Springtime and Other Essays
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Title: Springtime and Other Essays
Author: Sir Francis Darwin
Release date: September 7, 2010 [eBook #33668]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33668
Credits: This ebook was transcribed by Les Bowler
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPRINGTIME AND OTHER ESSAYS ***
This ebook was transcribed by Les Bowler.
SPRINGTIME
AND OTHER ESSAYS
BY SIR FRANCIS DARWIN
AUTHOR OF "RUSTIC SOUNDS"
AND OTHER ESSAYS
* * * * *
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
* * * * *
LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
1920
_All rights reserved_
CONTENTS
PAGE
SPRINGTIME 1
SOME NAMES OF CHARACTERS IN FICTION 15
THOMAS HEARNE, 1678-1735 29
RECOLLECTIONS 51
OLD INSTRUMENTS OF MUSIC 71
THE TRADITIONAL NAMES OF ENGLISH PLANTS 99
SIR JOSEPH DALTON HOOKER 115
A GREAT HOSPITAL 137
SIR GEORGE AIRY 161
SYDNEY SMITH 175
CHARLES DICKENS 199
A PROCESSION OF FLOWERS 201
ILLUSTRATIONS
_To face page_
PSALTERY AND DULCIMER (_By kind permission of 72
Messrs Cornish_)
MANDORE, PANDURINA, LUTE, THEORBOE, ARCHLUTE, AND 76
GUITAR
THE CRWTH 79
THE TROMBA MARINA 81
VIOLA D'AMORE, CITHER VIOL, AND HURDY-GURDY OR 82
ORGANISTRUM
RECORDERS 84
PIBCORN OR HORN-PIPE 89
CORNETTS, SERPENT, BASS HORN, OPHICLEIDE, AND 91
KEYED BUGLE
_The above illustrations are all taken from_ "_Old English Instruments of
Music_," _by the kind permission of Canon Galpin_.
TO
F. C. C.
SPRINGTIME {1}
"Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year."
--_Autolycus' Song_.
Governesses used to tell us that the seasons of the year each consist of
three months, and of these March, April, and May make the springtime. I
should like to break the symmetry, and give February to spring, which
would then include February, March, April, and May. It has been said
that winter is but autumn "shyly shaking hands with spring." We will,
accordingly, make winter a short link of two months--an autumnal and a
vernal hand--December and January. It is a little sad for autumn to have
to make room for chill November alongside of the happier months of
September and October. But autumn is a season of decadence and cannot
justly complain.
The autumnal flowers, which may be allowed to figure as a prelude to
spring, are few in number. My favourite is lady's tresses
(_Spiranthes_), so called from the spiral twist in its inflorescence,
which suggests braided hair. _Gentiana amarella_ I should like to
include, but its flowering-time is from 12th August to 8th September, and
summer has the stronger claim on it. Other autumnal flowers are
laurustinus and ivy. If we go by the mean date nothing flowers in
October or November, and in December only the Christmas rose (_Helleborus
niger_) is recorded by Blomefield.
But the autumn months have a glory of their own which may vie with the
brightest hues of flowers. This great and beautiful panorama begins with
the yellowing of the lime-leaves, which may occur as early as 17th
August, but on the average is seen on 14th September. It is followed
towards the end of September by a brown tint, showing itself in the
leaves of the horse-chestnut. It is appropriate that these two species,
which are not indigenous, {2} should be the first to fade into glory.
But I must not insist on the point, for we see wych-elm leaves fall 24th
September, while the date for the common elm is 28th October; and the elm
is a foreigner compared to the wych-elm, and retains a mark of its alien
origin in not setting seeds.
The syringa (_Philadelphus_) is another foreigner, which early shows
autumnal tints--yellowing on 27th September. Then follow some native
trees: the beech and birch both turning yellow on 1st October, and being
followed by the maple on 7th October. I like the motherliness of the
half-grown beech, who refuses to drop her dead leaves in autumn, hoping
(as I imagine) that they will shelter her tender leaves in the chilly
springtime. The older beeches give up this anxious care, and doubtless
laugh among themselves over the fussiness of young mothers. They forget,
no doubt, that in the scrub at the feet of their own boles the habit
persists.
With regard to the fall of leaves, the sycamore begins to lose them 2nd
October; birch and cherry, 8th October; maple and walnut, 12th October;
aspen, 13th October; beech and elder, 13th October; ash, 14th October;
Lombardy poplar and Virginian creeper, 18th October; honeysuckle, 22nd
October; hazel, 26th October; elm, 28th October; whitethorn, 30th
October; plane, 3rd November. Judging by a single observation of
Blomefield, the larch is the last performer in the drama of autumn. It
turns yellow on 8th November, and its leaves fall 15th November.
Blomefield {3} records that on 29th November the trees are "everywhere
stript of leaves," so that some sort of colour-drama has been in progress
from the middle of September to the end of November. It may be objected
that what has been said of autumn is but a catalogue of names and dates.
And this is true enough; but when we realise the glory of autumnal
decadence, it seems (however baldly recounted) to be a fitting prelude to
the great outbreak of new life--green leaves and bright flowers that
spring gives us.
In Blomefield's "Calendar" the difference between December and January is
exaggerated. For, as it stands, it suggests that plants know that a new
year has begun, and all burst into flower on 1st January. But that
careful naturalist points out {4a} "all those phenomena which are
referred to 1st January, as the earliest date, may be considered as
occasionally showing themselves in December of the previous year."
The plants that bloom in winter, _i.e._ December and January, are few
enough. The Christmas rose gives us its white or pink flowers in
December, and the primrose may flower in the first days of
January--indeed, I seem to remember it in Kent before Christmas, but I
will not answer for it. According to Blomefield, the honour of being the
first plant to awake must be given to the honeysuckle (_Lonicera
caprifolium_), which unfolds its leaves between 1st January and 22nd
February, _i.e._ on 21st January on the average. This bold behaviour is
all the more to its credit since it is said by Hooker {4b} to be a
naturalised plant.
Then follow in order the flowers of furze, hazel, winter aconite
(_Eranthis_), hellebore (_H. foetidus_), daisy, and snowdrop; so that the
winter flowers make a most pleasant show, and tempt us to raise January
to the rank of the first month of springtime--but we must allow the
credit to be justly due to winter. In winter, too, we must be grateful
to the ivy of the bare hedgerows shining in the sun, its leaves
glistening like the simple jewels of a savage.
With February, we are agreed that spring comes in, but it is a springtime
that keeps something of the graveness of winter: though, when the silver
sunshine begins to be decorated with the singing of birds, we must call
it spring.
In February, too, the roads are no longer edged with dead white grass,
but show the fresh green of wayside plants--cow-weed, nettle, dock, and
cleavers.
The trees still stand naked, their leaf-buds waiting for a better season.
I like to think of wintering plants not as being asleep, but rather as
silent. They sing with all their green tongues when spring releases them
from the cupboards (which we call buds) where she has kept them safe.
The service-tree is a hardy creature, for its buds are naked and
unprotected, like Pampas Indians who are proud of sleeping uncovered, and
of seeing, as they rise, their forms outlined in the hoar-frost. I have
only recently noticed the purple tint of alder-buds; {5} and I am
reminded of the character in _Cranford_, who needs Tennyson's words
"Black as ash-buds in March" to teach him the fact. Some trees show
their flowers early. For instance, the hanging tassels of the hazel,
from which the dusty pollen can be shaken out, and the tiny red tufts
which are all the female flower has to show. The alder, too, has a brave
crowd of lambs' tails. The elm should flower about the middle of March,
and its pink stamens make a pleasant sight. These plants are called
anemophilous--that is, _wind-loving_, as though grateful to the wind for
carrying their pollen without payment. I can imagine that the plants
employing insects to carry pollen from one to another feel superior to
the wind-fertilised clan. We may fancy the duckweed (speaking of the
pine) to say: "Of course, he is very big and of an ancient family, but
for that very reason he is primitive in his habits. I know he boasts
that he employs the winds of heaven as marriage priests, but we are
served by the animal kingdom in our unions--and that, you must allow, is
something to be proud of." {6} But duckweeds grow so crowded together
that they are probably fertilised, to a great extent, by contact with
their neighbours, without aid from the animal kingdom. We may also
imagine the duckweed reproving the pine for his extravagance in the
matter of pollen production. This, however, is necessary, because the
pollen being sown broadcast by the wind, it is a matter of chance whether
or not a grain reaches the stigma of its own species, and the chance of
its doing so is clearly increased by multiplying the number of
pollen-grains produced. Enormous quantities of the precious dust are
wasted by this prodigality. We read of pollen swept from the decks of
ships, or coating with a yellow scum lakes hidden among Tyrolean
pinewoods. Pollen is so largely dispersed in the air that it has been
supposed to be a cause of hay-fever.
Blackley found, by means of a sticky plate, which could be exposed and
covered again, when raised high in the air on a kite, that pollen is
dispersed to considerable altitudes. Wherever vegetable _debris_
collects, pollen-grains may be found. Kerner found them, together with
wind-borne seeds and scales of butterflies' wings, sticking to the ice in
remote Alpine glaciers.
Another characteristic of wind-borne pollen is dryness or dustiness; the
grains are smooth, not sculptured like the pollen meant to be carried by
insects; nor are they sticky or oily, as is often the case with
entomophilous pollen. The advantage to the plan is obvious; the grains,
from the absence of the burr-like quality, or of any other kind of
adhesiveness, do not tend to hold together in clumps, but separate easily
from one another, and float all the more easily. {7}
Several adaptations are found to favour the dispersal of the pollen.
Wind-fertilised plants are generally tall; thus in Europe, at least, the
commonest representatives of the class are shrubs or trees--witness the
fir-trees, yew, juniper, oak, hazel, birch. And where the plants are
lowly--_e.g._, grasses and sedges, and the plantains--the flowers are
more or less raised up on the haulm. An exception must be made of some
water-plants--_e.g._, the Potamogetons, where the flower-stalk is but
slightly raised above the surface.
Wind-fertilised plants have many characteristics which favour the
dispersal of the pollen. The grasses have long pendent stamens, and
versatile anthers, from which the pollen is easily shaken out by the
wind. There are, of course, exceptions to these generalisations. Such
plants as Hippuris and Salicornia have no particular adaptations: the
filaments are short, and the plants themselves are not of sufficient
height to be able to scatter forth their pollen efficiently by the mere
bending of their stems. The need for exposure to the wind is shown in
another way--namely, by the habit of the Cupuliferae (oak, hazel, etc.),
of flowering before the leaves appear; this not only favours the start of
the pollen on its flight, but is probably still more useful in increasing
its chance of reaching the stigma.
If the pollen is exposed to the wind it will be liable to be wetted and
injured. Catkins--such as those of the walnut or hazel--give some
protection to the pollen, since the stamens are covered in by tile-like
scales; but where--as in the grasses and plantains--the anthers hang far
out of the flowers, the pollen is easily injured. Some of the cereals
protect themselves against injury by means of a remarkably rapid growth
of the filaments; thus the anthers remain hidden within the flowers until
the last moment, and, under the influence of a warm sunny morning,
rapidly protrude themselves. If the scales of the flower are
artificially separated, the growth can be produced by warmth and
moisture; Askenasy describes a trick of country children, who put ears of
rye in their mouths and thus produce a miraculous growth of stamens. The
growth or rapid turgescence takes place, according to the same writer, at
the pace of one millimetre in three minutes.
The explosive male flowers of the nettle have a somewhat similar meaning.
The young stamen is bent so that the upper end of the anther touches the
base of the filament. On the inner concave side of the stamen are large
cells, whose turgescence tends to unfold the filament: I do not know by
what means the unfolding is prevented, but whatever the cause may be, it
is at last overcome and the stamen uncurls with a jerk, and scatters
forth the pollen. Here, as in the rye, the pollen is protected until the
actual moment when it starts on its voyage through the air.
Another of the Nettle tribe, _Pilea serpyllifolia_--a plant often
cultivated in our greenhouses--is also explosive, and its little puffs of
smoke-like pollen have gained for it the popular name of the artillery
plant. Its power of explosion must be of value to it as counterbalancing
the disadvantage, to a wind-fertilised plant, of such a lowly habit.
The adaptations found in the female organs are chiefly such as increase
the surface capable of receiving the pollen, and therefore increase the
chance of fertilisation. A big stigmatic surface is common: not only is
the receptive part of the style large, but it usually bears very large
stigmatic papillae, which gives a velvety hoary look to this type of
stigma. In the grasses the three divisions of the stigma are always more
or less conspicuous; and reach a climax, in this respect, in the huge
beard-like tangle of the maize.
Some of the most interesting cases of wind fertilisation are those in
which an isolated instance occurs in a Natural Order otherwise served by
insects. Thus in the Rosaceae, _Poterium sanguisorba_ is wind
fertilised, and has long pendent stamens, and a tufted stigma; while the
closely allied _Sanguisorba officinalis_, although it secretes nectar
(and this can only mean that it hopes to attract insects), retains the
tufted stigma of its anemophilous relatives.
In the case of the Kerguelen cabbage (_Pringlea antiscorbutica_), the
cause of its degeneration seems to be the want of winged insects on the
wind-blown shores on which it grows. It has acquired some anemophilous
characters--_e.g._, increased stigmatic surface and exserted anthers.
Its flowers are inconspicuous like those of wind-fertilised plants in
general, and it seems in fair way to lose its petals altogether--many
flowers only retaining a single one. The entomophilous ancestry of
Pringlea is clearly shown by the occasional remnants of coloured markings
in the petals, like those which in other flowers serve as finger-posts to
visiting-insects, and are called nectar-guides.
But these are digressions--sidepaths of tempting detail which have lured
me from the straight highway. However, they have brought me back to the
main road.
In Blomefield's _Observations in Natural History_ (p. 332), he points out
that "however much the seasons may differ in different years, the
phenomena generally follow one another in the same order. And it follows
that those which occur together any one year, will occur at or nearly
[at] the same time every other." This indeed is what we might expect,
from the circumstances of any interruption in the time of their
occurrence, due to seasonal influence, necessarily affecting them all
equally. One of the examples by which he supports his view is the
parallel behaviour of the ground-ivy (_Nepeta Glechoma_) and the
box-tree, whose flowers appear simultaneously on 3rd April, as an average
date; while in a certain backward year they flowered later, but still
close together--namely, 20th April and 19th April. There is to me an
especial charm in these duets. Thus I like to imagine that the larch is
waiting to put on its new green clothes till it hears the black-cap. Or
is it that the larch rules the orchestra, and with his green baton
signals to the songster to strike into the symphony? {11}
Shakespeare is right to make the daffodil come before the swallow dares,
since according to Blomefield the average of seventeen annual
observations gives 12th March for the daffodil's flowering-day, and the
swallow does not appear till 9th April at the earliest. Browning, too,
is scientifically safe in letting his chaffinch sing now "that the lowest
boughs and the brushwood sheaf round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf."
Indeed, the most dilatory chaffinch must have been singing since 19th
February, and in fortunate seasons might have been heard on 7th January.
A floral calendar may be useful as an interpreter in antiquarian
problems. Thus Blomefield {12a} says that "the _flos-cuculi_, or
cuckoo-flower of the older botanists, was so called from its opening its
flowers about the time of the cuckoo's commencing his call." The
botanist referred to may have been Gerarde, and the flower seems to be
_Cardamine pratensis_, known as lady's smock, also as the cuckoo-flower.
Now the cuckoo begins his song (as the average of Blomefield's seventeen
years' observation near Cambridge) on 29th April, {12b} and lady's smock
blossoms 19th April. {12c} The coincidence is but moderate, but it is
cheering to find in Gilbert White's _Calendar_, with its earlier South
Country dates, that the events occur together: lady's smock, 6th to 20th
April; cuckoo, 7th to 26th April.
Wood-sorrel (_Oxalis acetosella_) was known as cuckoo-sorrel by the
Saxons. In Stillingfleet's _Calendar of Flora_ (1755), it is said to
flower on 16th April, and the cuckoo to begin his song on 17th April. It
is pleasant to find, in a Swedish calendar of flora, that the cuckoo
sings on 12th May, and the wood-sorrel flowers on 13th May. _Lychnis
flos-cuculi_, the ragged robin, flowers on 19th May, and seems to have no
kind of right to the name of a cuckoo-flower, though Gerarde remarks that
it "flowers in April and May, when the cuckoo doth begin to sing her
pleasant notes without stammering." {12d}
I remember being told by a physician that a celebrated Polish violinist
in his old age could not bear the sound of concerted music, but he would
weep over a musical score of which he said, "These beggars don't play out
of tune." This is also true of the great symphony of colour which the
springtime unfolds. The trees are double-basses, and doubtless some are
contra-fagotti, though I confess that I cannot speak positively on this
point. Then come a mass of beautiful shrub-like plants which make up the
rest of the string-band. As one who loves wind-instruments, I like to
think that the flutes, oboes, and clarinets are the flowers of my vernal
orchestra, decorating the great mass of stringed instruments with streaks
and flames of colour.
In real music, we cannot say why certain sounds make an appropriate
opening for a symphony; nor can we understand why the chorus of flowers
should (as above pointed out) be led by mezereon (_Daphne mezereum_),
followed by furze, hazel, the daisy, and the snowdrop.
Of course, their dates are not rigorously fixed: the plants just referred
to vary in their dates of flowering in the following way:
Mezereon, 11th January to 2nd February;
Furze, 1st January to 4th April;
Hazel, 1st January to 20th February;
Snowdrop, 18th January to 16th February;
the mean dates being: mezereon, 22nd January; furze, 24th January; hazel,
26th January; snowdrop, 30th January. One cause of variation in the date
of flowering is temperature, and in the early months of the year this is
probably the principal cause. Temperature must in the same way affect
the flowering of summer plants, though the result is not so striking as
in the springtime. In my article "A Procession of Flowers" (in this
volume) I have given the range of the dates of flowering for different
months.
The spring is the happiest season for those who love plants, who delight
to watch and record the advent of old friends as the great procession of
green leaves and beautiful flowers unwinds itself with a glory which no
familiarity can tarnish.
I cannot resist giving the names of some of the flowers that make this
familiar show that February and March give us. Field-speedwell
(_Veronica agrestis_), butcher's broom, _Pyrus japonica_, primrose, red
dead-nettle, crocus, dandelion, periwinkle, celandine, marsh-marigold,
sweet violet, ivy-leaved veronica, daffodil, white dead-nettle,
colt's-foot (_Tussilago farfara_), dog's mercury, buttercup (_Ranunculus
repens_), hyacinth, almond-tree, gooseberry, wood-sorrel, ground-ivy,
wall-flower. The order in which they occur is taken from the mean dates
of flowering given by Blomefield. To a lover of plants, this commonplace
list will, I hope, be what a score is to a musician, and will recall to
him some of the charm of the orchestra of living beauty that springtime
awakens.
SOME NAMES OF CHARACTERS IN FICTION {15}
To some readers the personality of the characters in fiction is
everything, and the names under which they appear of no importance. This
is doubtless a rational position, but to me, and I think to many other
novel-readers, the names which our imaginary friends and enemies bear is
a matter of the greatest interest. To us it seems unbearable to have a
Mr B. as a principal character, and the same objection applies to the
names of places--"the little town of C. near the cathedral town of D." is
too depressing. Trollope, who does not rank high as a name-artist,
entirely satisfies us with his Barchester and its Bishop Proudie and
Archdeacon Grantley. George Eliot, too, has been able in the case of
Stonyshire and Loamshire to give convincing names to counties, and never
offends in the names of her characters, though they have no especial
attractiveness.
In some cases it is hard to say whether or no a given name is
appropriate. In Jane Austen's books, for instance, we have grown up in
familiarity with the characters and we cannot associate them with others.
It would be unbearable to have Emma's lover called Mr William Larkins and
his servant George Knightley. And this is not merely the result of old
acquaintance; there is, I cannot doubt, a real dignity in one name and a
touch of comedy in the other. For this statement one can but rely on
instinct, but a real William Larkins (and I must apologise to him if he
exists) will doubtless take a different view of the matter.
But Jane Austen, like George Eliot, makes no pretence to be an artist in
nomenclature. She merely aims, I imagine, at names which, without being
colourless, are free from meaning and in every way possible.
