college, into a decision upon questions haps a deeper imagination than either, the most important that can occupy the mind, the result was not surprising. After this premature forcing of Clough's mind, there came a reaction. His intellectual perplexity preyed heavily on his spirits, and grievously interfered with his studies." All which may be true, perfectly true; and yet one feels that, true though it may be, it misses the mark. It reminds one of Dominie Sampson's lament over the restored Harry Bertram: "He should have been a calligrapher; but Heaven's will be done!" In what field of thought, in what kind of a theological paddock, would those who thus affectionately deprecated the influence of the Tractarian tempest have wished or expected to find their friend? Clough as a High Churchman, playing tricksas he would have said-upon himself, would have been an impossibility. And if not as a High Churchman, then as what? In what other field could the friend of Arthur Stanley and Matthew Arnold have found himself, save in the field in which, with him as with them, earnest moral and intellectual effort were the main thing-something approaching to the "summum pulchrum,” if not indeed the "summum pulchrum" itself and the hold upon formularies merely subsidiary? It may be that these three, animated by the same cultured earnestness, though differing from each other in respect of personal idiosyncrasy, were the brightest outcome of that Oxford tribulation-a tribulation which coincided, in point of time, with social and political tribulations that more or less affected them all. Stanley, with his deep religious and imaginative nature, not altogether untouched by something of the mystic, found his place at Westminster, where he kept the bridge against the hosts of dogmatism, burning to eradicate all that savored of liberty in religious thought. Arnold, animated by a sincere and cultured disbelief in popular movements and popular cries, was able to hold himself aloof from upheavals, the force of which he strangely miscalculated. Clough, however, with per and influenced by a conscientiousness that might almost have been called hyper-sensitive, could not have tolerated in himself either the conformity of Stanley or the social scepticism of Arnold. It would be difficult to say that he was socially much more earnest than Arnold. Those, moreover, who appreciate Clough from the religious side of his character, and deprecate the sacrifices he made in his anxiety to clear himself from any suspicion of religious insincerity, possibly fail to some extent to realize the fact that social problems occupied even a wider space in his mind than religious problems. As regards religious problems, his ruling principle was clear and complete"Let fact be fact, and life the thing it can." But the "riddle of the painful earth," in its social aspects, was continually attracting him, his reflections leading him to conclusions that even now social reformers are barely venturing to hint at. How shall I laugh and sing and dance? While here to give my mirth a chance, There is a whole system of Christian place in the mouth of Dipsychus; and Herein, indeed, in his deep and at times almost painful appreciation of 1 There is a characteristic quotation from Arnold in one of Clough's letters. "As Matt says, the millennium will not come this bout." It is curious, however, that this sceptical remark with regard to the millennium was uttered just about the time when Arnold, according to his recently published letters, had limited the existence of the Established Church to five years. the inequalities and unrealities of social existence is to be found the true key to Clough's work and character. A religious reformer, a religious enthusiast, he never could have been. With him these matters lay far too deep to be dragged into the dust and heat of the arena of controversy. He had his own way of regarding them, and it is in the exquisite sincerity and profound faith that possessed him that one of the noblest lessons of his life is to be found. The Spartan simplicity of his dealings with himself, his resolve to accept no idea or conviction merely because it was comfortable, is well illustrated in a letter written to his sister in 1848, just after he had resigned his fellowship: It is far nobler [he says] to teach people to do what is good because it is good simply than for the sake of any fu 1 pastoral," so human, so touching, so deep, so humorous. Was that inappropriate to the revelation he had been experiencing in his own life and surroundings? Not in the least. It is really the story of the development of an Oxford undergraduate into a social reformer-a reformer, too, who had the courage to entrust his own life and happiness to the principles which he had come to approve. Clough, in resigning his Oxford appointments, had stepped out of bondage into free air, and it is free air that blows through all the story of Philip Hewson and his wooing in the wilds of Rannoch. There is no need to tell the story; the story is one that can only be told in the poet's own language. Yet it is impossible not to feel the influence of the profound and enthusiastic social faith that gives the keynote to the whole, and equally ture reward. It is, I dare say, difficult to impossible to doubt that it is the poet keep up an equal religious feeling at present but it is not impossible, and is necessary. Besides, if we die and come to nothing, it does not therefore follow that life and goodness will cease to be in earth and heaven. If we give over dancing, it does not therefore follow that the dance ceases itself, or the music. Be satisfied, that whatever is good in us will be immortal; and as the parent is content to die in the consciousness of the child's survival even so, why not we? There's a creed which will suffice for the present. In the same letter, referring to the "new High Churchites," who wanted himself, who through the mediumship of another, is pouring out his own corvictions. Here is a comparison which is useful. Here, first of all, are six lines from one of the "Poems on Life and Duty:" Go from the east to the west, as the sun and the stars direct thee, Go with the girdle of man, go