of the miseries besetting the provincial actor wherewith she was not familiar-jealousy, uncertainty, and the lack of bread. Reserve is no longer possible, since it is now set down in print that she cherished the memory of her betrayer in old age. and yet was none the less loyal to her fond, incompetent husband. Had her worshippers been sincere in their desire to do her honor they might have published her poems at a modest price; they might even have reprinted the selection of Sainte-Beuve. But no, it is more interesting to tear away the curtain of respect and to reveal to those who know not the pathos of her poems the deeper pathos of her life. And she, of all poets, should have escaped the penalty of her talent. "What biography can I have," she once wrote, "1, who have spent my whole life in a cupboard?" At last the cupboard is open, and all are free to inspect the empty shelves. The editors of Victor Hugo's "Correspondance" (Paris: Calmann Lévy) had a far better excuse for publication. and they at least are free from the charge of wanton revelation. For Victor Hugo was something besides a poet; he belonged for half a century to the life of France. He fought the battles of his country and of her literature. The public history of modern Europe cannot be written without his aid, and without a due recognition of his influence. But his letters have no other quality than dulness. They tell us that in his youth he was a prig; they hint at a quarrel with Sainte-Beuve, who had a finger in every pie, and they enhance the seriousness of the quarrel, for the very reason that they leave it vague and unexplained. Beyond this they are silent; they reveal neither his political opinions nor his literary prehis dilections; they neither illustrate character nor comment upon his poetry. In brief, they might have been written by a nameless advocate or a forgotten journalist. And, since they are all untouched by the Olympian quality of their author, they should have been left to slumber in manuscript. Hard upon the wheels of Victor Hugo comes Sainte-Beuve, whose correspondence, if complete, would implicate the whole world, and Sainte-Beuve is followed hot-foot by Mérimée and De Vigny, each with his sheaf of letters. And so profound is the general curiosity that in the interest of life literature is forgotten. Nor is literature likely to recover its readers until the present fashion of gossip is overpast. Meanwhile a thousand excuses are contrived to palliate the recklessness of editors. "I resurrect the secrets of the throw dead," says one, "that I may light upon their work." Never was a flimsier argument advanced. A writer makes a certain presentation of himself; he sets his talent in such a light as befits his temperament. His poem, his novel, his essay is, in a sense, himhe deliberately self, but himself chooses to appear before the world. It is, in brief, an expression less of his life than of his art; and though his art may be insensibly modified by his life, an elaborate analysis is no part of the The chemical biographer's business. resolution of a diamond into its component parts does not enhance the diapoem bemond's brilliance, and no comes more easily intelligible because you are told that its author was wont to fortify his absinthe with white wine. In truth, the greater the artist the more resolutely is he separate from his work; his own virtue may find expression in vice; or, being the presentment of as a reverential vicious, he may sing Is it, then, out of respect that secrets are divulged? Hardly; respect does not show itself in the wanton advertisement of unimportant frailty, in the reckless publication of letters which the writer would have given his hand to suppress. If the thousands who assume a fervent interest in the love af career. a decade fairs of Shelley or Musset were sincere would avoid in their respect, they eavesdropping and devote themselves to the study of the poet's works. Nor is the lust of truth a sufficient excuse for these chafferers in private scandal. The result of their research is, and must ever be, falsification. Their zeal and energy are of no account, since the more they collect the more helpless becomes their confusion. They set their idol in a hideous light, and perforce destroy the proportion of his Having crowded a brief year with inglorious strife, they leave blank, and so provide a perfect opporMustunity to mislead the envious. set's life is focussed (so to say) in his He goes down to sojourn at Venice. posterity as the lover of George Sand, and the facts that he parted from his Lélia, and that he wrote plays and novels and poems, do not touch "I tell you he common imagination. was in love with George Sand," says the student of literature, and there's an end of it. Above all the authority of letters is suspect. Printed long after prompted their the occasion which the cold eye composition, read with which takes no account of the preceding tumult and excitement, they lose was theirs the meaning which once and become the easiest instrument of falsehood and distortion. It is idle. therefore, to attribute the modern madness for biography to knowledge, or loyalty, or truth. It is not by the heedless accumulations of biography's raw material that truth is established or art is prospered. It is only the general the |