Thackeray is the outstanding instance of a novelist who makes a fine-art
of nomenclature. With him there is an obvious delight in coining names.
Thus there would be no harm in Clive Newcome going to Windsor and
Newton's shop to buy paint brushes, but Thackeray sends him to Messrs
Soap and Isaac--a parody of that highly respectable firm which always
pleases me.
I have with some little labour made a rough index of _Vanity Fair_, and I
find in the second volume (which is probably a fair sample of the names
in the whole book) that there are 247 names. The author evidently takes
a delight in their invention. For instance, at one of Becky's great
dinner parties (vol. ii., p. 172), the eminent guests who come in after
dinner are principally cheeses {16}--Duchess (Dowager) of Stilton, Duc de
la Gruyere, Marchioness of Cheshire, Marchese Alessandro Strachino, Comte
de la Brie, Baron Schapzuger. The list also contains the name of
Chevalier Tosti, who, I take it, is toasted cheese.
The titles he gives to business firms are not always complimentary. For
instance, we have (vol. ii., p. 283) the case of poor Mr Scape, who was
ruined by entering the great Calcutta house of Fogle, {17a} Fake and
Cracksman. Both Fogle and Fake had left the firm with large fortunes,
"and Sir Horace Fogle is about to be raised to the peerage as Baron
Bandanna."
A similar type of name is the title of Becky's solicitors, Messrs Burke,
Thurtell and Hayes, {17b} who forced the Insurance Company to pay the
amount for which poor Jos Sedley's life had been insured (vol. ii., p.
391). It is interesting to find (vol. ii., p. 341) that the author
introduces himself in the person of Mr Frederick Pigeon, who "lost eight
hundred pounds to Major Loder and the Honourable Mr Deuceace." This may
remind us of Thackeray's own loss of 1500 pounds in a similar way (_Dict.
of Nat. Biog._). In some instances the author evidently could not take
the trouble to coin effective names, as for instance in his reference to
the firm of Jones, Brown and Robinson {18} (vol. ii., p. 130). A member
of this firm became 1st Baron Helverlyn, when he altered his name to
Johnes. His unfortunate daughter became the wife of Lord Gaunt. The
subsidiary titles of this nobleman are pleasant--Viscount Hellborough,
Baron Pitchley and Grillsby.
Other firms are represented as purely Jewish, _e.g._, Mr Lewis
representing Mr Davids, and Mr Moss acting for Mr Manasseh, who
complimented Becky "upon the brilliant way in which she did business"
when she was making arrangements for Rawdon's debts (vol. ii., p. 10).
There are many good names of shady people, _e.g._, Lady Crackenbury (vol.
ii., p. 140), whom Becky cut, and Mrs Washington White, to whom she "gave
the go-by in the Ring"; Mrs Chippenham (p. 160) and Mme de la
Cruchecassee are of the same type. There is also Lady Slingstone, who
said that Lord Steyne was "really too bad," but she went to his party.
Among the virtuous folks, I am particularly fond of Sir Lapin Warren
(vol. i., p. 207), whose lady was about to present him with a thirteenth
child. A variant occurs in vol. ii., p. 286, where we read of "thirteen
sisters, daughters of a country curate, the Rev. Felix Rabbits."
One might quote names for ever, but I must be satisfied with but a few
more.
Among the professionally religious folks we have Rev. Lawrence Grills.
Among the fashionables Lady FitzWillis of the Kingstreet family;
Major-General and Lady Grizzel Macbeth (she had been Lady G. Glowry,
daughter of Lord Grey of Glowry {19}); and Mrs Hook Eagles, who
patronised Becky.
Names that seem to me bad are Fitzoof, Lord Heehaw's son, Mrs Mantrap,
and Lord Claude Lollypop. But there are innumerable other good ones:
Macmurdo, who was to have been Rawdon's second in a duel with Lord
Steyne; Captain Papillon of the Guards, attending the young wife of old
Methuselah (a bad name); young May and his bride, "Mrs Winter that was,
and who had been at school with May's grandmother."
Viscount Paddington was a guest at Becky's "select party" in May Fair.
Finally, the Earl of Portansherry and the Prince of the house of
Potztausand-Donnerwetter are good although obvious.
In _Pendennis_ are many good names. Major Pendennis was proud of having
made up the quarrel between Lady Clapperton and her daughter Lady
Claudia. Lady John Turnbull, who spoke such bad French. Mr Kewsy, the
barrister. Mr Sibwright, the luxurious young man in whose vacant chamber
Laura Bell slept during Pendennis' illness. The best of all names must
be given in Morgan's own words, "Lord de la Pole, sir, gave him [a valet]
to his nephew young Lord Cubley, and he have been with him on his foring
tour, and not wishing to go to Fitzurse Castle, etc., etc."
I must reluctantly leave Thackeray and consider a very different maker of
names, namely Dickens. It is sometimes said that his names are not
invented but discovered by research. In my son Bernard's _A Dickens
Pilgrimage_ (_Times_ Series, 1914), he writes, p. 22: "Other people have
been before us in seeing that Mr Jasper keeps a shop in the High Street
of Rochester," and that "Dorretts and Pordages are buried under the
shadow of the cathedral." He claims as his own the discovery that in the
churchyard of Chalk (near Rochester) there are "three tombstones standing
almost next door to one another and bearing a trinity of immortal names,
Twist, Flight, and Guppy." He adds that "the lady in _Bleak House_ spelt
her name Flite." I fail to believe that anybody was ever called
Pumblechook, and there are others equally impossible. But the great name
of Pickwick is not an invention. Mr Percy Fitzgerald {20} gives plenty
of evidence on this point, in a discussion suggested by the sacred name
being inscribed on the Bath coach, to Sam Weller's indignation. There
was, for instance, a Mr William Pickwick of Bath, who died in 1795.
Again, in 1807, the driver of "Mr Pickwick's coach . . . was taken
suddenly and very alarmingly ill on Slanderwick Common." One member of
the family "entered the army, and for some reason changed his name to
Sainsbury." The object, as Mr Fitzgerald points out, is obvious enough.
Mr Fitzgerald mentions (p. 16) the curious fact that Mr Dickens (the son
of the author) once had to announce that he meant to call Mr Pickwick as
a witness in a case he was conducting. The Judge made the characteristic
remark, "Pickwick is a very appropriate character to be called by
Dickens."
With regard to the name Winkle, I cannot agree with Mr Fitzgerald {21}
that Dickens took it from Washington Irving's _Rip Van Winkle_.
Among the few names taken from real people is that of Mr Justice
Stareleigh, who is generally believed to be Mr Justice Gaselee.
Sergeant Buzfuz in the same trial is believed on the authority of Mr
Bompas to be Serjeant Bompas, the father of that eminent Q.C., but there
seems to be no evidence that it is a portrait. In _Pickwick_ some of the
best names are those of various business firms, _e.g._, Bilson and Slum,
who were Tom Smart's employers. In the Judge's chambers (which "are said
to be of specially dirty appearance") was a crowd of unfortunate clerks
"waiting to attend summonses their employers had taken out, which it was
optional to the attorney on the opposite side to attend or not, and whose
business it was from time to time to cry out the opposite attorney's
name. For example, leaning against the wall . . . was an office lad of
fourteen with a tenor voice; near him a common law clerk with a bass one.
A clerk hurried in with a bundle of papers and stared about him.
"'Sniggle and Blink,' cried the tenor.
"'Porkin and Snob,' growled the bass.
"'Stumpy and Deacon,' said the newcomer."
These are fairly good names, though they have not the touch of Thackeray.
I like the names of the chief heroes in the cricket match at Dingley
Dell. Dumpkins and Podder went in first for All-Muggleton, the bowlers
on the other side being Struggles and Luffey. These names are so
familiar that it is hard to judge them, but on the whole they seem to me
fairly good, as being slightly comic and not impossible. But when we
come to Horatio Fizkin, Esq., of Fizkin Lodge, and Hon. Samuel Slumkey,
of Slumkey Hall, we are indeed depressed. But there are worse names in
_Pickwick_. When Mrs Nupkins and her daughter have discovered Captain
Fitz-Marshall to be a scamp: "How can we ever show ourselves in society?"
said Miss Nupkins.
"'How can we face the Porkenhams?' cried Mrs Nupkins.
"'Or the Griggs?' cried Miss Nupkins.
"'Or the Slummintowkens?' cried Mrs Nupkins."
This last seems to me about as bad a name as any writer ever invented.
But Nockemorf, the name of Bob Sawyer's predecessor in the apothecary
business, is almost equally tiresome in a different style.
Why he chose such names it is hard to say, since he certainly could
invent improbable names which are nevertheless appropriate. For
instance, Smangle and Mivins are quite good names for the offensive
scamps on whom Mr Pickwick is "chummed" in the Fleet Prison.
Daniel Grummer, the name of Mr Nupkins' tipstaff, is roughly of the same
type, and Wilkins Flasher, as an objectionable stockbroker is called, is
quite a passable name. The only name in _Pickwick_ which is comparable
to those of Thackeray is Mrs Leo Hunter, while Count Smorltork, who
occurs in the same scene, is unbearable. On the other hand, Captain
Boldwig is quite a good name.
I now pass to Sir Walter Scott. It must be confessed that in the two
books chosen for analysis--_Guy Mannering_ and _The Antiquary_--he is
disappointing as an artist in nomenclature. To begin with _Guy
Mannering_, it is impossible to imagine why he gave such a name as Meg
Merrilies to his magnificent heroine. It suggests "merry lies," and
makes us suspect that she was originally intended for a comic character.
{23} And why, as she grew into a tragedy queen, he did not rename her I
cannot understand. Fortunately he gave the colourless name Abel Sampson
to another great character--the immortal Dominie. Again Dirk Hatteraick
is a passable name. I cannot pretend to say whether it is a Dutch name,
but as Dirk uses German (of a sort) when not speaking English, we may
leave the question open. Among the names which are clearly bad are: Sir
Thomas Kittlecourt, John Featherhead, Sloethorn (a wine merchant),
Mortcloke the undertaker, Quid the tobacconist, Protocol the lawyer, and
lastly the MacDingawaies, a Highland sept or clan.
The following seem to be bearable or fairly good, but I must confess to a
want of instinct as to Scotch names: MacGuffog, a constable, Macbriar,
Dandy Dinmont (although a _dinmont_ is the Scottish for "a wedder in the
second year"), MacCandlish. On the whole, as far as _Guy Mannering_ is
concerned, the author gets but few good marks and many bad ones.
The same is, I fear, true of _The Antiquary_. We find such bad names as
Rev. Mr Blattergowl of Trotcosey (vol. i., p. 208); Baron von
Blunderhaus; Dibble the gardener; Dousterswivel, the German or Dutch
swindler; the Earl of Glengibber; Goldiword, a moneylender; Dr
Heavysterne, from the Low Countries; Mr Mailsetter of the Post Office;
Sandie Netherstanes the miller; Jonathan Oldbuck, the hero of the book;
Sir Peter Pepperbrand of Glenstirym. Of the name Strathtudlem I cannot
judge; it does not strike me as good, though possibly better than the
immortal Tillietudlem of _Old Mortality_.
There are, of course, a number of names which do not offend, but there
are few which are actually attractive. Among the last-named class are
Edie Ochiltree, Francis of Fowlsheugh, Elspeth of Craigburnfoot, Lady
Glenallan, Francie Macraw, Ailison Breck, but among these Edie Ochiltree
is the only name which is undoubtedly in Class I.
It is disappointing to a lover of Sir Walter Scott to be obliged to show
that as an artist in names he ranks low. But his sense of humour
occasionally fails in other matters. I remember being reproved (when a
young man at Cambridge) for saying that Scott showed a want of humour in
Jeanie Deans' letter to her father, in which she tells him that Effie has
been pardoned. The author introduces in brackets: "Here follow some
observations respecting the breed of cattle, and the produce of the dairy
which it is our intention to forward to the Board of Agriculture." I
still think I was right, and that the eminent person who snubbed me was
wrong.
Among the works of more modern writers I have analysed one of
Trollope's--the _Small House at Allington_. The names on the whole are
harmless and normal, such as Christopher Dale of Allington; Adolphus
Crosbie, the bad hero; Montgomerie Dobbs, his friend; Fothergill,
factotum to the Duke of Omnium, and many others. Some names are only
saved by our familiarity with them, _e.g._, Lady Dumbello or the
above-mentioned Duke of Omnium. {25} Among the fanciful names Mr
Fanfaron and Major Fiasco are in the bad rather than in the good class,
though if they had more appropriateness they might be passed.
The positively bad names are numerous enough--the Marquis of Auldreekie;
Basil and Pigskin, who keep a leather warehouse; Sir Raffle Buffle;
Chumpend, a butcher; Lady Clandidlem; the Rev. John Joseph Jones is
damned because he, an obvious Welshman, is described as of Jesus College
at Cambridge instead of Oxford. Kissing and Love, two clerks in Johnny
Eames' office, might have been passed had not the author gone out of his
way to refer to the lamentable jokes made in the office about them. Mr
Optimist is an incredibly bad name, and the same may be said of Sir
Constant Outonites. The physician, Sir Omicron Pi, {26} may have a
meaning of which I am ignorant. I think Thackeray would have spelled it
Sir O'Micron Pye, which would have given a touch of reality.
There is one class of books which I have not noticed, namely, those in
which all or nearly all the characters have names with an obvious
meaning. The great instance of this type is Bunyan's _Pilgrim's
Progress_, in which occur well-known names such as Mr Worldly Wiseman,
Faithful, Mr Facing-both-Ways, Lord Desire-of-Vain-Glory, etc. There are
two exceptions in _The Pilgrim's Progress_, namely Demas, which is taken
from 2 Timothy iv. 10, and Mnason (Acts xxi. 16).
An author of this type, with whom Bunyan would have objected to be
classed, is Sheridan. In _The Rivals_ we have the immortal names of Sir
Anthony Absolute, Sir Lucius O'Trigger, Mrs Malaprop, and Lydia Languish.
Bob Acres has not so obvious a meaning, but is clearly meant to imply
rusticity. The chief exception is Faulkland, and there are also David,
Julia, and Lucy.
In _St Patrick's Day_ we have Dr Rosy, Justice Credulous, Sergeant
Trounce, Corporal Flint. The hero, Lieutenant O'Connor, is the principal
exception.
Finally, in _The School for Scandal_, we have Sir Peter Teazle (which
suggests a prickly irritable nature), as well as names with a more
obvious meaning, _e.g._, Joseph Surface, Sir Benjamin Backbite, Snake,
Careless, Sir Harry Bumper, Lady Sneerwell, and Mrs Candour.
The other characters have names without meanings, _e.g._, Rowley, Moses,
Trip, and Maria. The fact that the very different characters, Charles
and Joseph Surface, necessarily bear the same surname shows how difficult
it is to carry out a system such as that on which Sheridan's nomenclature
is based.
THOMAS HEARNE, 1678-1735
To the everyday reader Thomas Hearne, if at all, is chiefly known by the
Diary which he kept for thirty years, viz., from 1705 when he was
twenty-seven years of age, until his death. This, in 145 volumes, is
preserved in the Bodleian Library, and is, I believe, in course of
publication. What I have to say is founded on Bliss's _Reliquiae
Hearnianae_, {29a} which consists of extracts from the above-mentioned
diary. Mr Bliss naturally selected passages referring to well-known
books or persons of note; but he was wise enough to include what a
pompous editor would have omitted as trifling. It is these which are
especially valuable to one who tries to give a picture of Hearne's simple
and lovable character.
The following account of Thomas Hearne, written by himself, is from the
Appendix to vol. i. of _The Lives of John Leland_, _Thomas Hearne_, _and
Anthony a Wood_, 1772. {29b}
Thomas was the son of George Hearne, Parish Clerk of White Waltham,
Berks. He was born at Littlefield Green "within the said parish of White
Waltham." Thomas, "being naturally inclined to Learning, he soon became
Master of the English Tongue." {30a}
Even when a boy Hearne was "much talked of," and this "occasioned that
Learned Gentleman, Francis Cherry, {30b} Esq., to put him to the Free
School of Bray {30c} in Berks on purpose to learn the Latin Tongue, which
his Father was not entirely Master of; this was about the beginning of
the year 1693." "Not only the Master himself, but all the other Boys had
a very particular Respect for him, and could not but admire and applaud
his Industry and Application.
"Mr Cherry being fully satisfied of the great and surprising Progress he
had made, by the advice of that good and learned Man Mr Dodwell (who then
lived at Shottesbrooke), he resolved to take him into his own House,
which accordingly he did about Easter in 1795 {31} and provided for him
as if he had been his own Son."
In the Easter Term 1696 he began life at Oxford as a Batteler of Edmund
Hall, where he was soon employed by the Principal in the "learned Works
in which he was engaged."
"As soon as ever Mr Hearne had taken the Degree of Batchelor of Arts [in
Act Term 1699] he constantly went to the Bodleian Library every day, and
studied there as long as the time allowed by the Statutes would admit."
This led to his being appointed Assistant Keeper of the Bodleian.
"Being settled in this employment, it is incredible what Pains he took in
regulating the Library, in order to which he examined all the printed
Books in it, comparing every Volume with Catalogue set out many years
before by Dr Hyde." It seems that this was very imperfect, and Hearne
supplied a new catalogue. He afterwards dealt with the MSS. and the
collection of coins.
In 1703 he took his M.A., and was offered Chaplaincies at two Colleges,
but was not allowed to accept either of them. In 1712 he became "Second
Keeper" of the Library. This position he accepted on condition that he
might still be Janitor without the salary attaching to that position. He
desired to retain the office because it gave him access to the Library at
all hours. In 1713 he declined the Librarianship of the Royal Society.
In January 1714/15 his troubles began with his election as
"Architypographus and Superior or Esque Beadle in Civil Law." But after
he had been elected, the Vice-Chancellor appointed, as Architypographus,
a common printer, and Hearne resigned the Beadleship, but "continued to
execute the office of librarian as long as he could obtain access to the
library; but on 23rd January 1716, the last day fixed by the new Act for
taking the oaths to the Hanoverian Dynasty, he was actually prevented
from entering the library, and soon after formally deprived of his office
on the ground of 'neglect of duty'" (_Dict. Nat. Biog._).
It is not necessary to follow in detail the ill-usage he received. He
was afterwards treated with more consideration. Thus in 1720 it appears
that he might have had the Camden Professorship of History, but again the
oaths stood in his way. He also declined the living of Bletchley in
Buckinghamshire. In 1729 he refused to be a candidate for the place of
Chief Keeper of the Bodleian Library. In his own words "he retired to
Edmund-Hall, and lived there very privately . . . furnishing himself with
Books, partly from his Study, and partly by the help of friends."
It is evident that his literary work was well remunerated, because a "sum
of money amounting to upwards of one thousand Pounds was found in his
Room after his decease." This statement, together with the date of his
death (10th June 1735), are clearly part of the design to conceal the
authorship of the biography.
In the following pages I have chosen what seem to me to be interesting
extracts from Hearne's Diary, which begins 4th July 1705, and concludes
1st June 1735. I shall give what especially illustrates the conditions
of life at Oxford from the beginning of the eighteenth century until the
date of the author's death.
There was plenty of barbarism remaining in Oxford life, for instance, 4th
September 1705:--
"The Book called _The Memorial_ was burnt last Saturday at the Sessions
house, by the hands of the common hang-man, and this week the same will
be done at the Royal Exchange and Palace-Yard, Westminster." In the same
month, however, we find pleasanter record, _e.g._, the first mention of
one who (though I think they never met) became his most valued
correspondent.
"Last night I was with Mr Wotton (who writ the _Essay on Ancient and
Modern Learning_) at the tavern. . . . Mr Wotton told me Mr Baker of St
John's College, Cambridge, had writ the history and antiquities of that
college; and that he is in every way qualified (being a very industrious
and judicious man) to write the hist. and antiq. of that university."
Thomas Baker, b. 1656, d. 1740, was a Fellow of St John's College,
Cambridge, but on the accession of George I. he would not take the oath
of allegiance and lost his Fellowship. The College, however, treated him
with consideration and he was allowed to remain as a _commoner-master_
until his death. He worked indefatigably, and gained the deserved
"reputation of being inferior to no living English scholar in his minute
and extended acquaintance with the antiquities of our national history"
(_Dict. Nat. Biog._).