and encompass the earth. Not for the gain of the gold, for the getting, the hoarding, the having, But for the joy of the deed, but for the Duty to do. tion and action, With the great girdle of God, go and encompass the earth! "to turn all the quiet people adrift," he Go with the spiritual life, the higher voliremarks, that so long as "one isn't obliged to sign articles, or go to daily service, or prayer-meeting, or the like, I don't see why one should excommunicate oneself. As for the Unitarians," he adds, "they're better than the other dissenters, and that's all; but to go to their chapels-no!" A religious reformer or enthusiast Clough was not, and that is why those who expected to see his resignation, first of his tutorship and then of his fellowship, associated with the publication of some theological pamphlet were disappointed. Instead of this, what had they? They had "The Bothie of Tober-na-Vuolich, that "long vacation warm The enthusiasm of those lines, with the poet's deepest feeling and conviction, finds an echo in the impatience of the poet and radical, Philip Hewson, when his friend the tutor, "the grave man nicknamed Adam," had written to him urging the importance of "trusting in Providence," and abiding and 1 It is a tradition that Philip Hewson, the poet and Radical, was sketched from Thomas Arnold, Matthew Arnold's elder brother. But it seems impossible to avoid the conviction that here, too, as in the case of "Dipsychus" it is largely with Clough himself that we have to do. working in our stations. torts: Philip re- for the exercise of that sense of duty which was to him almost more than the air he breathed. His surroundings I am sorry to say your Providence puzzles as head of University Hall in London. me sadly; a post to which he was appointed soon Children of circumstance are we to be? after his resignation of his Oxford ap You answer, On no wise! Where does circumstance end, and Providence, where begins it? What are we to resist, and what are we to be friends with? If there is battle, 'tis battle by night, I stand in the darkness, Here in the mêlée of men, Ionian and pointments, were anything but congenial. He found that in a great degree he had exchanged a gracious bondage for a bondage that was small and irritating. One of the most char acteristic of his letters, written in January, 1849, was a letter in which he explained his reasons for declining, in his Signal and password known; which is official capacity, to undertake the confriend and which is foeman? duct or superintendence of any prayers, Is it a friend? I doubt, though he speak or even to undertake to be present at with the voice of a brother. them. How characteristic of the man, determined, so far as he himself was concerned, to "let fact be fact!" The Still you are right, I suppose; you always are and will be; Though I mistrust the Field-Marshal, I letter, moreover, was characteristic in bow to the duty of order. Yet is my feeling rather to ask, where is the battle? Yes, I could find in my heart to cry, not- O that the armies indeed were arrayed! Sound, thou trumpet of God, come forth, another sense; for he expressed himself as willing to concede that it might be better if the principal of the institution were one who could officially join in such devotions as the controllers desired -willing to concede, that is, that some more acceptable person than himself might better fill the office of principal. King and leader appear, thy soldiers sor- Equally characteristic was the care he rowing seek thee. Would that the armies indeed were ar- Only infinite jumble and mess and disloca- Backed by a solemn appeal, "For God's sake, do not stir there!" took to define his own position, and to leave himself unfettered in respect of all religious matters. "I need not, or course, say," he remarks, "that I suppose I have on these subjects, if not convictions, sentiments-not assuredly a definite theological creed, but what would be called religious views-views Yet you are right, I suppose; if you don't which may prove very different from attack any conclusion, those commonly entertained by Unita Let us get on as we can, and do the thing rians. But of course, too, I can enwe are fit for." This is unsatisfying, however, as much It can hardly be said that Clough ever found, in its completeness, a field tirely disclaim everything approaching to a disposition to proselytize; so far from it, I hardly expect to make up my own mind as yet, and am not likely to meddle with those of others. At the same time, what a man feels for himself can hardly fail to affect his communications with his neighbor, nor should I in any way feel bound to suppress, because of the opinions of a young man's parents and friends, anything which other reasons would not induce me to withhold. Hasty talking would be grievous misdoing; evasive I am dealing would vitiate everything; but I should hope to find other matters to occupy me with the students." Three years later-one can hardly marvel at it-he was out of harness again, enjoying a salary of some £30 a year as professor of English language and literature at University College; confessing to be "as good or as bad as engaged;" and writing to Emerson to ask if there was any chance of "earning bread and water, if not bread and flesh, anywhere between the Atlantic and the Mississippi, by teaching Latin, Greek, or English." That was the beginning of his sojourn in America, a sojourn lasting not much over six months, during which he played a little with literary work, and discovered that "Emerson was the only profound man in the country." One gets glimpses of a growing weariness with a life of indefinite aims and continual unsettlements. "In the years 1844 and 1845," he remarks in one of his letters, written in March, 1853, "I was in very great force, and used to be taken for an undergraduate just come up to college. wiser perhaps now, but I have lost a good deal to become so." Or again, in a letter written three months later: "Energy is a very ordinary thing; reasonableness is much less common and does ten times the good." It would almost seem as if Clough were about this time getting planed down to the level of his friend Matthew Arnold, whose