There is often a pleasant irrelevance in Hearne's Diary. For instance:--
18_th Oct._ 1705.--"Mr Lesley was in the public library this afternoon,
with some Irish ladies. He goes under the name of _Smith_."
I like the following outburst on the value of books:--
2_nd Nov._ 1705.--"Narcissus March, Archbishop of Armagh, gave 2500 libs
for Bishop Stillingfleet's library which, like that of Dr Isaac Vossius,
was suffered to go out of the nation to the eternal scandal and reproach
of it. The said archbishop has built a noble repository for them."
6_th Nov._ 1705.--"Mr Pullen, of Magd. hall, last night told me that
there was once a very remarkable stone in Magd. hall library, which was
afterwards lent to Dr Plot, who never returned it, replying, when he was
asked for it, that _'twas a rule amongst antiquaries to receive_, _and
never restore_."
This was the more reprehensible in Dr Plot (1640-1696) inasmuch as he had
been bred at Magdalen Hall. He was the author of _A Natural History of
Oxfordshire_, and also of Staffordshire. The latter is apparently the
better of the two, but it does not speak well for his sources of
information that it should have been "a boast among the Staffordshire
squires, to whom he addressed his enquiries, how readily they had
'humbugged old Plot.'" He was appointed Secretary to the Royal Society
in 1682. He was also the first custos of Ashmole's Museum, which could
not have been an easy office since "twelve cartloads of Trades cant's
rarities" arrived in Oxford to form its nucleus. (_Dict. Nat. Biog._).
18_th Nov._ 1705.--"When sir Godfrey Kneller (as Dr Hudson informs me)
came to Oxon, by Mr Pepys's order, to draw Dr Wallis's picture, he, at
dinner with Dr Wallis, was pleased to say, upon the Dr's questioning the
_legitimacy of the prince of Wales_, that he did not in the least doubt
but he was the son of King James and queen Mary; and to evince this he
added, that upon the sight of the picture of the prince of Wales, sent
from Paris into England, he was fully satisfied of what others seemed to
doubt so much. For, as he further said, he had manifest lines and
features of both in their faces, which he knew very well, having drawn
them both several times."
18_th Nov._ 1705.--"After Mr Walker was turned out of University coll.
for being a papist, he lived obscurely in London, his chief maintenance
being from the contributions of some of his old friends and acquaintance;
amongst whom was Dr Radcliff, who (out of a grateful remembrance of
favours received from him in the college) sent him once a year a new suit
of cloaths, with ten broad pieces, and a dozen bottles of the richest
Canary to support his drooping spirits. This, Dr Hudson (from whom I
received this story) was informed by Dr Radcliff himself."
9_th Dec._ 1705, p. 78.--"To show that the Dutchess of Marlborough
(commonly called _Queen Zarah_) has the ascendant over the queen. . . .
When prince George (who is lookt upon as a man of little spirit and
understanding) sollicited the queen, his wife, for a place for some
friend of his, Zarah, who happened to be by at that time, cryed out,
_Christ_! _madam_! _I am promised it before_!"
30_th Jan._ 1705-6.--"Mr Thwaits tells me that the dean of Christ Church
(Mr Aldrich) formerly drew up an epitome of heraldry for the use of some
young gentlemen under his care. . . . He says 'twas done very well, and
the best in its nature ever made."
26_th April_ 1705-6.--"Mr Grabe created D.D.; Dr Smalrich presented him
with a cap, and after that with a ring, signifying that the universitys
of Oxford and Francfurt were now joyned together, and become two sisters;
and that they might be the more firmly united together, as well in
learning as religion, he kissed Mr Grabe."
This is of interest as showing that the custom of giving rings at the
conferring of honorary degrees existed in England, as it does to this day
at Upsala.
The following extract illustrates what we should now consider great
license in the matter of smoking:
"When the bill for security of the church of England was read . . . Dr
Bull sate in the lobby of the house of lords all the while, smoking his
pipe."
31_st March_ 1708-9.--"We hear from Yeovill in Somersetshire by very good
hands of a woman covered with snow for at least a week. When found she
told them that she had layn very warm, and had slept most part of the
time."
A well-known case of the same sort is described in Gunning's
_Reminiscences_ (1854).
22_nd April_ 1711.--"There is a daily paper comes out called _The
Spectator_, written, as is supposed, by the same hand that writ the
_Tatler_, viz. Captain Steel. In one of the last of these papers is a
letter written from Oxon, at four o'clock in the morning, and subscribed
_Abraham Froth_. It ridicules our hebdomadal meetings. The _Abraham
Froth_ is designed for _Dr Arthur Charlett_, an empty, frothy man, and
indeed the letter personates him incomparably well, being written, as he
uses to do, upon great variety of things, and yet about nothing of
moment. Queen's people are angry at it, and the common-room say there,
'tis silly, dull stuff; and they are seconded by some that have been of
the same college. But men that are indifferent commend it highly, as it
deserves."
17_th Nov._ 1712.--"On Thursday last (13th Nov.), duke Hamilton and the
Lord Mohun being before Mr Oillabar, one of the masters of Chancery,
about some suit depending between them, and some words arising, a
challenge was made between these two noble men, and the duell was fought
on Saturday (15th Nov.) in the Park. My lord Mohun was killed on the
spot, and the duke so wounded that he died before he got home. This lord
Mohun should have been hanged some years agoe for murder, which he had
committed divers times."
24_th Nov._--. . . "The duke having given Mohun his mortal wound, and
taking him up in his arms, as soon as Makartney saw it, he and col.
Hamilton fell to it; but Hamilton, though he was wounded by Makartney in
the leg, disarmed Makartney, and threw his sword from him, and
immediately went to Mohun to endeavour also to recover him. Mean time
Makartney (who is a bloudy, ill man) runs and takes up his sword, comes
to the duke, and gives him his mortal wound, of which the duke dyed
before he could get home."
It is of some interest to compare the above with Thackeray's account of
the duel in _Esmond_, book iii., chap. v.--
"'Twas but three days after the 15th November 1712 (Esmond minds him well
of the date), that he went by invitation to dine with his General
(Webb)." At the end of the feast Swift rushes to say that Duke Hamilton
had been killed in a duel. "They fought in Hyde Park just before
sunset."
When I read the story in _Esmond_ I was naturally struck by Thackeray's
making the duel occur three days after 15th November instead of on that
day. I applied to my friend Dr Henry Jackson, who pointed out that the
apparent error arises from the absence of a comma. The above passage
should run:--
"It was about three days after, the 15th of November 1712 (Esmond minds
him well of the date), that he went, etc." This makes Thackeray's
account agree with Hearne's. Dr Jackson has pointed out to me that the
duel was fought at 7 A.M., not just before sunset as Swift is made to
declare. The evidence is in Swift's Journal to Mrs Dingley, of which
extract Charles John Smith gave a facsimile in his _Historical and
Literary Curiosities_, 1840:--
"Before this comes to your Hands, you will have heard of the most
terrible Accident that hath almost ever happened. This morning at 8,
my men brought me word that D. Hamilton had fought with Ld. Mohun and
killed him and was brought home wounded. I immediately sent him to
the Duke's house in St James's Square, but the porter could hardly
answer for tears and a great Rabble was about the House. In short
they fought at 7 this morning the Dog Mohun was killed on the spot,
and wile (_sic_) the Duke was over him Mohun shortening his sword
stabbed him in at the shoulder to the heart the Duke was helpt
towards the lake house by the Ring in the park (where they fought),
{39} and dyed in the Grass before he could reach the House and was
brought home in his Coach by 8, while the poor Dutchess was asleep. .
. . I am told that a footman of Ld. Mohun's stabbd D. Hamilton; and
some say Mackartney did so too. Mohun gave the affront and yet sent
the Challenge. I am infinitly concerned for the poor Duke who was a
frank honest good natured man, I loved him very well and I think he
loved me better.
JONAT. SWIFT.
"LONDON, 15_th Nov._ 1712."
I insert the following extract as it records what was of great importance
to Hearne personally, since he refused to recognise George I. as the
legitimate monarch.
3_rd Aug._ 1714.--"On Sunday morning (Aug. 1st) died queen Anne, about 7
o'clock. She had been taken ill on Friday immediately before. Her
distemper an apoplexy, or, as some say, only convulsions. She was
somewhat recovered, and then made Shrewsbury lord treasurer. On Sunday
last, in the afternoon, George Lewis, elector of Brunswick, was
proclaimed in London King of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, by
virtue of an act of parliament, by which those that are much nearer to
the crown by bloud are excluded."
The following extract illustrates the feeling in Oxford under the first
Hanoverian sovereign. Very few, however, showed Hearne's consistent and
courageous Jacobinism:--
29_th May_ 1715.--"Last night a good part of the presbyterian
meeting-house in Oxford was pulled down. There was such a concourse of
people going up and down, and putting a stop to the least sign of
rejoycing, as cannot be described. But then the rejoycing this day
(notwithstanding Sunday) was so very great and publick in Oxford, as hath
not been known hardly since the restauration. There was not an house
next the street but was illuminated. For if any disrespect was shown,
the windows were certainly broke. The people run up and down, crying
_King James the third_! _The true King_! _No usurper_! _The duke of
Ormond_! and healths were everywhere drank suitable to the occasion, and
every one at the same time drank to a new restauration, which I heartily
wish may speedily happen."
I give the following extract as a record of the dinner hour in Oxford in
1717:--
24_th April_ 1717.--"On Sunday morning last (being Easter-day) Dr
Charlett, master of University college, sent his man to invite me to
dinner that day. I sent him word that I was engaged, as indeed I was.
Yesterday he sent again. I sent word I would wait upon him. Accordingly
I went at twelve o'clock. When I came I found nobody with him but Mr
Collins, of Magdalen coll., whom he had also invited." {41}
Here is an interesting scrap of history:--
19_th April_ 1718.--". . . King William the Conqueror's beard alwayes
shaven, for so was the custome of the Norman. Thus were the Englishmen
forced to imitate the Normans in habit of apparell, shaving off their
beards, service at the table, and in all other outward gestures. The
English before did not use to shave their upper lips."
11_th Nov._ 1720.--"Dr Wynne. . . . This worthy doctor was the man also
that put a stop to the selling of fellowships in All Soul's college, as I
have often heard him say; and I have as often heard him likewise say,
that he always voted for the poorest candidaters for fellowships in that
college, provided they were equally qualified in other respects; a thing
not practised now."
Here is a pleasant inversion of the relation between boy and
schoolmaster:--
21_st Jan._ 1718-19.--"I remember that I heard formerly Tom Rogers, who
was yeoman beadle, say, that when he was that year, when the plague
raged, a school-boy at Eaton, all the boys of that school were obliged to
smoak in the school every morning, and that he was never whipped so much
in his life as he was one morning for not smoaking."
27_th Feb._ 1722-23.--"It hath been an old custom in Oxford for the
scholars of all houses, on Shrove Tuesday, to go to dinner at ten o'clock
(at which time the little bell, called _pan-cake bell_, rings, or at
least should ring, at St Maries), and at four in the afternoon; and it
was always followed in Edmund hall, as long as I have been in Oxford,
till yesterday, when they went to dinner at twelve, and to supper at six,
nor were there any fritters at dinner, as there used always to be. When
laudable old customs alter, 'tis a sign learning dwindles."
I hope that modern Oxford has returned to pancakes on Shrove Tuesday.
There is a pleasant touch of mediaevalness in the following:--
10_th July_ 1723.--"There are two fairs a year at Wantage, in Berks, the
first on 7th July, being the translation of St Thomas a Becket, and the
second on the 6th of October, being St Faith's day. But this year, the
7th of July being a Sunday, the fair was kept last Monday, and 'twas a
very great one; and yesterday it was held too, when there was a very
great match of backsword or cudgell playing between the hill-country and
the vale-country, Berkshire men being famous for this sport or
excercise."
The following account makes one inclined to sympathise with Hearne's
avoidance of travelling:--
21_st Sept._ 1723.--"They wrote from Dover, Sept. 14, that the day
before, col. Churchill, with two other gentlemen, arrived there from
Calais, by whom they received the following account, viz., that on
Thursday morning last, Mr Seebright and Mr Davis being in one chair, and
Mr Mompesson and a servant in another chaise, with one servant on
horseback, pursuing their way to Paris, were, about seven miles from
Calais, attacked by six ruffians, who demanded the three hundred guineas
which they said were in their pockets and portmanteaus. The gentlemen
readily submitted, and surrendered the money; yet the villains, after a
little consultation, resolved to murder them, and thereupon shot Mr
Seebright thro' the heart, and gave the word for killing the rest: then
Mr Davis, who was in the chaise with him, shot at one of them, missed the
fellow, but killed his horse; upon which he was immediately killed, being
shot and stabb'd in several places. Mr Mompesson and the two servants
were likewise soon dispatched in a very barbarous manner. During this
bloudy scene, Mr John Locke coming down a hill within sight of them, in
his return from Paris, the ruffians sent two of their party to meet and
kill him; which they did before the poor gentleman was apprized of any
danger; but his man, who was a Swiss, begging hard for his life, was
spared. This happening near a small village where they had taken their
second post, a peasant came by in the interim, and was also murdered.
They partly flead, and otherwise mangled, the horse that was killed, to
prevent its being known; so that 'tis believed they did not live far from
Calais. The unfortunate gentlemen afore mentioned, not being used to
travel, had unwarily discovered at Calais what sums they had about them,
by exchanging their guineas for Louis d'ors, which is supposed to have
given occasion to this dismal tragedy."
27_th July_ 1726.--"This is the day kept in honour of the Seven Sleepers,
so called, because in the reign of Theodosius the second, about the year
449, when the resurrection (as we have it from Greg. Turon.) came to be
doubted by many, seven persons, who had been buried alive in a cave at
Ephesus by Decius the emperor, in the time of his persecution against the
Christians, and had slept for about 200 years, awoke and testified the
truth of this doctrine, to the great amazement of all."
In the following passage Hearne shows (as in some other instances) a
certain antagonism to Sir Isaac Newton. I hope, however, that he was
impressed by what he quotes from the _Reading Post_, viz. that "six noble
peers supported the pall" at the funeral.
"Sir Isaac Newton had promised to be a benefactor to the Royal society,
but failed. Some time before he died, a great quarrel happened between
him and Dr Halley, so as they fell to bad language. This, 'tis thought,
so much discomposed Sir Isaac as to hasten his end. Sir Isaac died in
great pain, though he was not sick, which pain proceeded from some inward
decay, as appeared from opening him. He is buried in Westminster Abbey.
Sir Isaac was a man of no promising aspect. He was a short well-set man.
He was full of thought, and spoke very little in company, so that his
conversation was not agreeable. When he rode in his coach, one arm would
be out of the coach on one side, and the other on the other."
25_th April_ 1727.--"Mr West tells me, in a letter from London of the
22nd inst., that being lately in Cambridgeshire, he spent two days in
that university, both which times he had the pleasure of seeing my friend
Mr Baker, who was pleased to walk with him, and shew him his college, the
library, etc. What hath been given to the library by Mr Baker himself,
is no small addition to it; Mr Baker being turned out of his fellowship
for his honesty and integrity (as I have also lost my places for the same
reason, in not taking the wicked oaths), writes himself in all his books
_socius ejectus_. His goodness and humanity are as charming, to those
who have the happiness of his conversation, as his learning is profitable
to his correspondents. The university library is not yet put into any
order."
25_th June_ 1728.--"The Cambridge men are much wanting to themselves, in
not retrieving the remains of their worthies. Mr Baker is the only man I
know of there, that hath of late acted in all respects worthily on that
head, and for it he deserves a statue."
3_rd Aug._ 1728.--"Yesterday Mr Gilman of St Peter's parish in the east,
Oxford (a lusty, heartick, {46a} thick, and short man), told me, that he
is in his 85th year of age, and that at the restoration of K. Charles
II., being much afflicted with the king's evil, he rode up to London
behind his father, was touched on a Wednesday morning by the king, was in
very good condition by that night, and by the Sunday night immediately
following was perfectly recovered and hath so continued ever since. He
hath constantly wore the piece of gold about his neck that he received of
the king, and he had it on yesterday when I met him."
I hope that Oxford, which had treated poor Hearne so ill, was impressed
by the facts recorded on 10th June 1730:--
"On Thursday, June 4th, the earl of Oxford (Edw. Harley) was at my room
at Edm. hall from ten o'clock in the morning till a little after twelve
o'clock, together with Dr Conyers Middleton, of Trin. coll. Camb., and my
lord's nephew, the hon. Mr May of Christ Church, and Mr Murray of Christ
Church."
7_th Aug._ 1732.--"My friend the honble. Benedict Leonard Calvert {46b}
died on 1st June 1732 (old stile) of a consumption, in the _Charles_,
Capt. Watts commander, and was buried in the sea. When he left England
he seemed to think that he was becoming an exile, and that he should
never see his native country more; and yet neither myself nor any else
could disswade him from going. He was as well beloved as an angel could
be in his station; (he being governour of Maryland); for our plantations
have a natural aversion to their governours, upon account of their too
usual exactions, pillages, and plunderings; but Mr Calvert was free from
all such, and therefore there was no need of constraint on that score:
but then it was argument enough to be harrassed that he was their
governour, and not only such, but brother to Ld. Baltimore, the lord
proprietor of Maryland, a thing which himself declared to his friends,
who were likewise too sensible of it. And the same may appear also from
a speech or two of his on occasion of some distraction, which tho' in
print I never yet saw. I had a sincere respect for him, and he and I
used to spend much time together in searching after curiosities, etc., so
that he hath often said that 'twas the most pleasant part of his life, as
other young gentlemen, likewise then in Oxford have also as often said,
that the many agreeable hours we used to spend together on the same
occasion were the most entertaining and most pleasant part of their
lives. As Mr Calvert and the rest of those young gentlemen (several of
which, as well as Mr Calvert, were of noble birth) used to walk and
divert themselves with me in the country, much notice was taken thereof,
and many envyed our happiness."
5_th July_ 1733.--"One Handel, a foreigner (who, they say, was born at
Hanover), being desired to come to Oxford, to perform in musick this Act,
in which he hath great skill, is come down, the Vice-Chancellor (Dr
Holmes) having requested him so to do, and, as an encouragement, to allow
him the benefit of the Theater, both before the Act begins and after it.
Accordingly he hath published papers for a performance to-day, at 5s. a
ticket. This performance began a little after five o'clock in the
evening. This is an inovation. The players might be as well permitted
to come and act. The Vice-Chancellor is much blamed for it."
16_th Sept._ 1733.--"Mr Sacheverel, who died a few years since, of
Denman's Farm (in Berks) near Oxford, was looked upon as the best judge
of bells in England. He used to say, that Horsepath bells near Oxford,
tho' but five in number, and very small, were the prettiest, tunablest
bells in England, and that there was not a fault in one, except the 3d,
and that so small a fault, as it was not to be discerned but by a very
good judge."
3_rd Oct._ 1733.--"I hear of iron bedsteads in London. Dr Massey told me
of them on Saturday, 29th Sept. 1733. He said they were used on account
of the buggs, which have, since the great fire, been very troublesome in
London."
17_th Jan._ 1733-34.--"Mr Baker of Cambridge (who is a very good, as well
as a very learned man, and is my great friend, though I am unknown in
person to him) tells me in his letter of the 16th of last December, that
he hath always thought it a happiness to dye in time, and says of
himself, that he is really affraid of living too long. He is above
seventy, as he told me some time since."
10_th March_ 1733-34.-- . . . "On the 7th inst. Ld. Oxford sent me the
chronicle of _John Bever_. He lends it me at my request, and says he
will lend me any book he hath, and wonders I will not go to London and
see my friends; and see what MSS. and papers are there, and in other
libraries, that are worth printing. I could give several reasons for my
not going either to London or other places, which however I did not
trouble his lordship with. Among others, 'tis probable I might receive a
much better welcome than I deserve, or is suitable to one that so much
desires and seeks a private humble life, without the least pomp or
grandeur."
2_nd May_ 1734.--"Yesterday an attempt was made upon New college bells of
6876 changes. They began a quarter before ten in the morning, and rang
very well until four minutes after twelve, when Mr Brickland, a
schoolmaster of St Michael's parish, who rang the fifth bell, missed a
stroke, it put a stop to the whole, so that they presently set them, and
so sunk the peal, which is pity, for 'twas really very true ringing,
excepting five faults, which I observ'd (for I heard all the time, tho'
'twas very wet all the while) in that part of the Parks which is on the
east side of Wadham college, where I was very private; one of which five
faults was the treble, that was rung by Mr Richard Hearne, and the other
four were faults committed by the aforesaid Mr Brickland, who 'twas
feared by several beforehand would not fully perform his part. . . ."
2_nd May_ 1734. . . . "When I mention'd afterwards my observations to ye
said Mr Smith, he told me, that tho' he rung himself, yet he minded the
faults also himself. Upon which I asked him how many there were? He
said three before that which stopp'd them. I told him that there just
five before that, at which he admired my niceness."
14_th Oct._ 1734. . . . "Dr Sherlock, now bp. of Salisbury, was likewise
of that little house (Cath. Hall), and they look upon it as very much for
the honour of that little house, that it has produced two of our
principal prelates (Dr Sherlock and Hoadly, at Salisbury and Winchester).
The last has usually (and regularly) gone to an Oxford man, as Ely to
Cambridge."
31_st Dec._ 1734. . . . "But having been debarr'd the library, a great
number of years, I am now a stranger there, and cannot in the least
assist him, tho' I once design'd to have been very nice in examining all
those liturgical MSS., and to have given notes of their age, and
particularly of Leopric's Latin Missal, which I had a design of printing,
being countenanc'd thereto by Dr Hickes, Mr Dodwell, etc."
RECOLLECTIONS
"To entertain the lag-end of my life
With quiet hours."
--_Henry IV._, Pt. I.
I was born at Down on 16th August 1848: I was christened at Malvern--a
fact in which I had a certain unaccountable pride. But now my only
sensation is one of surprise at having been christened at all, and a wish
that I had received some other name. I was never called Francis, and I
disliked the usual abbreviation Frank, while Franky or Frankie seemed to
me intolerable. I also considered it a hardship to have but one
Christian name. Our parents began by giving two names to the elder
children; but their inventive capacity gave way and the younger ones had
each but one. It seemed, too, a singular fact that--as they afterwards
confessed--they gave names which they did not especially like. Our
godfathers and godmothers were usually uncles and aunts, but this tepid
relationship was deprived of any conceivable interest by the fact that
the uncles were usually represented by the parish clerk. This, of
course, we only knew by rumour, but we realised that they gave no
christening mugs--a line of conduct in which I now fully sympathise. My
brother Leonard did indeed receive a silver spoon from Mr Leonard Horner,
but I fancy that this came to him on false pretences.
I have no idea at what age we began to go to church, but I have a general
impression of unwillingly attending divine service for many boyish years.
We had a large pew, lined with green baize, close beneath the clergyman's
desk, and so near the clerk that we got the full flavour of his
tremendous amens. I have a recollection of entertaining myself with the
india-rubber threads out of my elastic-sided boots, and of gently
tweaking them when stretched as miniature harp-strings. The only other
diverting circumstance was the occurrence of book-fish (Lepisma?) in the
prayer books or among the baize cushions. I have not seen one for fifty
years, and I may be wrong in believing that they were like minute
sardines running on invisible wheels. In looking back on the service in
Down church, I am astonished at the undoubted fact that whereas the
congregation in general turned towards the altar in saying the Creed, we
faced the other way and sternly looked into the eyes of the other
churchgoers. We certainly were not brought up in Low Church or
anti-papistical views, and it remains a mystery why we continued to do
anything so unnecessary and uncomfortable.
I have a general impression of coming out of church cold and hungry, and
of seeing the labourers standing about the porch in tall hats and green
or purple smock-frocks. But the chief object of interest was Sir John
Lubbock (the father of the late Lord Avebury), of whom, for no particular
reason, we stood in awe. He made it up to us by coming to church in a
splendid fluffy beaver hat. My recollection is that we often went only
to the afternoon service, which we preferred for its brevity. I have a
clear recollection of our delight when, on rainy Sundays, we escaped
church altogether.
A feature that distinguished Sunday from the rest of the week was our
singular custom of having family prayers on that day only. When we were
growing up we mildly struck at the ceremony, and my mother accordingly
dropped it on finding that the servants took no especial interest in it.
On Sundays we wore our best jackets, but I think that, when church was
over, we put on our usual tunics or blouses of surprising home-made fit.
But I clearly remember climbing (in my Sunday clothes) a holly-tree on a
damp Christmas Day, and meeting my father as I descended green from head
to foot. I remember the occurrence because my father was justly annoyed,
and this impressed the fact on me, since anything approaching anger was
with him almost unknown.
In our blouses we might with impunity cover ourselves with the thick red
clay of our country-side, and this we could always do by playing in a
certain pit where we built clay forts, etc. We used also to run down the
steep ploughed fields, our feet (grown with adhering clay to huge balls)
swinging like pendulums and scattering showers of mud on all sides. Then
we would come cheerfully home, entering by the back door and taking off
our boots as we sat on the kitchen stairs in semi-darkness and surrounded
by pleasant culinary smells.
In later years, when we used to take long winter tramps along our flinty
winding lanes, this unbooting on the back stairs was a prelude to eating
oranges in the dining-room, a feast that took the place of five o'clock
tea--not then invented.
In the early days of which I was speaking, we had schoolroom tea with our
governess, while our parents dined in peace at about 6.30. We came down
after our tea, rushing along the dark passage and descending the stairs
with that rhythmic series of bangs peculiar to children. I do not know
that we were really frightened at passing certain dark doorways, but I
certainly remember enjoying a sort of sham terror. One of these doors
led into my mother's room and also to a store-room; I cannot think that
this had any "night fears" for us, because it smelt so strongly of such
everyday earthly things as soap and tallow candles. Why it was placed
next to the bedroom I do not know. I have no clear remembrance of what
we did in the evenings, but I seem to see a round table and a moderator
lamp, such as occurs in John Leech's pictures in _Punch_. I have also a
faint recollection of black-coated uncles sitting by the fire and not
unnaturally objecting to our making short-cuts across their legs. It was
no doubt a pity that we were not reproved for our want of consideration
for the elderly, and that, generally speaking, our manners were
neglected. One of our grown-up cousins was reported to have called our
midday dinner "a violent luncheon," and I do not doubt that she was
right. We were fortunate in having a set of simple, kindly,
old-fashioned servants with whom we could be on friendly terms. Thus it
happens that recollections cluster about the kitchen and pantry. I have
a vague remembrance of a Welsh cook, Mrs Davis, who was very kind to us
in spite of constant threats of "tying a dish-cloth to your tail," which,
so far as I know, remained a threat, and was indeed never understood by
me. We certainly could generally extract gingerbread and other good
things from Daydy, as we called Mrs Davis. The butler, Parslow, was a
kind friend to us all our lives. I do not remember being checked by him
except in being turned out of the dining-room when he wanted to lay the
table for luncheon, or being stopped in some game which threatened the
polish of the sideboard, of which he spoke as though it were his private
property. He had what may be called a baronial nature: he idealised
everything about our modest household, and would draw a glass of beer for
the postman with the air of a seneschal bestowing a cup of malvoisie on a
troubadour. He would not, I think, have disgraced Charles Lamb's friend
Captain Burney, who welcomed his guests in the grand manner to the
simplest of feasts. It was good to see him on Christmas Day: with how
great an air would he enter the breakfast-room and address us:--"Ladies
and Gentlemen, I wish you a happy Christmas, etc. etc." I am afraid he
got but a sheepish response from us. Among the outdoor servants there
were three whom I remember well. There was Brooks, the general outdoor
man, who acted as gardener, cowman, etc. He had dark eyes and a
melancholy, morose face. Of him I have told elsewhere {56a} the
following anecdote:--
Brooks had been accused by the other gardener of using foul language, and
was hailed before my father to be judged. I, as a little boy, standing
in the hall, heard my father say, "You know you are a very bad-tempered
man." "Yes, sir" (in a tone of deep depression). "Then get out of the
room--you ought to be ashamed of yourself." At this point I rushed
upstairs in vague alarm and heard no more.
Brooks lived in a cottage close to the cow-yard, with his wife, in whom I
took an interest because her name was Keziah, and because she was the
best smocker in the village. I have a vague recollection of a private in
the Guards to whom I was introduced as a son of Brooks--a statement I
regarded as surprising. Mrs Brooks was as melancholy as her husband, and
I remember many years later, when the pair were pensioned off in the
village, hearing Brooks say in her presence, "She ain't no comfort to me,
sir." To this she made no retort, though a _tu quoque_ would have been
most just.
The under-gardener, Lettington (the man who objected to being sworn at),
was a kindly person and a great friend of mine. It was he who taught me
to make whistles {56b} in the spring and helped me with my tame rabbits.
He also showed me how to make brick-traps for small birds, and a more
elaborate trap made of hazel twigs. In this last I remember catching a
blackbird: I imagine that I must have been rather afraid of my captive,
for the unfortunate bird escaped leaving its tail in my hands. I do not
think I ever wanted to kill the few other birds caught in traps, but let
them go free. I clearly remember looking with envy and admiration at
Bewicke's woodcuts of traps, _e.g._ that of the woodcock springe, and
another of a sieve propped up over grain sprinkled as bait.
To return to Lettington. It was he who helped my father in his
experiments on the crossing of plants: he lived to a great age, dying as
a pensioner many years later. My father used to tell with amusement how
Lettington never failed to remind him of a bad prophecy:--"Yes, sir, but
you said so-and-so would happen." The third outdoor man was Thomas
Price, generally known as the Dormouse on account of his somnolent manner
of working. We, as boys, believed him to be a deserter from the army on
account of the military set of his shoulders, and because he had arrived
in the village an unknown wanderer. He was a bachelor and spent more
than was wise on beer. For the last few years of his life my mother made
him save money by the simple process of retaining part of his wages in
her own hands. In this way he unwillingly acquired some 20 or 30 pounds,
but as he refused to leave it to those who took care of him in his last
illness, it went to the Crown, to whom I hope it made up for the loss of
T. Price's very doubtful military services.
In later years it occurred to us that the methods of gardening at Down
were antiquated, and we persuaded our parents to engage an active young
Scotchman whom I will call X, and who was placed in command of Lettington
and the Dormouse (the gloomy Brooks having been pensioned). The two old
servants were dreadfully bustled by X, and I well remember their flushed
faces after the first morning's digging in the serious Scotch manner.
After a time, finding that matters were very little looked after, X began
some mysterious dealings in cows with a neighbouring farmer, and it was
suddenly discovered that a cow had disappeared. I remember my shame at
finding I did not know how many cows we ought to have, nor could I swear
to their personal appearance. But by dint of cross-examination I was
enabled to draw up a statement of how cow A had been sold, cow B bought,
and cow C exchanged for cow D, etc. Finally the ingenious X was
discharged, and the rejoicing Lettington and Dormouse reinstated. But
before this fortunate conclusion, I had at my father's bidding taken
steps to obtain a summons against X. I remember thinking what a fool I
should look when cross-examined before the magistrates. Another
circumstance is impressed on my mind. The affair occurred in that
remarkable October in which the trees were greatly injured by a
snowstorm, and as I drove in a dog-cart through Holwood Park in search of
the summons, I thought, as the trees cracked like pistols, that it was
hardly worth while being crushed to death for the sake of any number of
cows. Finally X was not prosecuted, and departed in peace.
To return to my childhood: I came between George and Leonard, and was a
companion to both of them, but I do not think we made a trio as Leonard
and Horace and I did more or less. I have a clear recollection of
Leonard in a red fez, and bare legs covered with scratches, but I cannot
distinctly call up images of the others. I seem to remember a great deal
of purposeless wandering with my younger brothers; but with George,
playing was an organised affair in which I was an obedient subordinate,
as I have described in _Rustic Sounds_. Our chief game was playing at
soldiers; we had toy guns to which home-made wooden bayonets were fixed,
knapsacks, and I think shakos--whether we had any uniform coats I cannot
remember. In the cloakroom under the stairs our names and heights were
recorded, and George conscientiously constructed a short foot-rule so
that our height should come to something like six feet. I had to keep
sentry at the far end of the kitchen garden until released by a
bugle-call. George being a sergeant was exempt from sentry work, and was
merely responsible for the bugle-blowing. Indoors there was much playing
with tin soldiers. I remember a regiment of dragoons whose coats my
mother had laboriously reddened with sealing-wax to convert them into
British soldiers. The troopers were in a ferocious charging attitude
with swords raised, but the blades were mostly broken, and I innocently
believed that they were all raising crusts of bread to their mouths.
Another indoors game was the hurling of darts at one another in the long
passage upstairs; we had wooden shields on which the javelins used to
strike briskly enough, since they were weighted with lead. On these
occasions we were knights or men-at-arms, but out of doors we were
savages. George could hurl hazel-spears, using the Australian
throwing-stick, an art I never acquired, but I was fond of slinging
stones. To make a sling a bit of leather was necessary, and this meant a
visit to the village cobbler, Parker by name, who was a short, sallow man
with the bristling chin which, according to Dickens, {60} is the
universal attribute of cobblers. I remember the pleasure of sending,
with my sling, a pebble crashing into the big ash-tree in the field from
what seemed to me a great distance.
Another pursuit was walking on stilts, of which we had two kinds; on the
smaller ones even girls had been known to walk, but of the larger (which
I remember as of imposing height) only the male sex was capable. The
garden at Down was originally a bare and windy wilderness, but our
parents constructed mounds of raw red clay on which laurel and box
finally grew and made shelter. One of these mounds, covered with dwarf
box-trees, was known to us as the Pyrenees, and our pleasure was to
traverse the passes on stilts. There was a slight sense of danger and a
certain romance in climbing the heights from the lawn and descending in
what was legally a part of the orchard, where the last of the limes grew
and a particular crab-tree of which I was fond.
Then there were two swings, one of the orthodox kind between those twin
yew-trees that gave a special character to the lawn, and one consisting
of a long rope fixed high up on the tall Scotch fir that grew on the
mound. The rope of the latter had a short cross-bar at its lower end
which served as a seat or a handle. There were various tricks, some of
which were almost sure to bump the head of a strange child against the
tree trunk, to our private satisfaction.
A similar rope hanging from the ceiling of the long passage at the top of
the house supplied a more complicated set of tricks, which all had
special names. Of these, I remember that _spangle_ meant a method of
sitting on one side of the cross-bar at the end of the rope. The stairs
leading to the second floor jutted out into the passage; we used to stand
with one foot on each banister-supporting post and make it a
starting-point for a swing on the rope, also a landing-place, and if we
succeeded in getting back into position with a foot on each banister-post
we were pleased with ourselves, especially if it was done at night
without a light. The rope, working on the hooks fixed into the ceiling,
made a grinding or squeaking noise which must have been annoying to
guests, especially when mixed with much crashing and banging and
shouting.
In later years we played stump cricket and lawn tennis, but in the early
days of which I am thinking the only game I clearly remember was the
practice of the village cricketers in our field. It seems improbable,
yet I am decidedly of opinion that the pitch was the footpath, the unmown
condition of the grass making bowling elsewhere an impossibility; on the
other hand it made fielding an easy affair. I remember clearly the runs
being recorded by notches cut on a stick, a method of scoring which has
its place in literature in the match between All Muggleton and Dingley
Dell. {62}
It is curious to remember how solitary our life was. We had literally no
boy-friends in the whole neighbourhood; there were plenty of boys within
reach but we never amalgamated with them, and were, I imagine, despised
by them as outside the pale of Eton-dom. No opportunity was made for us
to learn to shoot; I used to wander with a gun and shoot an occasional
hare and various blackbirds, but I never had even the meanest skill, and
after suffering miseries of shame at one or two shooting-parties I am
glad to think I gave it up.
Fishing there was none in our dry country, and it was only very much
later, on the beautiful Dovey in North Wales, that I learned something of
the art.
Riding we did learn in a casual, haphazard way, and some of us hunted a
little with a mild pack (the Old Surrey) in our bad hunting country--but
all this was much later and hardly concerns my present subject.
The best practice I had as a boy was riding twice or thrice a week (from
perhaps my tenth to my twelfth year) to Mr Reed, Rector of Hayes, to be
taught Latin and a little arithmetic. Our ponies were shaggy, obstinate
little beasts, who had the strongest possible dislike of their duties. I
remember well how my pony turned round and round, and at last consented
to proceed till a new excuse occurred for a bolt towards home. It was a
secret delight to me when one of my brothers was beaten in the pony-fight
and was brought ignominiously home.
Mr Reed was the kindest of teachers, and after a short spell of Latin he
used to give me a slice of cake and allow me to look at the wonderful
pictures in an old Dutch Bible. Even under the mild discipline of this
kindest of men I used to dissolve in tears over my work.
When I was twelve years old, _i.e._ in the summer of 1860, I went to the
Grammar School at Clapham kept by Rev. Charles Pritchard. I was two
years under Pritchard, and when he left {63} I remained under his
successor, Rev. Alfred Wrigley, until I went up to Trinity College,
Cambridge, 1866. Wrigley had none of the force of Pritchard, nor had he,
I fancy, his predecessor's gift of teaching. Mathematics formed a great
part of our curriculum, and for these I had no turn. I am, however,
grateful to Wrigley for having made me work out a great many logarithmic
calculations which had to be shown up (as he expressed it) in a "neat,
tabular form." As I have said in my article on my brother George in
_Rustic Sounds_, my "recollections of George at Clapham are coloured by
an abiding gratitude for his kindly protection of me as a shrinking and
very unhappy 'new boy' in 1860."
From school I went to Trinity College, Cambridge. I lodged first with a
tailor called Daniells in Bridge Street, nearly opposite to the new
chapel of St John's--the slow rise of which I used to watch from my
windows. Afterwards I moved into rooms on the ground floor to the left
of the New Court Gate that leads out into the Backs. Why the architect
made the sitting-rooms look into the Court and all its mean stucco
decorations I cannot imagine. My bedroom looked out on the Backs and its
avenue of lime-trees, where the nightingales sang through the happy May
nights.
I hardly made any permanent friends till my second year, when I had the
good fortune to become intimate with Edmund Gurney and Charles Crawley,
both of whom died early. Crawley was drowned in a boating accident in
which he tried in vain to save the women of the party. Edward Stirling,
an Australian, has only recently (1919) died. I am glad to think that my
undergraduate friends (except those removed by death) are still my
friends.
Among the Dons who were friendly to students of natural science the first
place must be given to Alfred Newton, the Professor of Zoology, who most
kindly invited us to come to his rooms in Magdalene any and every Sunday
evening. There we smoked our pipes and enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. We
had the advantage of meeting older members of the University. It was in
this way I became acquainted with G. R. Crotch, of St John's, who was an
assistant in the University Library. He was a strikingly handsome man
with a long silky beard and wonderful eyes. His passion was Entomology,
and he had a great knowledge of the Coleoptera, and used sometimes to
take me out beetle-catching, but I never became a collector. He was
eccentric in his habits; for instance, he dressed entirely in black
flannel--shirt, coat, and trousers--which were made for him by Brown, the
tailor, who was a brother entomologist. He finally gave up his
librarianship and went off beetle-catching to the United States, where he
died in what would have been miserable conditions but for the tender care
bestowed on him by a complete stranger, whose name I have unfortunately
forgotten. There, too, I occasionally saw Clifford, the well-known
mathematician, who died early--also Kingsley on at least one occasion. I
remember him, too, at the New Museums (where I was dissecting some beast
or other) reproving me for my white shirt, and telling me that flannel
was far more suitable for dissections. John Willis Clark (who afterwards
became Registrary of the University) was then Curator of the New Museums,
and encouraged me to work in his department, and I well remember my pride
when my preparation of a hedgehog's inside was added to the Museum. J.