disbelief in the millennium had been expressed some years previously. But, whether this were the case or not, there can be little doubt that his appointment to a post in the Education Office, which came to him in the summer of 1853, gave him the rest and the occupation that he needed, besides affording him opportunities-to wit, in connection with Miss Florence Nightingale's nursing campaign-of throwing himself with enthusiasm into a public work. Whether he was really satisfied, whether he still felt that there was some work which would engage his whole energies, but which had not yet come to him, it would be a little difficult to say. He admitted that he found he liked "quill-driving;" it was at any rate better than "boy-driving;" but his letters to his American friends seem to breathe a desire to repeat the enfranchisement he had accomplished when he left Oxford-to get out of chains, to get free from grooves, and to make some mental exploitation of newer fields of life and thought. What no doubt served to balance this constitutional restlessness was the domestic life that was growing up round him, and which he appreciated only as a sensitive and affectionate-hearted man can appreciate it. One cannot help wondering what Clough would have been if he had lived, as his hero of the "Bothie" might have done, to become "an unroasted grandsire" in a democratic New Zealand-whether the old restlessness would have died out, whether the pressure of increasing responsibilities would have tended to break down the delicate tenderness of conscience, which was his most characteristic possession. But such speculation is useless. In his forty-third year he lay dead in Florence, and it is beneath the cypresses in the little Protestant cemetery there that his grave is still to be found. There is not much in such a life 78 this to attract those who regard success as the test of worth. Looked at from an ordinary point of view, Clough's life was essentially unsuccessful. He failed to achieve the distinction that was anticipated for him at Oxford; he threw up, on grounds which not a few regarded as Quixotic, an assured academical position; he accepted and then resigned an uncongenial and unsatisfying task in connection with what must have seemed to him, with his Oxford traditions and culture, a second-rate or third-rate university organization; he crossed the Atlantic and did little save make new friends; he returned to England and put himself into the official mill which claimed his energies until his death; he left no great work behind him, only fragmentary glimpses of a literary power which could not be summoned at will, and which refused to apply itself to subjects which failed to touch his higher and inner nature. Yet, in spite of all this, and perhaps in some considerable degree because of all this, the sweetness, the sincerity, the beauty of his nature enabled him to attract the very best minds of his time, and to set up a standard of living and thinking which, if adopted, would be found capable of regenerating and revivifying human society. In a world saturated with the spirit of competition, it might prove difficult to make generally attractive a life which moved apart from the struggle for material success. Nevertheless, whenever the rage of competition exhausts itself, the figure of this man of unquenchable faith-faith in the essential beneficence of all the facts of the universe-and of external failures will assuredly be found among "the one or two immortal lights" that will rise up into the firmament. "to shine there everlastingly." The man who could hold that 'Tis better to have fought and lost Than never to have fought at all;1 who could rally the faint-hearted with the thought that their individual effort might be all that was needed to gain a victory; who could declare that "it fortified his soul to know that though he perished, truth was so;" who could deny himself every comfortable belief that seemed touched by doubt, and yet be ever conscious of The strong current flowing -such a man as this is one to whom the world may well turn in the doubt and turmoil that will inevitably arise when mere success has become discredited, and when once more the cry goes up, "Who will show us any good?" And then the fact will be realized that Arthur Hugh Clough, though not in 1 There is something of a puzzle about these two lines. They occur in a poem-"Peschiera" written in 1849 in the same metre as " In Memoriam," which was not published till 1851, and which contained the lines ""Tis better to have loved and lost deed “a man of letters,” was something infinitely greater. F. REGINALD STATHAM. IN KEDAR'S TENTS.1 BY HENRY SETON MERRIMAN, AUTHOR OF "THE SOWERS." CHAPTER XXV. SWORDCRAFT. "Rien n'est plus courageux qu'un cœur patien rien n'est plus sur de soi qu'un esprit doux." The general set down his glass, and a queer light came into his eyes, usually so smiling and pleasant. "Ah! Then you are right, my friend. Tell us your story as quickly as possible." "It appears," said Concha, "that there has been in progress for many months a plot to assassinate the queen regent and to seize the person of the little queen, expelling her from Spain and bringing in Don Carlos, who is a spent firework, but a republic, a more dangerous firework, that usually bursts in the hands of those that light it. This plot has been finally put into shape by a letter-" He paused, tapped on the table with his bony fingers, and glanced at Estella. "A letter which has been going the round of all the malcontents in the Peninsula. Each faction-leader, to show that he has read it and agrees to obey its commands, initials the letter. It has then been returned to an inter mediary, who sends it to the nextnever by post, unless unavoidable, because the post is watched-always by hand, and usually by the hand of a person innocent of its contents." "Yes," murmured the general absently, and there was a queer little triumphant smile on Estella's lips. "To think," cried Concha, with a sudden fire less surprising in Spain than in England-"to think that we have all seen it, have touched it! Name of a saint, I had it under my hand, alone 1 Copyright, 1897, by Henry Seton Merriman. |