W. Clark was the kindest of men, and I, like many another undergraduate,
used to dine with him and his mother at Scrope House. There some of us
were introduced for the first time to good claret. I remember Mrs Clark
(rather a masterful old lady) saying, "Drink your wine like a good boy
and don't talk nonsense," as though these precepts contained the whole
duty of undergraduate man. J. W. Clark was the patron and director of
the undergraduates' Amateur Dramatic Society (the A. D. C.), and
occasionally took a part himself. I have a clear recollection of hearing
him (attired in red tights) exclaim in his peculiar pronunciation, in
which the letters _l_ and _r_ were indistinguishable, "I am the srave of
the ramp."
I had left to the last the man whose kindness towards me as an
undergraduate I valued most highly, and whose friendship it is still my
good fortune to possess--I mean Henry Jackson, now Professor of Greek,
but at that time a Trinity lecturer. I have an image of him walking up
and down his room in Neville's Court with a pipe in his mouth (which
burned more fiercely than did the pipes of other men), and talking with a
humour and enthusiasm which were a perpetual delight. A literary
venture, _The Tatler in Cambridge_, originated among undergraduates under
the editorship of the present Canon Mason. To this I contributed a paper
_On the Melancholy of Bachelors_, which was accepted, chiefly, I think,
through the kindness of E. Gurney. I shall never forget my delight when,
on the day of its publication, Henry Jackson came round to my rooms to
tell me that he liked it.
I must now return to my more serious employments. It was at the
suggestion of E. C. Stirling that I became a medical student and began to
work for the Natural Sciences Tripos. In order to get more time for the
last-named examination I kept my small stock of mathematics simmering as
it were, and managed (without giving much time to the subject) to get a
mathematical degree as fifth among the Junior Optimes in 1870. I had the
pleasure of being coached for this examination by James Stuart--the only
man, I imagine, who ever made mathematics entertaining and even amusing
to an unmathematical pupil.
I then had a clear year in which I could devote myself to Natural
Science. I did not succeed in finding a coach who was of any use to me.
But in Comparative Anatomy I did a fair amount of undirected work: in
this way I dissected a good many creatures such as slugs and snails and
freshwater mussels, dragonflies, etc. I have a dim recollection of
catching the mussels in the Cam with Gordon Wigan, the son of the
celebrated actor--and indeed that kindly personage joined us in one of
our boating expeditions.
On leaving Cambridge I went to St George's Hospital with the intention of
becoming a practising physician. But happily for me the Fates willed
otherwise. The late Dr Cavafy of St George's Hospital urged me to learn
something of Histology, and sent me to Dr Klein, whose pupil I had the
good fortune to become at the Brown Institute. I have elsewhere {67}
said something of my debt of gratitude to Dr Klein. Under his guidance I
produced a paper which served as a thesis for my M.B. degree. I had
another interesting experience during my time at St George's. I used to
go to the Zoological Society's dissecting-room, where the late Dr Garrod
(the Prosector) allowed me to investigate some of the daily quota of dead
animals. But it was not of any real educational value, I fancy. Still
it may have helped the impetus of Klein's teaching to suggest that
medicine {68a} should be given up and that I should become the assistant
to my father.
The old nursery at Down had been turned into a laboratory, and when (on
the death of my wife) I came to live in the house of my parents, they
converted the billiard-room into a sitting-room for me.
During the following years I went to work under Sachs at Wurzburg and
afterwards under De Bary at Strassburg. Sachs was most kind and helpful,
and under his direction I contributed a small paper to his _Arbeiten_. I
made some good friends at Wurzburg--Stahl, who is now Professor of Botany
at Jena; Kunkel, the Pharmacologist, who died young; the Finlander
Elfving, who is now Professor of Botany at Helsingfors; and Goebel, now
the well-known Professor of Botany at Munich. He and I walked side by
side to receive our degrees at the 1909 meeting in Cambridge. {68b} I
had the great pleasure of seeing Elfving on the same occasion, and we
have never ceased to correspond, though at irregular intervals. I had
once the satisfaction of receiving Stahl as my guest at Cambridge. He is
still Professor of Botany at Jena, and in spite of rather weak health has
published a mass of good work.
I am sorry to think that my relationship with Sachs came to an unhappy
ending. I published what seemed to me a harmless paper, in which I
criticised some of his researches. I wrote to him on the subject but
received no answer. Partly on account of his silence and partly to pay a
visit to a friend, I travelled to Wurzburg. I found Sachs in the Botanic
Garden; he seemed to wish to avoid me, but I went up to him and asked him
why he was angry with me. He replied: "The reason is very simple; you
know nothing of Botany and you dare to criticise a man like me." I had
no opportunity of replying, for at that moment one of his co-professors
addressed him, asking if he could spare a moment. "Very willingly, Herr
Professor," said Sachs, and walked off without a word to me. And that
was the last I saw of the great botanist. I was undoubtedly stupid, but
I do not think he showed to advantage in the affair.
I continued to work with my father at Down, and in spite of the
advantages I gained by seeing and sharing in the work of German
laboratories, I now regret that so many months were spent away from him.
OLD INSTRUMENTS OF MUSIC {71}
Mr Galpin has written an admirable book on old musical instruments. His
knowledge, which is first hand, is the harvest of many years' research;
and, like the best type of learned authors, he has the power of sharing
his knowledge with the ignorant.
His book begins with a study of stringed instruments, which occupies
about half the book, the remainder being given up to the wind band.
My own experience of instruments of music is confined to the latter
division. I remember as a small boy at school struggling with an
elementary flute: or was it a penny whistle? I believe it was a flute,
for I have a dim recollection of pouring water into it before it would
sound. I tried to teach the instrument--whatever it was--to a friend,
and wrote down the fingerings by a series of black and white dots, in the
manner quoted from Thomas Greeting's _Pleasant Companion_, 1675, by Mr
Galpin (p. 146). Then when I was about fifteen or sixteen years old I
began under that admirable teacher, the late R. S. Rockstro, to work
regularly at the flute. As a Cambridge undergraduate I remember playing
flute solos at the University Musical Society's concerts. And I can
still recall the pleasant sound of the applause which on one occasion
called for a repetition of my performance. Since those days I took up
the bassoon under the guidance of another admirable teacher, Mr E. F.
James. But nowadays my chief interest is the recorder, which is best
known to the unmusical world from the well-known passage in _Hamlet_. Of
this instrument I shall have something to say in the sequel. I give
these personal details to show how small a right I have to do more than
give an abstract of Mr Galpin's admirable book.
The first instrument dealt with is the harp, the essential feature of
which is that each string gives but one sound. {72} It is not clear to
me why the psaltery and dulcimer are separated from the harp, since they
also have unstopped strings and therefore unalterable notes. Whereas the
interpolated chapter ii. is concerned with instruments--the gittern and
citole--whose tones are alterable in pitch by "stopping," _i.e._,
altering the length of the vibrating part of the string. I can only
suppose that the author considers that the fact of the gittern and citole
being sounded by plucking the strings, brings these instruments into
alliance with the harp. I confess that I should like to have seen Class
I. (strings unalterable in tone) including the harp, the rote, the
psaltery, dulcimer (Plate I.), the aeolian-harp, and the piano. Then
would come a class of instruments some at least of whose strings produce
a variety of tones by stopping, _i.e._, shortening the vibrating region
of the string, and this would include gittern and citole, lute, etc. But
doubtless the author has good reason for his arrangement, and I have not
knowledge enough to be his critic.
[Picture: Plate I. Psaltery and Dulcimer]
At p. 4 (Galpin) is represented the simple Irish harp or lyre which was
known as the cruit or crot; it is essentially a harp, although it seems,
in its infancy at any rate, to have had but five or six strings. The
name cruit or crot afterwards developed into rotte, and under this name
is described a remarkable instrument apparently dating from the fifth to
the eighth centuries, which is figured at p. 34 (Galpin). It was found
in the Black Forest in the grave of a warrior, together with his sword
and bow, and seems to have been clasped in his arms, as though he had
especially valued it. The true harp, which in its simplest form (Galpin,
p. 8) chiefly differs from the rote in shape, {73a} is characterised by
the picturesque triangular outline that is so familiar. It was of
Teutonic origin, and Mr Galpin tells an admirable story of a Saxon who
disguised himself as a Briton, by playing the rote instead of the harp,
which would have revealed his nationality. In spite of its Saxon
parentage the Irish adopted the harp, and a beautiful instrument of the
early thirteenth century is preserved at Trinity College, Dublin (Galpin,
p. 12). The Irish for _harp_ is _Clairsech_, {73b} a word that reminds
me of an Irish friend who used to quote--
"Old Tracy and old Darcy
Playing all weathers on the Clarsy."
Mr Galpin tells a pleasant story of St Ealdhelm, who was Bishop of
Sherborne in the year 705. When he was about to preach he found the
church empty; he therefore took his harp, and "standing on a bridge hard
by, soon attracted a considerable crowd by his playing. Then he
delivered his sermon."
Chapter ii, p. 20, is devoted to the gittern and citole. In the
first-named instrument we have the ancestor of the guitar, which it
resembled in its flat back, and in the curving inwards of the vertical
sides. {74a} It has generally been believed that the "waist" thus
produced was an adaptation to the use of the bow, but, as the author
points out, this form occurs long before the existence of bowed
instruments. {74b} At p. 22 (Galpin) is given an early fourteenth
century illustration of a gittern-player, holding in his right hand the
plectrum with which he sounds the strings. The most curious point,
however, is the depth of the neck of the instrument, which is pierced by
a large hole to admit the left thumb; without this curious device it
would apparently be impossible to stop the strings. On the same plate is
given an illustration of the precious gittern at Warwick Castle, believed
to date from about 1330, in which the thumb-hole is more clearly shown.
The guitar, which may be considered a descendant of the gittern, is said
to have completely eclipsed its ancestor in the seventeenth century. And
at the present time it, together with the mandoline and the banjo, are
the only representatives of the type in every-day use.
Mr Galpin places the citole in the same class as the gittern. He says
that this instrument has been much misunderstood, and since I do not
desire to add my quota to the injustice under which this unfortunate
instrument suffers, I shall pass on to the mandore and lute. The
essential characteristic of these instruments is that their bodies,
instead of having the flat back of the guitar, are rounded. Though the
body is now built of strips of wood or ivory, its form is "reminiscent of
the time when the body or resonator consisted of a simple gourd or
half-gourd covered with skin." In this they resemble the instruments of
Oriental races, and the author traces the form of the rebec and mandoline
as well as that of the mandore and lute to Persian, Arabic, and Moorish
influence in the Middle Ages.
The European lute had at first only four strings, but in the "elaborate
instruments of the seventeenth century there were twenty-six or thirty
strings to be carefully tuned and regulated." No wonder that a lutenist
should have been said to spend three-quarters of his existence in tuning
his instrument. The mandore was a small form of lute, and is chiefly of
interest because in a yet smaller form it still survives as the
mandoline, which, however, usually has both wire and covered strings, and
is played with a plectrum. To return to the lute, its most obvious
characteristic is that the head (in which are the pegs for tuning the
strings) is bent at right-angles to the general plane of the instrument.
It is not clear what is the meaning of this curious crook in the
instrument, but it is some comfort to the ignorant since it enables us to
recognise a lute when we see one. Henry VIII. and his daughters Mary and
Elizabeth are said to have been good lutenists. The smaller gut strings,
called by the pleasant name of _minnikins_, were easily broken, and a
gift of lute-strings was considered a present fit for a queen, and one
which the great Elizabeth did not disdain.
There was also an archlute, which in its largest form--six feet in
height--was known as the chitarrone. It had not the rectangular bend in
the neck of the ordinary lute; it was also characterised by having four
or five free or unstopped strings. A fine reproduction of Lady Mary
Sidney and her archlute faces the title-page of the book.
Mr Galpin (p. 46) quotes from Thomas Mace's _Musick's Monument_, 1676,
the proper method of "fretting" a lute or similar instrument. The frets,
or horizontal strings or wires which make cross ridges on the neck of
lutes, viols, etc., I had ignorantly imagined to be guides to the
beginner as to where to stop the string; but it appears (Galpin, p. 46)
that they "add to its tone and resonance by keeping the string from
touching the finger-board too closely." The word "fret" is said to be
derived from the old French _ferrette_, _i.e._, banded with iron. {77a}
[Picture: PLATE II. Various stringed instruments]
In Mace's {77b} book above referred to he discourses with a child-like
enthusiasm on his favourite instrument. He does not follow the elder
lutenists, whom he describes as "extreme shie in revealing the _Occult_
and _Hidden Secrets_ of the Lute." He gives the following examples of
"_False and Ignorant Out-cries against the Lute_":--
(1) "That it is the _Hardest Instrument_ in the _World_.
(2) "That it will take up the Time of an _Apprenticeship_ to play
_well_ upon _It_.
(3) "That it makes _Young People_ grow _awry_.
(4) "That it is a very _Chargeable Instrument_ to keep; so that one had
as good keep a _Horse_ as a _Lute_ for _Cost_.
(5) "That it is a _Woman's Instrument_.
(6) "And lastly (which is the most _Childish_ of all the rest), It is
out of _Fashion_."
The following extracts from Mace will give some idea of his style and of
his method of treating the subject:--
"_First_, _know that an Old Lute is better than a New one_: _Then_, _The
Venice Lutes_ are commonly _Good_. There are diversities of _Mens Names_
in _Lutes_; but the _Chief Name_ we most esteem, is _Laux Maler_, ever
written with _Text Letters_: _Two_ of which _Lutes_ I have seen
(_Pittifull Old_, _Batter'd_, _Crack'd Things_) valued at 100 l. _a
piece_ (p. 48).
"When you perceive any _Peg_ to be troubled with the _slippery Disease_,
assure yourself he will never grow better of _Himself_, without some of
_Your Care_; therefore take _Him_ out, and _examine_ the _Cause_ (p. 51).
"And that you may know how to _shelter your Lute_, in the worst of _Ill
weathers_ (which is _moist_) you shall do well . . . to put _It into a
Bed_, _that is constantly used_, _between the Rug and the Blanket_; but
_never_ between the _sheets_, because they may be _moist_ with _Sweat_
(p. 62).
"Strings are of three sorts, _Minikins_, _Venice-Catlins_, _and Lyons_
(for _Basses_).
"I us'd to compare . . . _Tossing-Finger'd Players_ to _Blind-Horses_,
which always _lift up their Feet_, _higher than need is_; and so by that
means, _can never Run Fast_, or with a _Smooth Swiftness_" (p. 85).
He says, "You must be _Very Careful_ (now, in your first beginning) to
get a _Good Habit_; so that you _stop close to your Fretts_, _and never
upon any Frett_; _and ever_, _with the very End of your Finger_; except
when a _Cross_, _or Full Stop_ is to be performed" (p. 99).
[Picture: Plate III. The Crwth]
Bowed Instruments.
Mr Galpin (p. 75) gives a figure of a man playing a Crowd with a bow,
instead of plucking the strings with the fingers as shown in sculptured
Irish Crosses. What makes the figure so especially interesting, is that
there is clearly no means of _stopping_ the strings, _i.e._, of altering
the length of the vibrating region, and therefore altering the pitch. No
one, I fancy, would have guessed that the bow was of more ancient lineage
than the fiddle. The finger-board, which transforms the instrument into
an undeniable relative of the violin, is known to have existed in the
thirteenth century. It is a striking fact that what is practically a
cruit or rotte survived in use until the nineteenth century in this
country, in the form of the Welsh _crwth_ or crowd shown on Plate III.
There is a specimen dated 1742 in the Victoria and Albert Museum. The
crwth here figured was made last century by Owain Tyddwr of Dolgelly, an
old man who remembered the instrument as it was in his younger days, and
took great pleasure in its reconstruction.
The crwth is followed by the rebec, which most of us know better from
Milton's lines--
"When the merry bells ring round
And the jocund rebecks sound"--
than in any more practical manner. It had a certain resemblance to the
lute in its pear-shaped outline and its convex or rounded sound-box, but
differs from that instrument in being played with a bow. Mr Galpin
quotes very appropriately the name of one of the country actors in _A
Midsummer Night's Dream_--Hugh Rebeck--as suggesting that an everyday
audience was familiar with it.
_Viols_.--The only surviving instrument of this class is the double bass,
which is "still frequently made with the flat back and sloping shoulders
of its departed predecessors." The bass viol was also known as the Viola
da Gamba, and this was Sir Andrew Aguecheek's instrument, who was said to
play on the "Viol de Gamboys." These instruments--bass and treble--had
six strings, and were provided with frets like the guitar. Their tone is
described as "soft and slightly reedy or nasal, but very penetrating."
It seems that the smaller viols disappeared in England towards the end of
the seventeenth century, but the type of viol corresponding to the
violoncello "held its own for nearly another hundred years," when it at
last yielded to the more modern instrument.
Under the heading "Concerning the _Viol_ and _Musick_ in general," Mace
writes (p. 231):--
"It may be thought, I am so great a _Lover of It_ [the Lute], that I make
_Light Esteem_ of any other _Instrument_, besides; which _Truly_ I do
not; but _Love the Viol_ in a _very High Degree_; yea, close unto the
Lute. . . .
"I cannot understand, how _Arts and Sciences_ should be subject unto any
such _Phantastical_, _Giddy_, or _Inconsiderate Toyish Conceits_, as ever
to be said to be _in Fashion_, _or out of Fashion_.
[Picture: PLATE IV. The Tromba Marina]
"I remember there was a _Fashion_, not many Years since, for _Women in
their Apparel_ to be so _Pent up by the Straitness_, _and Stiffness_ of
their _Gown-Shoulder-Sleeves_, that _They_ could not so much as _Scratch
their Heads_ for the _Necessary Remove of a Biting Louse_; nor _Elevate
their Arms scarcely to feed themselves Handsomely_; nor _Carve a Dish of
Meat at a Table_, but their _whole_ Body must needs _Bend towards the
Dish_."
And here we must leave Thomas Mace (who with all his oddities is a
lovable and genuine writer) and pass on to the "scoulding" violin--to use
his own phrase--an instrument he considered as only suitable for "any
extraordinary Jolly or Jocund Consort-Occasion."
The violin, which finally ousted the treble viol, seems indeed to have
had a humble beginning in fairs and country revels: but six violins were
included in Henry VIII.'s band, where they were played by Italian
musicians. Violins did not rapidly make their way to popularity, and
Playford (1660) describes these instruments--rather condescendingly--as
"a cheerful and spritely instrument much practised of late." He speaks,
too, of a bass violin, _i.e._ the violoncello.
The chapter ends with a description of the tromba marina, which is not
marine trumpet, but a curious elongated box-like instrument with a single
string, which is sounded with a bow and wakens the harmony of the
sympathetic strings within the body of the instrument. Mr Galpin's
instrument was discovered in an old farmhouse in Cheshire (Plate IV.).
Chapter vi. is chiefly devoted to the organistrum or hurdy-gurdy (Plate
V.). This is a stringed instrument which differs from the rest of its
class by being sounded neither with fingers like the lute nor with a bow
like the viol, but by means of a rotating wooden wheel. The melody
string (or strings) is not stopped directly by the finger as in the
violin, but by a series of keys manipulated by the performer, who need
not necessarily possess a musical ear since the stopping is arranged for
him. The Swedish nyckel-harpa--which I remember to have heard in
Stockholm--is the only other instrument in which the strings are stopped
by mechanical means. This instrument differs from the organistrum in the
fact that it is sounded by the ordinary fiddle-bow, and not by means of a
wheel. The organistrum is remarkable for having been "in constant and
popular use" from the tenth century up to the present day.
Clavichord and Virginal.
The clavichord, the earliest progenitor of the piano, originated in an
instrument in which the _tangent_ which struck a given string also acted
as a bridge to mark off the length of the vibrating portion and therefore
to determine the note produced. It is remarkable that (p. 115) this type
of instrument remained in use until the time of Sebastian Bach, when the
principle of "one tangent one string" replaced the more ancient system.
Of the clavichord Mr Dolmetsch (p. 433) writes that its tone is
comparable, as regards colour and power, "rather to the humming of bees
than to the most delicate among instruments. But it possesses a soul . . .
for under the fingers of some gifted player it reflects every shade of"
his "feelings like a faithful mirror. Its tone is alive, its notes can
be swelled or made to quiver just like a voice swayed by emotion. It can
even command those slight variations in pitch which in all sensitive
instruments are so helpful to expression."
[Picture: PLATE V. I. Viola d'Amore. 2. Cither Viol. 3. Hurdy-gurdy or
Organistrum]
The best known among the group of instruments to which the clavichord
belongs are the spinet and the harpsichord. I think that Browning's
musician who "played toccatas stately at the clavichord" must have
performed on one of the last-named instruments. In the spinet and the
harpsichord the strings are plucked, and therefore sounded, by small
points made of leather or of quill which are under the control of the
keyboard.
Mr Galpin (who is always interesting on evolution) points out that the
progenitor of the spinet is the plucked psaltery, whereas the piano forte
(the earliest form of which appeared about 1709) is a descendant of the
dulcimer in which the strings were struck.
Wind Instruments.
One of the most ancient of wind instruments is the panpipe, which used to
be familiar in the Punch and Judy show of our childhood, when it was
accompanied by another ancient instrument--the drum. The panpipe
consists of a row of reeds of graduated lengths which are closed at the
lower end and into which the performer blows, much as we used, as
children, to blow into a key and produce a shrill whistle. It is
illustrated in an Anglo-Saxon Psalter of the early eleventh century,
which is preserved in the Cambridge University Library. The whistle
which we have all made in our childhood by removing a tube of bark from a
branch in which the sap is rising, is an advance on the panpipes, since
it includes a method of producing a thin stream of air which impinges on
a sharp edge, whereas in the panpipes we depend on our lips for the
stream of air. These whistles are closed at the lower end, and yield but
a single note. But in the tin penny whistle the tube is pierced by six
holes for the fingers, and on this instrument one may hear the itinerant
artist perform wonders. An instrument of this type, known as the
recorder, played a great part in the early orchestra. It differs from
the penny whistle in being made of wood, and in having eight instead of
six finger-holes; the additional ones being for the left thumb and the
little-finger of the right hand. The recorder seems to have been
especially popular in England, indeed it was sometimes known as the
_fistula anglica_, _i.e._ the English pipe. The instrument was made in
different sizes; and I shall not easily forget the astonishing beauty of
a quartette of recorders played by Mr Galpin and his family. In Plate
VI. are shown the great bass recorders, in regard to which the author is
careful to point out that the bassoon-like form shown in No. 1 and No. 5
does not alter the pitch of the instrument, which depends on the length
of the tube measured from the fipple.
[Picture: Plate VI. Recorders]
Mr Dolmetsch, in his book _The Interpretation of the Music of the XVIlth
and XVIIIth Centuries_, p. 457, writes:--
"At the first sound the recorder ingratiates itself into the hearer's
affection. It is sweet, full, profound, yet clear, with just a touch of
reediness, lest it should cloy."
"The intonation . . . right through the chromatic compass of two octaves
and one note is perfect, if you know how to manage the instrument; but
its fingering is complicated, and requires study."
The flageolet is the nearest living relative of the recorder. What is
known as the French flageolet is especially reminiscent of the ancient
instrument in having a thumb-hole, or rather two such holes. It has the
pleasant archaic feature of its lowest note being produced by thrusting
the little finger of the right hand into the open end of the tube. The
most curious development of the flageolet is found in the double or
triple pipes which were made in the closing years of the eighteenth
century. I remember Mr Galpin demonstrating the truth of his assertion
that duets and trios can be played on one of these curious instruments.
A much simpler instrument known as the tabor pipe {85} was in general use
in the twelfth century. Its essential feature is that it has but three
holes, so that it can be played with one hand, thus leaving the other
hand free to accompany the melody on the tabor or small drum hung round
the neck of the performer or from his wrist. Its working compass is an
octave and three notes, though two shrieking higher notes can be
produced. The French form of three-holed pipe is known as the galoubet.
There was also a bass galoubet, which is known from the figures in
Praetorius (1618), and from one solitary instrument which has escaped
destruction. Mr Galpin has a copy of it in his great collection, and I
have had the pleasure of playing on it. The instruments of the genus
recorder have been finally beaten in the struggle for life by the
flageolet, and perhaps especially by the true flute, which Mr Galpin, for
the sake of clearness, distinguishes as the cross flute. It seems to be
a mistake to consider the flute as a modern instrument, as it was popular
about the year 1500, and is shown in an illuminated MS. of 1344 preserved
at Oxford.
The flute as used about 1600 had but six holes, but the D# key for the
little finger of the right hand came into use about the end of the
seventeenth century, and about 1800 several keys had been added to enable
the performer to play with less cross-fingering.
Dolmetsch, _op. cit._, p. 458, claims that although the one-keyed flute
of the eighteenth century has a weak tone, it is more beautiful than the
modern flute.
He adds that a flautist has recently studied this instrument, guided by
Hotteterre le Romain's book (1707), and can play more perfectly in tune
than "he ever did before upon a highly improved and most expensive modern
instrument."
The concert-flute of the present day is an elaborate instrument covered
with keys, and it has, I believe, been suggested that its tone is injured
by this elaboration. Bass flutes have been made, one 3 ft. 7 ins. in
length is mentioned, whose lowest note was an octave below middle C.
Shawms. {87}
The next class of wind instruments dealt with by the author is that of
which the oboe and bassoon are typical. Mr Galpin refers to a reed-pipe
with which I am very familiar; it is made from a dandelion stalk pinched
flat at one end. Its principle is that of the oboe. I well remember
admiring its tone as a child, and lamenting its very brief life, for it
soon got spoiled. The reed of serious musical instruments is made of two
pieces of cane which are flat at the free or upper end and terminate
below in a tube which fits on to the instrument. This is an ancient type
of instrument, for the Roman _tibia_ is believed to have been played with
the "double reed," _i.e._ of oboe-type. I may here be allowed to quote
from my _Rustic Sounds_, p. 5: "The most truly rustic instrument (and
here I mean an instrument of polite life--an orchestral instrument) is
undoubtedly the oboe. The bassoon runs it hard, but has a touch of
comedy and a strong flavour of necromancy, while the oboe is quite good
and simple in nature and is excessively in earnest; it seems to have in
it the ghost of a sun-burnt boy playing to himself under a tree, in a
ragged shirt unbuttoned at the throat." A figure is given (Galpin, p.
159) of a goat playing on a shawm {88} from a carving of the twelfth
century at Canterbury. The name is believed to be derived from
_calamaula_, a reed-pipe, which was corrupted to _chalem-elle_ and then
to _shawm_. Shawms were made of various sizes, from the small treble
instrument, one foot long, to the huge affair, six feet in length. The
name Howe-boie, _i.e._ probably Haut-bois, was applied to the treble
instrument as early as the reign of Elizabeth; while the deeper-toned
instruments retained the name shawm. The bassoon is only a bass oboe
rendered less cumbrous by the tube being bent sharply on itself. A tenor
bassoon, known as the oboe da caccia, or teneroon, also existed, and if
my memory serves me right, Mr Stone rescued one of these instruments from
the band of a London boys' school. A teneroon of Mr Galpin's is shown at
p. 168 of his book, where it appears to be about seven-tenths of the size
of the ordinary bassoon.
[Picture: Plate VII. Pibcorn or Horn-pipe]
The next class of wind-instrument is that of which the clarinet is the
modern representative. It has a rich but somewhat cloying tone, and, to
my thinking, none of the mysterious charm of the oboe. It is
characterised by a single vibrating plate or reed, and the current of air
from the performer's mouth passes between it and an immovable surface of
wood. In our country this type of reed was found in a most interesting
instrument, the horn-pipe {89a} or pibcorn, which is said to have existed
in Wales as late as the nineteenth century. One of these curious
instruments is in the possession of the Society of Antiquaries, and is
shown in Plate VII. It was given to the Society by Daines Barrington,
who describes it in the Society's _Archaeologia_ for 1779. In a Saxon
vocabulary of the eighth century the word _Sambucus_ (_i.e._ elder-tree)
is translated _swegelhorn_. Now the word _swegel_ was applied to the
_tibia_ or leg-bone; it is therefore of remarkable interest to find that,
according to an old Welsh peasant, the tibia of a deer should be the best
tube for the pibcorn. {89b} This name, which means pipe-horn, is very
appropriate, since the tube of the instrument bears at either end a cow's
horn. To the upper one the performer applied his mouth. He had no means
of regulating the reed as a clarinet or oboe-player has; the reed was
left to its own sweet will, as is also the case with the reeds in another
ancient instrument--the bagpipe, to which a few words must be given.
Mr Henry Balfour believes that both these instruments came to us with the
Keltic migration from the East. Or, as Mr Galpin suggests, we may owe
the bagpipe to Roman soldiers, "for the _tibia utricularis_ was used in
the Imperial army." It is quite a mistake to suppose that the bagpipe is
in any special way connected with Scotland. Illuminated missals of the
thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries show how common the
bagpipe was in England. But the Scots must at least have a share of the
credit of preserving the bagpipe from extinction; and the same may be
said of another Keltic race, the Breton, in whose land I have heard the
bagpipe accompanied by a rough kind of oboe.
Mr Galpin tells me a pleasant story of a bagpipe hunt in Paris. He
discovered, in a shop, an old French musette (bagpipe), the chanter or
melody-pipe of which was missing. He did not buy it until in a two days'
hunt all over Paris he discovered the lost chanter, when he returned to
the first shop, triumphantly carried off the musette, and thus became the
owner of this rare and beautiful instrument.
The drone, which forms a continuous bass to the "chanter," was not an
original character of the bagpipe, but appeared soon after the year 1300.
A second drone "was added about the year 1400, for it is seen in the
ancient bagpipe belonging to Messrs Glen of Edinburgh," which bears the
date 1409.
The Horn and Cornett.
The horn takes its name from the cow's horn, out of which the instrument
was made. The resemblance includes the tapering bore of this instrument,
and also the fact that it is curved. {90} In the metal instruments, made
in imitation of the natural horn, we find a curvature of about a
semi-circle, as in the seventeenth century hunting horn (Galpin, p. 188).
While in the horn of the early seventeenth century shown on the same
plate, the tube is curved into many circular coils.
[Picture: PLATE VIII. I, 2, 3, 4, 5. Cornetts. 6. Serpent. 7. Bass Horn.
8. Ophicleide. 9. Keyed Bugle]
The cornett, {91} which was blown like a horn or trumpet, seems to have
been successful in mediaeval times, because a workable scale was so much
more easily attainable with it than in the ordinary trumpet. In Norway a
goat's horn pierced with four or five holes stopped by the fingers is
still in use as a rustic instrument. This is in fact a cornett which, as
early as the twelfth century, was made of wood or ivory, and had a
characteristic six-sided form. It seems to have been popular, and Henry
VIII. died possessed of many cornetts. We hear, too, of two _Cornetters_
attached to Canterbury Cathedral; and the translators of the Bible gave
it a place in Nebuchadnezzar's band. But the cornett was doomed to
destruction in the struggle for life. In 1662 Evelyn speaks of the
disappearance of the cornett "which gave life to the organ." Lord Keeper
North wrote, "Nothing comes so near, or rather imitates so much, an
excellent voice as a cornett pipe; but the labour of the lips is too
great and is seldom well-sounded." The cornett was given a place in the
chorales of Bach and the operas of Gluck after it had become extinct in
England.
The bass cornett was known as the serpent from its curved form, and this
character was in fact necessary in order that the performer's hands might
be nearer together. Mr Galpin writes:--"If not overblown it yields a
peculiarly soft _woody_ tone which no longer has its counterpart in the
orchestra." He quotes from Thomas Hardy's _Under the Greenwood Tree_,
where the village shoemaker remarks, "There's worse things than
serpents." Dr Stone (_Dictionary of Music_, 1883) wrote:--"There were
till a few years ago two serpents in the band of the Sacred Harmonic
Society, played by Mr Standen and Mr Pimlett." The serpent {92} was
driven out of the orchestra by the Ophicleide, which again has been
extinguished by the valved Tubas of Adolphe Sax.
Trumpet and Sackbut.
"The story of the trumpet is the story of panoply and pomp," says Mr
Galpin, and goes on to explain how the trumpeters with drummers formed an
exclusive guild. Trumpets served as war-like instruments, but also for
domestic pomp. Thus twelve trumpets and two kettle-drums sounded while
Queen Elizabeth's dinner was being brought in. That monarch had
certainly no excuse for being late for her meals.
The trumpet was originally a long straight cylindrical tube, but as early
as 1300 the tube was bent into a loop, thus combining length with
handiness. This form of the instrument was known as a clarion, a word
which has degenerated in our day into a picturesque word for a trumpet.
It was for the clarion that Bach and Handel wrote trumpet parts which, I
gather, are almost unplayable on the modern instrument. The clarion
seems to have been soon beaten in the struggle for life by the clarinet,
"which, as its name implies, was considered an effective substitute for
the high clarion notes."
The sackbut, _i.e._ trombone, is an important offshoot from the trumpet.
The essential feature of this splendid instrument is that the length of
the tube can be altered at will. Thus the performer is not--like the
trumpeter--confined to one series of harmonics, but can take advantage of
a whole series of these accessory notes.
The Organ.
This is one of the most ancient of instruments. Thus in the second
century before our era Ctesibius of Alexandria had a simple type of
organ, in which the wind from the bellows was admitted at will into
whistle-like tube by keys which the performer depressed with his fingers.
It is a remarkable fact that keys should afterwards have been replaced by
cumbersome _sliders_ which had to be pushed in and out to produce the
desired note. But so it was, and the keyboard had to be rediscovered in
the twelfth century. The keys were first applied to the little
portatives, {94a} one of which is figured by Galpin, p. 221, where the
organist works the wind supply with one hand and manipulates the keys
with the other. In Galpin, p. 222, a monk is shown playing a simple
organ of apparently two octave compass, while another tonsured person is
blowing a pair of bellows, one with the left and the other with the right
hand. Another artist is shown by Galpin, p. 226, from a thirteenth
century Psalter, who is accompanying a player of the symphony
(hurdy-gurdy). The bellows are blown by the feet of an assistant.
The regal, figured by Galpin at p. 230, was a simple form of organ in
which the pipes were not of the whistle-type, but consisted principally
of reed-pipes.
Tabors and Nakers.
In my essay on war music {94b} I wrote of the band of a French regiment
at the beginning of the war: "When the buglers were out of breath, the
drums thundered on with magnificent fire, until once more the simple and
spirited fanfare came in with its brave out-of-doors flavour--a romantic
dash of the hunting-song, and yet with something of the seriousness of
battle. . . . As I watched these men, so soon to fight for their
country, I was reminded of that white-faced boy pictured by Stevenson,
striding over his dead comrades, the roll of his drum leading the living
to victory or death." I have ventured to quote the above passage in
illustration of Mr Galpin's striking remark that the drum has probably
entered more largely than any other instrument into the destinies of the
human race.
The historian of musical instruments in the far north has an easy task,
since it appears that the Eskimoes confine themselves to the drum, which
they sound on all possible occasions, from prosperous huntings to the
death of a comrade.
The instruments of the class here dealt with are divided into three
types:--
(i.) The timbrel or tambourine, which is characterised by having only
one membrane stretched on a shallow wooden frame.
(ii.) The drum with two membranes, one at each end of a barrel-shaped
frame.
(iii.) The naker or kettle-drum, with a single membrane stretched over
the opening of a hemispherical frame. The tambourine is an extremely
ancient instrument since it was known in Assyria and Egypt as well as
in Greece and Rome, and it is especially interesting to learn that the
Roman tambourine had the metal discs which make so exciting a jingle in
the modern instrument. The mediaeval tambourine also had what, in the
case of the drum, is called the _snare_, which is a cord tightly
stretched across the membrane, and gives a certain sting to instruments
of this class, but now only exists in the drum proper.
Drum.
An ancient Egyptian drum was discovered at Thebes. It was a true drum
having a membrane at each end of the hollow cylinder which made the
frame, and, what is more remarkable, it had the braces or system of cords
by which we still tighten the drum-membranes.
The drum "suspended at the side of the player and beaten on one head
only" became, with the accompaniment of the fife, the earliest type of
military music. {96a} Mr Galpin concludes {96b} by quoting what Virdung
(1511) had to say of drums: "I verily believe that the devil must have
had the devising and making of them, for there is no pleasure nor
anything good about them. If the noise of the drum-stick be music, then
the coopers who make barrels must be musicians."
Kettle-drums. {96c}
Anyone who has seen the band of the Life Guards must have admired (as I
do) the splendid personage who plays the kettle-drums. These are not of
the ordinary drum-form, being hemispherical instead of cylindrical, and
having but a single membrane. They have a right to be called musical
instruments since their pitch is alterable: {96d} I have often admired
the drummer in an orchestra tuning his instrument at a change of key.
One sees him leaning over his children like an anxious mother until he
gets his large babies into the proper temper.
The earliest record of kettle-drums in this country is in the list of
Edward I.'s musicians, among whom was Janino le Nakerer. Henry VIII. is
said to have sent to Vienna for kettle-drums {97} that could be played on
horseback in the Hungarian manner. In England, Handel was the first to
use the kettle-drum in the concert-room, and he used to borrow from the
Tower the drums taken from the French at the battle of Malplaquet in
1709.
Cymbals and Chimes.
The cymbals are of a great antiquity, being depicted on ancient Assyrian
monuments, and "in the British Museum may be seen a pair of bronze
cymbals which once did duty for the sacred rites of Egyptian deities."
They are figured in English MSS. of the thirteenth century, and Mr Galpin
gives a figure of a cymbal-player (as shown in a fourteenth century MS.)
vigorously clashing his instrument. There was also an apparatus known as
a jingling johnny, figured by Galpin at p. 258. It was a pole bearing a
number of bells, hence the name which it doubtless deserved. The
crescents with which it is decorated are an inheritance from its forbears
of the Janizary bands.
Mr Galpin ends his book with a very interesting chapter on the _Consort_,
_i.e._ Concert, which, however, does not lend itself to that abbreviation
to which the rest of the book has been mercilessly subjected.
THE TRADITIONAL NAMES OF ENGLISH PLANTS
I do not pretend to be a specialist in the study of plant-names. But
there is something to be said for ignorance (in moderation), since it
brings reader and writer more closely together than is the case when the
author knows the last word in a subject of which the reader knows
nothing. But we need not consider the case of the blankly ignorant
reader, and I can undertake that (for very sufficient reasons) I shall
not be offensively learned.
The fact that language is handed on from one generation to the next may
remind us of heredity, and the way in which words change is a case of
variation. But we cannot understand what determines the extinction of
old words or the birth of new ones. We cannot, in fact, understand how
the principle of natural selection is applicable to language: yet there
must be a survival of the fittest in words, as in living creatures.
Language is a quality of man, and just as we can point to big racial
groups such as that which includes the English, Dutch, Danish, Swedish,
Norwegian, Icelandic and German peoples, so their languages, though
differing greatly in detail, have certain well-marked resemblances. Of
course I do not mean to imply that language is hereditary, like the form
of skull or the colour of the hair. I only insist on these familiar
facts in order to show that the wonderful romance inherent in the great
subject of evolution also illumines that cycle of birth and death to
which existing plant-names are due.
In the case of living creatures we can at least make a guess as to what
are the qualities that have made them succeed in the struggle for life.
But in the case of the birth and death of words we are surrounded with
difficulties.
In some instances, however, it is clear that plant-names were forgotten
with the growth of Protestantism. The common milk-wort used to be called
the Gang-flower {100a} because it blossoms in what our ancestors called
Gang Week,--"three days before the Ascension, when processions were made
. . . to perambulate the parishes with the Holy Cross and Litanies, to
mark their boundaries, and invoke the blessing of God on the crops."
{100b} Bishop Kennet says that the girls made garlands of milk-wort and
used them "in those solemn processions." As far as dates are concerned
the name is fairly appropriate, for Rogation Sunday is 27th April, _i.e._
10th May, old style, and, according to Blomefield, {100c} from eight
years' observation, the milk-wort flowers on 15th May. The milk-wort is
a small plant, and the labour of making garlands from it must have been
considerable. There must have been a reason for using a blue flower, and
I gather from a friend learned in such matters that blue is associated
with the Virgin Mary, to whom the month of May is dedicated.
In this case we can perhaps understand why the name should have all but
died out with the disappearance of these old ceremonies. But why should
the name _milk-wort_ have survived? Its scientific name, Polygala, is
derived from Greek and means "much milk," and the plant was supposed to
encourage lactation. It is an instance of names being more long-lived
than the beliefs which they chronicle.
There are, of course, many plants called after saints. Thus the pig-nut
(_Bunium_) is called St Anthony's nut, because, as quoted by Prior, "The
wretched Antonius" was "forced to mind the filthy herds of swine." The
buttercup (_R. bulbosus_) was called St Anthony's turnip from its tubers
being said to be eaten by pigs.
St Catherine's flower (_Nigella_) (generally known as love-in-a-mist or
devil-in-a-bush) is called after the martyr from the arrangement of its
styles, which recall the spokes of St Catherine's wheel. I do not mean
the well-known fireworks but the instrument of torture on which the saint
died. St James' wort is the yellow daisy-like flower _Senecio Jacobaea_,
known as rag-wort. It is said to have been used as a cure for the
diseases of horses, of which he was the patron.
In the old herbals the cowslip is called St Peter's wort from the
resemblance of the flowers to a bunch of keys--no doubt the keys of
heaven, of which Peter is custodian.
A number of plants were called after the Virgin Mary: these were
doubtless known as Our Lady's flowers, but their names have been
corrupted in Protestant days by the omission of the pronoun.
Lady's fingers (_Anthyllis vulneraria_) is a common enough plant bearing
a head or tuft of yellow flowers. Each has a pale swollen calyx, and
these are, I suppose, the fingers on which the name is founded, though I
find it said that it originates in the leaflets surrounding the flower
head.
Butcher's broom is known in Wales as Mary's holly, the latter half of the
name referring to its red berries and prickly leaves. It was used to
clean butcher's blocks.
Lady's slipper is so named from the strikingly shoe-like form of the
flower. It is excessively rare in England, but in Southern France one
may see great bunches gathered for sale, over which, by the way, I have
often mourned.
Lady's tresses (the orchid _Spiranthes_) is so named from the curious
twisted or braided arrangement of the flowers.
Lady's smock (_Cardamine pratensis_) bears a name immortalised in
Shakespeare's song:--
"When daisies pied and violets blue,
And lady's smocks all silver white,
And cuckow-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight."
I suspect that the poet called them _silver white_ to rhyme with
_delight_, for they are distinctly lilac in colour. Nor are they
especially smock-like--many other flowers suggest a woman's skirt equally
well--but this is a carping criticism.
Lady's bedstraw seems to have been so called from the yellow colour of
one or more kinds of Galium.
Lady's bower is _Clematis vitalba_, now known as traveller's joy. Anyone
exploring Seven Leases Lane, which runs along the edge of the Cotswolds,
will travel in continuous joy, for the lady's bower converts many hundred
yards of hedge into continuous beauty.
_Pulmonaria_ has been called the Virgin Mary's tears, from the pale
circular marks on its leaves. The blue flowers have been supposed to
typify the beautiful eyes of the Virgin, while the red buds are the same
eyes disfigured with weeping.
Many plants are named after the devil; there is, for instance, a species
of _Scabiosa_ called devil's bit, because that eminent personage bit the
root short off, and so it remains to this day. His object seems to have
been to destroy the medicinal properties the plant was supposed to
possess.
We now pass on to plants flowering on certain dates, such as Saints' days
or other church festivals. The snowdrop has been called the Fair Maid of
February, because it was supposed to flower on Candlemas Day, 2nd
February, which would be 15th February according to the modern calendar.
The name St John's wort, which we habitually apply to several species of
_Hypericum_, is correctly used only for _H. perforatum_. Its English
name is said to have been given from its flowering on St John's Day, 24th
June. This would be 7th July, new style, and I find that Blomefield's
average of eight annual observations is 4th July.
I had been wondering why there seemed to be no name for St John's wort
suggested by the glands, which show as pellucid dots when the leaf is
held up to the light. And in Britten and Holland's _Dictionary of
English Plant Names_, 1886, I found that _H. perforatum_ was called Balm
of Warrior's Wound, which must refer to the innumerable stabs it
exhibits, though they are more numerous than most warriors can endure. A
closely related plant is _Hypericum androsaemum_, known as Tutsan, said
to mean _toute saine_, as curing all hurts. In Wales, as I well remember
forty years ago, the leaves were kept in bibles. They are, as I learn
from a Welsh scholar, known as Blessed One's leaves.
The common yellow wayside plant _Geum urbanum_ is known as Herb Benet,
because, like St Benet, it had the power of counteracting the effect of
poison.
The sweet-william is said by Forster to be so named from flowering on St
William's Day, 25th June. But Blomefield's date is 17th June, which
would be 4th June, old style. A much more probable explanation is that
William is a corruption of the French name _oeillet_, a word derived from
the Latin _ocellus_, a little eye. So that the ancestry of the name runs
thus:--_Ocellus_--oeillet--Willy--William.
Oxalis, the wood-sorrel, was known as hallelujah, not only in England but
in several parts of the Continent, from its blossoming between Easter and
Whitsuntide, when psalms were sung ending in the word hallelujah.
Historical.
Some plant-names take us back to historical personages. The Carline
thistle is named after Karl the Great, better known as Charlemagne.
There was a pestilence in his army, and in answer to his prayer an angel
appeared and shot, from a crossbow, a bolt, which fell on the Carline
thistle with which the Emperor proceeded to conquer the pestilence.
Another magical arrow-shot is described in well-known lines in _A
Midsummer Night's Dream_ (Act ii., scene I). Oberon speaks of Cupid
loosing his "love shaft smartly from the bow" at "a fair vestal throned
in the west." Cupid missed his mark, and the poet continues:--
"Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell:
It fell upon a little western flower,
Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound,
And maidens call it Love-in-idleness."
The name Love-in-idleness should be Love-in-idle if the metre could have
allowed it. This means love-in-vain: witness the Anglo-Saxon bible,
where occurs the phrase to take God's name "in idle." The flower
referred to by Shakespeare is doubtless the pansy.
Some names recall the work of more modern people. Thus the wild
chamomile was known in the Eastern counties as _Mawther_; and this, as
all lovers of Dickens will remember, means not a mother but a girl; and
the name is in fact a translation of the Greek Parthenion into the
Suffolk dialect.
The elder used to be known as the _bour-tree_. I fear that the name is
extinct in England, but a Scotch friend tells me that he was familiar
with it in his youth. I love this name because it is associated in my
mind with the words of Meg Merrilees {106} in _Guy Mannering_, the first
English classic in which I took pleasure.
"Aye, on this very spot the man fell from his horse--I was behind the
bour-tree bush at the very moment. Sair, sair he strove, and sair he
cried for mercy; but he was in the hands of them that never kenn'd the
word!"
The actual origin of the name is, however, not romantic; it is said to
mean _bore_, and to refer to the fact that tubes were made from it by
boring out the pith. It seems possible that such tubes were, in
primitive times, used to blow the fire, and this would explain the name
elder, which seems to mean _kindler_.
The dwarf elder, a distinct species, though not connected with an
individual, commemorates a race, being known as Dane's blood. It grows
on the Bartlow Hills, near Cambridge, where tradition says that Danes
were killed in battle.
I add a few names as being picturesque, though without any literary
associations.
There is an old name for the shepherd's purse, viz., clapperde-pouch,
which is said to allude to the leper who stood at the cross-ways
announcing his presence with a bell and clapper, and begged for pennies
to put in his pouch, which is typified by the seed capsule. Another name
for the plant is mother's heart, {107} and is no doubt referable to the
shape of the seed pod. Children in England, also in Germany and
Switzerland, used to play at the simple game of asking a companion to
gather a pod, and then jeering at him for having plucked out his mother's
heart.
The name columbine comes from the flower's obvious resemblance to a group
of doves, and its Latin name _aquilegia_, meaning a collection of eagles,
is a nobler form of the same idea.
Dead-man's fingers is a fine uncanny name for the innocent _Orchis
maculata_, and refers to its branching white tuber.
Garlick is a very ancient name, being derived from the Anglo-Saxon _gar_,
a spear, and _leac_, a plant; in the name house-leek the word still bears
its original meaning of a plant.
_Tragopogon_, the goat's beard, which closes its flowers about mid-day,
was once known as go-to-bed-at-noon.
The pansy has been called Herb trinity from the triple colouring of its
petals. In Welsh, and also in German, the pansy is called stepmother.
The lower petal is the most decorative, and this is the stepmother
herself. On examining the back of the flower it will be seen that she is
supported by two green leaflets, known as the _sepals_. These are called
her two chairs. Then come her two daughters, less smart, and having only
a chair apiece. Lastly, the two step-daughters, still more plainly
dressed and with but one chair between them.
Polemonium, from its numerous leaflets arranged in pairs, has received
the picturesque name of Jacob's ladder. I remember the pleasure with
which I first saw it growing wild in the hayfields of the Engadine.
Polygonatum, _i.e._ Solomon's seal, has been christened _Scala coeli_,
the ladder to heaven, on the same principle. The name Solomon's seal is
not obviously appropriate till we dig up the plant, when the underground
stem is found marked with curious scars, which, however, should be
pentagonal if they are to represent Solomon's pentacle.
Herb twopence (_Lysimchia nummularia_) is so named after the round
leaflets arranged in pairs along its creeping stalk. I do not know why
_Inula conyza_ is called ploughman's spikenard, but it is a picturesque
name.
Everyone knows the garden plant touch-me-not, so called from the curious
irritability of its pods, which writhe in an uncanny way when we gather
them. This quality is expressed twice over in the Latin name _Impatiens
noli-me-tangere_. But there is a forgotten old English name which
pleases me more, viz., quick-in-the-hand, that is to say
alive-in-the-hand. This use of the word survives in the familiar phrase
"the quick and the dead."
The English name of _Echium vulgare_ is viper's bugloss--this I had
always imagined referred to the forked tongue (the style) which projects
from the flower. But it is said to be so named from the seeds resembling
a viper's head. This is certainly the case, and what can be the function
of the little knobs on the seed, which represent eyes, I cannot imagine.
The name bugloss is derived from the Greek and means ox-tongue--no doubt
in reference to the plant's rough leaves.
_Corruptions_.--Another and greater class of names comprises those which
are corruptions of classical names or of those unfamiliar in other ways.
A well-known example is daffodil, which was originally affodyl, a
corruption of asphodel, a name of unknown meaning, originally given to
the iris, and transferred to narcissus. A very obvious corruption is
aaron, which has been applied to Lords and Ladies, whose scientific name
is Arum. An incomprehensibly foolish instance is bullrush for pool-rush,
_i.e._ water rush. This name has at least the merit of supplying
material for that riddle of our childhood in which occur the words "when
the bull rushes out."
Carraway is another obvious corruption of its Latin name _Carum carui_.
In the ancient _Schola Salernitana_, as I learn from Sir Norman Moore, is
a punning Latin line, "Dum carui carwey non sine febre fui" ("When I was
out of carraway I was never free from fever").
Dogwood (_Cornus sanguinea_) was originally dagwood, so called because it
was used to make _dags_ or skewers: doubtless the same word as dagger.
According to a Welsh tradition dogwood was the tree on which the devil
hung his mother. I cannot resist the pleasure of quoting this fact,
although it does not bear on anything in particular.
Eglantine, a name used for the wild rose, is with much probability
derived from the Latin _aculentus_, prickly, which became in French
_aiglent_. Hence came the French names of the plant _eglantier_ and our
_eglantine_.
Gooseberry is believed not to have anything to do with a goose, but to
come from the Flemish _Kroes_, meaning a cross, a comparison said to be
suggested by the triple thorns, though of course a fourth thorn is needed
to make this simile accurate. It is hard to see why a plant which grows
wild in England, and seems by some botanists to be considered indigenous,
should have a Flemish name. Prior, our chief authority, asserts that the
early herbalists constantly took names from continental writers, and I
think his judgment may be trusted. The problem of the derivation of the
word gooseberry may at least serve to illustrate the difficulty of the
subject.
The name _Hemlock_, which nowadays has a wicked poisonous sound, has in
truth a very innocent origin. It is compounded of _hem_, _i.e._ haulm, a
stalk, and _lock_, or leac, a plant, thus signifying merely a plant with
a stem. Jack of the Buttery, a name applied to _Sedum acre_, is said to
be a corruption from _bot_, _i.e._ an internal parasite, and _theriac_,
by which was meant a cure for that evil. The last-named word has turned
into "Jack," and _bot_ has grown into "buttery."
Lamb's tongue is said to be a name for _Plantago media_; but this must, I
think, be a corruption of land tongue, which is highly appropriate to the
tongue-like leaves lying so closely appressed to the soil that no blade
of grass grows under them, as though they were determined to spite any
one who should root them up by disfiguring his lawn with naked patches.
But still better evidence is forthcoming in the fact that my old
Cambridgeshire gardener always called them land tongues. Why the
Anglo-Saxons used the name _way bread_ for the plantain I do not see: the
fact is vouched for by Cockayne in his book entitled _Leechdoms_.
In Gloucestershire the plantain is called the _fire-leaf_, a name which
records the belief that plantains are a danger in the way of heating
hay-stacks.
The word madder, _i.e._ the name of the plant which supplies the red dye
for the trousers of our French allies, has a curious history. Madder is
derived from _mad_, a worm, and should therefore be applied to cochineal,
the red colouring matter produced by the minute creature called a coccus.
But still more confusion meets us: the word vermilion which is now used
for a red colour of mineral origin, is derived from _vermis_, a worm, and
should therefore also be applied to cochineal. The word pink, one of the
most familiar of plant-names, has a curious origin, being simply the
German _Pfingst_, a corruption of Pentecost, _i.e._ the fiftieth day
after Easter.
The tendency to make some kind of sense, or at least something familiar,
from the unfamiliar, comes out in name service-tree (_Pyrus torminalis_).
It has nothing to do with _service_, being simply a corruption of
_cerevisia_, a fermented liquor. The fruit was used for brewing what
Evelyn in his _Sylva_, chap. xv., declares it to be, an incomparable
drink. Prior says that the French name of the tree, _cormier_, is
derived from an ancient Gaulish word _courmi_, which seems to suggest the
modern Welsh _cwrw_, beer.
Tansy (_Tanacetum_) is believed to be simply a corruption of _athansia_,
immortality. I gather that we got the name through the French
_athanasie_, in which, of course, the _th_ is sounded as a _t_. In all
probability it was originally applied to some plant more deserving of
being credited with immortality.
A few miscellaneous names may here be given. _Thorough wax_ is a name
for _Chlora perfoliata_, also known as _yellow wort_. Its leaves are
perfoliate, _i.e._ opposite and united by their bases so that the stem
seems to have grown through a single leaf.
_Kemps_, _i.e._ warriors, was a name of the common plantain, with which
children used to fight one against the other. I remember this as being
an unsatisfactory game because one so constantly killed one's own kemp
instead of the enemy.
_Herb Paris_ is simply the plant with a pair of leaves; it should,
however, have been described as having four leaves. Thus the name has
nothing to do with Paris, the capital of France. But some plants have
names of geographical origin; the currants or minute grapes used for
making cakes are so called because they come from Corinth. So that we
are quite wrong in applying this same name to the familiar companion of
the gooseberry in our gardens. In the same way damsons are so called
because they are said to have come originally from Damascus.
The name Canterbury bell has a very interesting origin, namely, that
bells were the recognised badge of pilgrims to the shrine of St Thomas at
Canterbury. One of these bells was found in the bed of the Thames when
old London Bridge was pulled down. It is said to be "about the size of
an ordinary handbell, with a flat top, on which is an open handle,
through which a strap could easily be passed to attach it to a horse's
collar." This bell is known to have been associated with Canterbury by
the inscription _Campana Thome_ on the outer edge. The pilgrims seem to
have journeyed cheerfully. It is written that some "pilgrims will have
with them bag-pipes; so that in everie towne they come through, what with
the noise of their piping, and the jangling of their _Canterburie bells_,
etc., they make more noise than if the king came there away."
Dutch mice is a name for _Lathyrus tuberosus_. Gerard says that the
plant is so named from the "similitude or likeness of Domesticall Mise,
which the blacke, rounde, and long nuts, with a peece of the slender
string hanging out behind do represent." From this description one would
expect to see mouse-like pods, but it is the tubers which give the name
to the plant. This is clearly visible in Bentham's illustration; {114} I
hope the artist was unaware of the name when he made the drawing--but I
have my doubts. The specimen from Cambridgeshire (which I owe to the
kindness of Mr Shrubbs of the University Herbarium) are not especially
mouse-like.
The names shepherd's needle and Venus' comb have been given to an
umbelliferous plant, _Scandix Pecten_. The teeth of the comb are
represented by what are practically seeds. These are elongated
stick-like objects covered with minute prickles all pointing upwards. I
do not know how the seeds germinate under ordinary conditions, but I
learn from Mr Shrubbs that they are dragged into the holes of earthworms,
as my father describes in the case of sticks and leaf-stalks.
Unfortunately for the worms, the prickles on Venus' needles do not allow
the creatures to free themselves, and they actually die in considerable
numbers with the needles fixed in their gullets.
SIR JOSEPH DALTON HOOKER {115a}
"Few, if indeed any, have ever known plants as he did."
--BOWER.
Joseph Dalton Hooker was born in 1817 and died in 1911; and of these
ninety-four years eighty-one included botanical work, for at thirteen
"Joseph" was "becoming a zealous botanist"; and Mr L. Huxley records
(ii., 480) that he kept at work till a little before his death on 10th
December 1911, and that although his physical strength began to fail in
August, yet "till the end he was keenly interested in current topics and
the latest contribution to natural science." So far as actual research
is concerned, it is remarkable that he should have continued to work at
the Balsams--a very difficult class of plants--at least till 1910. Mr
Huxley has wisely determined to make his book of a reasonable size, and
the task of compressing his gigantic mass of material into two volumes
must have been a difficult one. He has been thoroughly successful,
{115b} and no aspect of Sir Joseph's life is neglected, the whole being
admirably arranged and annotated, and treated throughout with conspicuous
judgment and skill.
In an "autobiographical fragment" (i., p. 3) Sir Joseph records that he
was born at Halesworth in Suffolk, "being the second child of William
Jackson Hooker and Maria Turner." He was not only the son of an eminent
botanist, but fate went so far as to give him a botanical godfather in
the person of Rev. J. Dalton, "a student of carices and mosses and
discoverer of _Scheuchzeria_ in England." It was after Mr Dalton that
Hooker was named, his first name, Joseph, commemorating his grandfather
Hooker. In 1821 the family moved to Glasgow, where Sir William Hooker
was appointed Professor of Botany. It was here that Sir Joseph, at the
age of five or six, showed his innate love of plants, for he records
{116}:--
"When I was still in petticoats, I was found grubbing in a wall in the
dirty suburbs of the dirty city of Glasgow, and . . . when asked what I
was about, I cried out that I had found _Bryum argenteum_ (which it was
not), a very pretty little moss which I had seen in my father's
collection, and to which I had taken a great fancy."
While still a child his father used to take him on excursions in the
Highlands, and on one occasion, on returning home, Joseph built up a heap
of stones to represent a mountain and "stuck upon it specimens of the
mosses I had collected on it, at heights relative to those at which I had
gathered them. This was the dawn of my love for geographical botany."
Sir Joseph records that his father gave him a scrap of a moss gathered by
Mungo Park when almost at the point of death. It excited in him a desire
of entering Africa by Morocco, and crossing the greater Atlas. That
childish dream, he says, "I never lost; I nursed it till, half a century
afterwards, . . . I did (with my friend Mr Ball, who is here by me, and
another friend Mr G. Maw) ascend to the summit of the previously
unconquered Atlas."
In 1820 William Hooker was appointed to the newly founded Professorship
of Botany at Glasgow. Of this his son Joseph writes, "It was a bold
venture for my father to undertake so responsible an office, for he had
never lectured, or even attended a course of lectures." With wonderful
energy he "published in time for use in his second course, the _Flora
Scotica_ in two volumes." Sir Joseph's mother was Maria, daughter of
Dawson Turner, banker, botanist and archaeologist, so that science was
provided on both sides of the pedigree.
It would seem that Sir Joseph's mother was somewhat of a martinet. When
Joseph came in from school he had to present himself to her, and "was not
allowed to sit down in her presence without permission."
In 1832, Joseph, then fifteen years of age, entered Glasgow University,
being already, in the words of his father, "a fair British botanist" with
"a tolerable herbarium very much of his own collecting"; he adds, "Had he
time for it, he would already be more useful to me than Mr Klotzsch" [his
assistant].
It was in 1838 that Hooker got his opportunity, for it chanced that James
Clerk Ross, the Arctic explorer, was in 1838 visiting at the Smiths of
Jordan Hill. In order that Joseph might meet Ross, both he and his
father were invited to breakfast. The meeting ended in Ross promising to
take him as surgeon and naturalist. There seems to have been a little
innocent jobbery with folks in high places, and it fortunately turned out
that the expedition was delayed so that Joseph had the opportunity of
spending some time at Haslar Hospital.
The expedition seems to have been fitted out with astonishing poverty.
Seventy years later he wrote, "Except some drying paper for plants, I had
not a single instrument or book supplied to me as a naturalist--all were
given to me by my father. I had, however, the use of Ross's library, and
you may hardly credit it, but it is fact that not a single glass bottle
was supplied for collecting purposes; empty pickle bottles were all we
had, and rum as a preservative from the ship's stores."
It is interesting to find Ross, in his preliminary talk with Hooker,
saying that he wanted a trained naturalist, "such a person as Mr
Darwin"--to which Hooker aptly retorted by asking what Mr Darwin was
before he went out.
I imagine that Hooker was lucky in being taken on Ross's voyage _as a
naturalist_, since the primary object of the expedition was to fill up
"the wide blanks in the knowledge of terrestrial magnetism in the
southern hemisphere."
It seems like a forecast of what was to be the chief friendship of his
life, that Darwin's _Naturalist's Voyage_ should have been one of the
books that inspired him to join in the voyage of the _Erebus_ and
_Terror_. Hooker "slept with the proofs under his pillow, and devoured
them eagerly the moment he woke in the morning." Much earlier he had
been stirred by Cook's voyages, and, like Darwin, was fired by Humboldt's
_Personal Narrative_. While at sea his work was largely zoological, and
the tow-net was kept busy. But on 24th August 1841, he writes to his
father of his great wish to devote himself "to collecting plants and
studying them . . . but we are comparatively seldom off the sea, and then
in the most unpropitious seasons for travelling or collecting." He
speaks, too, of his wish to see the end of the voyage, in order that he
might devote himself to botany.
The voyage had its dangers: in March 1842, during a storm, the _Terror_
collided with the _Erebus_, and for nearly ten minutes the interlocked
ships drifted towards a huge berg: the _Erebus_ remained rolling and
striking her masts against the berg, but managed by the "desperate
expedient" of "sailing stern first down wind" to escape destruction.
Hooker writes to his father, 25th November 1842: "The Barrier, the bergs
several hundred feet high and 1-6 miles long, and the Mts. of the great
Antarctic continent, are too grand to be imagined, and almost too
stupendous to be carried in the memory."
In a letter to his mother he describes seeing at Cape Horn "a little
cairn of stones raised by the officers of the _Beagle_." And again he
writes, "Clouds and fogs, rain and snow justified all Darwin's accurate
descriptions of a dreary Fuegian summer." He speaks of Darwin's
_Naturalist's Voyage_ as "not only indispensable but a delightful
companion and guide." There is plenty of interesting matter in the
account of Hooker's voyage, but the above fragments of detail must here
suffice. The _Erebus_ and _Terror_ reached Woolwich on 7th September
1843.
Having safely returned to England, the next problem was what was to be
Hooker's permanent occupation. Nothing, however, was fixed on, and in
the meantime he fulfilled "his intention of seeing the chief Continental
botanists, and comparing their gardens and collections with those of
Kew."
His first visit was to Humboldt, at Paris, who turned out "a punchy
little German," whereas he had expected "a fine fellow 6 feet without his
boots." Of the great man he says, "He certainly is still a most
wonderful man, with a sagacity and memory and capability for generalising
that are quite marvellous. I gave him my book [_Flora Antarctica_],
which delighted him much; he read through the first three numbers, and I
suppose noted down thirty or forty things which he asked me particulars
about." Humboldt was then seventy-six years of age. Hooker's impression
of the Paris botanists was not favourable; he speaks of their habit of
telling him of the magnitude of their own researches, "while of those of
their neighbours they seem to know very little indeed." Of Decaisne,
however, he speaks with warm appreciation. He would have been surprised
if a prophet had told him that he was to be instrumental in bringing out
an English version of Decaisne's well-known book.
In 1845 Hooker acted as a deputy for Graham, the Professor of Botany at
Edinburgh. In May he wrote to his father, "I am lecturing away like a
house on fire. I was not in the funk I expected, though I had every
reason to be in a far greater one." Finally, when Graham died, Balfour,
the father of the present holder of the office, was elected professor,
and Hooker was fortunately freed from a post that would have been a fatal
tie to his career.
But happier events followed; he became engaged to Frances, daughter of
Professor Henslow. Sir William spoke of the affair with a certain
pomposity: "I believe Miss Henslow to be an amiable and well-educated
person of most respectable though not high connections, and from all that
I have seen of her, well suited to Joseph's habits and pursuits." Their
engagement was a long one, and their marriage could not take place till
after his Indian journey, which was the next event of importance in his
career.
On the voyage out, he was fortunate in becoming known to Lord Dalhousie,
and the friendship built up in the course of the journey and afterwards
in India "showed itself in unstinted support of Hooker." It was,
however, "a personal appreciation of the man rather than of the
scientific investigator." Indeed, Lord Dalhousie, "a perfect specimen of
the miserable system of education pursued at Oxford," had a "lamentably
low opinion" of science.
At Darjiling began Hooker's "lifelong friendship with a very remarkable
character, Brian Hodgson," {122a} administrator and scholar, who had "won
equal fame as Resident at the court of Nepal and as a student of Oriental
lore." Mr L. Huxley points out that "if the friendship with Lord
Dalhousie provided the key that opened official barriers and made
Hooker's journeyings possible, the friendship with Hodgson more than
anything else made them a practical success."
I shall not attempt to follow Hooker through his wanderings--only a few
scattered references to them are possible. It is pleasant to read that
when Mr Elwes visited Sikkim twenty-two years after Hooker, he found that
the Lepchas almost worshipped him, and he was remembered as a learned
Hakim, an incarnation of wisdom and strength.
The most exciting adventure of Hooker and his fellow-traveller was their
imprisonment in Sikkim, where their lives were clearly in danger, and
they were only released when "troops were hurried up to Darjiling" and
"an ultimatum dispatched to the Rajah." {122b}
For the rest of his botanical journeyings he had the companionship of
Thomson, who had been his fellow-student, and, like himself, was the son
of a Glasgow professor. A letter to his father (undated) gives an idea
of the wonderful success of his Indian travels: "It is easy to talk of a
_Flora Indica_, and Thomson and I do talk of it, to imbecility! But
suppose that we even adopted the size, quality of paper, brevity of
description, etc., which characterise De Candolle's _Prodromus_, and we
should, even under these conditions, fill twelve such volumes at least."
The usual shabbiness {123} of governments towards science is well
illustrated (p. 344) in the case of Hooker:--"His total expenditure was
2200 pounds; the official allowances were 1200 pounds: the remainder was
contributed from his own and his father's purse."
In 1855 Joseph began his official life at Kew on being appointed
assistant to his father. And ten years later, on Sir William's death, he
succeeded as a matter of course to the Directorship.
Shortly before this, _i.e._ in 1854, he was the recipient of an honour
greatly coveted by men of science, namely the award of the Royal Medal.
He is characteristically pleased for the sake of the science of Botany
rather than for himself, and refers to the neglect that botany has
generally experienced at the hands of the Society in comparison with
zoological subjects. His own success characteristically reminds him of
what he considered a slight to his father, viz., that he had not received
the Copley Medal of the Royal Society. This, the highest honour which
men of science can aspire to, is open not merely to Britons but to all
the world, and I should doubt whether Sir William had ever been high in
the list of possible recipients.
We are now approaching the great change wrought in the scientific outlook
of the world by the _Origin of Species_. In November 1856, after reading
Darwin's MS. on geographical distribution, Hooker wrote that though
"never very stubborn about unalterability of specific type, I never felt
so shaky about species before." It must be remembered that throughout
the companionship of Hooker and Darwin the latter was a convinced
evolutionist. He writes in his autobiography that in 1838, after reading
Malthus on Population, he was convinced of the origin of new species by
means of natural selection. Throughout the close intercourse which
subsisted for so many years between Hooker and Darwin, in which the views
afterwards put forth in the _Origin of Species_ were discussed, Hooker
seems not to have been a convinced evolutionist. His conversion dates
apparently from 1858, when the papers by Darwin and Wallace were read at
the Linnean Society. This has always appeared to me remarkable, and T.
H. Huxley {124} has said with regard to his own position:--"My
reflection, when I first made myself master of the central idea of the
'Origin' was, 'How extremely stupid not to have thought of that!'"
After the publication of the _Origin of Species_ Hooker wrote to Darwin,
{125} "I have not yet got half through the book, not from want of will,
but of time--for it is the very hardest book to read, to full profit,
that I ever tried--it is so cram-full of matter and reasoning. . . .
Somehow it reads very different from the MS., and I often fancy that I
must have been very stupid not to have more fully followed it in MS."
Whatever Hooker may have been he was not stupid, and though nowadays it
is easy to feel surprise that his long-continued familiarity with
Darwin's work had not earlier convinced him of the doctrine of evolution
by means of natural selection, we must ascribe it rather to his early
education in the sacrosanct meaning of the word _species_.
I think it must have been roughly about the time of the publication of
the _Origin of Species_ that my earliest memories of Sir Joseph Hooker
refer. I clearly remember his eating gooseberries with us as children,
in the kitchen garden at Down. The love of gooseberries was a bond
between us which had no existence in the case of our uncles, who either
ate no gooseberries or preferred to do so in solitude. By a process of
evolutionary change the word gooseberry took on a new meaning at Down.
Hooker used to send Darwin some especially fine bananas grown in the Kew
hothouses, and these were called Kew gooseberries. It was characteristic
of my father to feel doubts as to whether he ought to receive Royal
bananas from a Royal garden. I wish I could remember Hooker romping with
us as children, of which he somewhere speaks.
It was about this time that Darwin had a fancy to make out the names of
the English grasses, and Hooker wrote, "How on earth you have made out 30
grasses rightly is a mystery to me. You must have a marvellous tact for
appreciating diagnosis." It was at this time that one of Darwin's boys
remarked in regard to a grass he had found:--"I are an extraordinary
grass-finder, and must have it particularly by me all dinner." Strange
to say he did not grow into a botanist.
Hooker's letters at this time impress me with the difficulty he met with
in adapting his systematic work to the doctrines of evolution. He gives
the impression of working at species in a puzzled or discontented frame
of mind. Thus on 1st January 1859, he writes to a
fellow-botanist:--"What I shall try to do is, to harmonise the facts with
the newest doctrines, not because they are the truest, but because they
do give you room to reason and reflect at present, and hopes for the
future, whereas the old stick-in-the-mud doctrines of absolute creations,
multiple creations, and dispersion by actual causes under existing
circumstances, are all used up, they are so many stops to further
enquiry."
A few days later he continues to the same correspondent: "If the course
of migration does not agree with that of birds, winds, currents, etc., so
much the worse for the facts of migration!" On the whole it seems to me
a remarkable fact that Hooker's conversion to evolution was such a slow
affair. As Mr Huxley points out, "The partial light thrown on the
question in fragmentary discussions was not enough, and until 1858-59,
after the consolidation of Darwin's arguments in the famous Abstract
[_The Origin of Species_], Hooker . . . worked avowedly on the accepted
lines of the fixity of species, for which he had so far found no
convincing substitute."
It is pleasant to read Darwin's warm-hearted words: {127a} "You may say
what you like, but you will never convince me that I do not owe you ten
times as much as you can owe me" (30th Dec. 1858).
Hooker's importance in the world was ever on the increase, and this had
also its usual concomitant drawbacks. Huxley wrote to him {127b} on 19th
December 1860: "It is no use having any false modesty about the matter.
You and I, if we last ten years longer--and you by a long while
first--will be representatives of our respective lines in the country.
In that capacity we shall have certain duties to perform, to ourselves,
to the outside world, and to Science. We shall have to swallow praise,
which is no great pleasure, and to stand multitudinous bastings and
irritations." And this was doubtless a true prophecy for both the
friends.
Hooker's work--both his botanical research and duties of a more public
character--was ever on the increase.
In the first category comes the _Genera Plantarum_, a gigantic piece of
work begun with the co-operation of Bentham in the '60's, and continued
until 1883. The aim of this celebrated publication was no less than to
give a revised definition of every genus of flowering plants. If this
had been the only publication by the two friends, it had been enough to
found a high and permanent place in the botanical world. But as far as
Hooker was concerned, it may almost be said to have been carried out in
his spare moments. It should be remembered that for part of this period
he was aided in the management of the Gardens by Sir William
Thiselton-Dyer, who began as Hooker's Private Secretary and was then made
Assistant Director. {128a}
The Presidency of the Royal Society, which Hooker held 1873-78, was
clearly a great strain, but he carried out the work (which is in fact
that of a ministry of science) with conspicuous success.
In January 1873 he wrote to Darwin:--"I quite agree as to the awful
honour of P. R. S. . . . but, my dear fellow, I don't want to be crowned
head of science. I dread it--'Uneasy is the head, etc.'--and my beloved
Gen. Plant. will be grievously impeded." It gives some idea of the
strain of his work as a whole when we find him writing {128b} to Darwin
(Jan. 14, 1875): "I have 15 Committees of the R[oyal] S[ociety] to attend
to. I cannot tell you what a relief they are to me--matters are so ably
and quietly conducted by Stokes, Huxley, and Spottiswoode that to me they
are of the same sort of relaxation that metaphysics are to Huxley."
He speaks, {128c} too (1874), of the annual conversazione as "a
tremendous affair. . . . How I did pity the President of the United
States." I am reminded of an American caricature of the President of the
United States with red, swollen fingers, inscribed:--"The hand we have
shaken so often." With regard to other honours, he declined at once the
K.C.M.G.; he then began to dread a K.C.B.; finally he was trapped into
the K.C.S.I., an honour which most men would desire quite as much as
Hooker longed to decline it.
In 1873 Hooker made a series of experiments on the digestion and
absorption of food by certain insectivorous plants, notably Nepenthes,
with the object of helping Darwin in his work on that subject.
We must return a year or two to deal with a matter which, as Mr L. Huxley
remarks, "ravaged and embittered" the period 1870-72--namely, his
conflict with Ayrton, the First Commissioner of Works in Gladstone's
Government. Mr L. Huxley, like a clever musician, gives a touch of
Ayrton's tone in the opening phrases of his composition. At a grand
festivity in honour of the Shah of Persia this sovereign was
unaccountably anxious to meet the Commissioner of Works. Ayrton was at
supper, and bluntly responded, with his mouth full of chicken, "I'll see
the old nigger in Jericho first!"
He began to show his quality by sending an "official reprimand to the
Director of Kew." This, the first received in twenty-nine years'
service, was based "on a misapprehension." Ayrton's aim seems to have
been to compel Hooker to resign and convert Kew Gardens into a public
park.
In 1871 Hooker casually discovered from a subordinate "that he himself
had been superseded . . . in one of his most important duties--namely,
the heating of the plant-houses." It would take too long to enumerate
the endless acts of insolence and folly which marked Ayrton's treatment
of Hooker. A full statement of the case was drawn up and signed by a
small body of the most distinguished scientific men of the day, and after
a debate in the House of Commons, Mr Ayrton was kicked upstairs "from the
Board of Works to the resuscitated office of Judge Advocate General." I
remember an anecdote which illustrates Ayrton's stupendous ignorance of
the great department over which he was called to rule. Hooker was taking
Ayrton round the Gardens when they met Mr Bentham, who happened to remark
that he had come from the Herbarium. "Oh," said Ayrton, "did you get
your feet wet?" For the official ruler of Kew there was no difference
between a Herbarium and an Aquarium.
This period has pleasanter memories, for it was in 1873 that Huxley, much
out of health and "heavily mulcted" by having to pay the costs of an
unsuccessful action brought against him by a man of straw, was persuaded
to accept from a group of personal friends a sum of 3000 pounds to clear
his financial position, Hooker wrote to Darwin, "I am charmed by Huxley's
noble-minded letter."
In 1874 Mrs Hooker died, leaving six children, of whom three still
required care. Hooker wrote later to Darwin from Nuneham (ii., p. 191):
"I am here on two days' visit to a place I had not seen since I was here
with Fanny Henslow [Mrs Hooker] in 1847. I cannot tell you how depressed
I feel at times. She, you, and Oxford are burnt into my memory." Here
occurs, in a letter from Mrs Bewicke, some account of Hooker's method of
dealing with his family. She gives the impression (though clearly not
intentionally) that Hooker rather worried his children. She speaks of
the many questions he asked them at meals and the pleasure he took in
their success in answering. She adds, "When we drove into London with
him, he would tell us the names of the big houses and their owners, and
then expect us to know them as we drove back." This confirms my
impression that Hooker was not quite judicious in his manner of educating
or enlightening his children. I have a general impression of having
sympathised with them in their difficulties.
In 1876, Hooker was happily married to Hyacinth, widow of Sir William
Jardine; and about the same time Sir William Thiselton-Dyer married Sir
Joseph's daughter.
The _Index Kewensis_, which unites the names of two friends, was carried
out at Kew, with funds supplied by Darwin. It was in fact a completion
of Steudel's _Nomenclator_, and was published in four quarto volumes in
1892-95. The MS. is said to have weighed more than a ton and comprised
about 375,000 entries. Hooker, with wonderful energy and devotion, read
and criticised it in detail. {131}
In 1885, Hooker resigned his position as Director at Kew, and
henceforward lived at the Camp, Sunningdale, his "Tusculum" among the
pine-woods as Mr Huxley puts it, where he remained, ever hard at work,
for twenty-six years.
He was still astonishingly vigorous; at eighty-two he was "younger than
ever," though at ninety-three he confessed to being lazy in his old age.
In 1885 and subsequent years he was, as I gratefully remember, employed
in helping me in the _Life and Letters of Charles Darwin_. I could not
have had a kinder or wiser collaborator.
Hooker's unaffected modesty came out again about this period. In 1887 he
was awarded the Copley Medal of the Royal Society, an honour which is the
pinnacle of scientific ambition, and is open to foreigners as well as
British subjects. He wrote in regard to the award, "I never once thought
of myself as within the pale of it." And in a letter to W. E. Darwin,
"The success of my after-dinner homily at the R. S. is to me far more
wonderful than getting the Copley. You . . . can guess my condition of
two days' nausea before the dinner, and 2 days of illness after it. I am
not speaking figuratively."
We find Hooker here and there slashing at contemporary methods of
education. For instance, in regard to the mass of public school boys:
"Not one of them can now translate a simple paper in Latin or Greek, or
will look into a classical author, or listen to the talk about one."
Mathematicians fared no better. He wrote in 1893:--"What you say of A,
B, and C does not surprise me. They are _ne plus ultra_ mathematicians,
and have not a conception of biological science, and in fact are only
_half-intellects_ (I suppose I deserve to be burned)."
It is pleasant to find that Hooker allowed himself time to indulge his
love of art. He was especially fond of old Wedgwood ware, and
corresponded with William Darwin--a fellow amateur. In 1895, he allowed
the same friend to become the owner of some old Wedgwood ware; and when
the sale was completed Hooker speaks of its being a relief "to feel that
the crockery is going back where it should have gone by rights." {133}
Elsewhere (ii., p. 360) Hooker discourses pleasantly on the perfect
adaption to its end of the old Wedgwood ware. An old teapot, for
instance, avoids all the faults of the modern article, in lifting which
"you scald your knuckles against the body of the pot"; then the lid
shoots off and you scald your other hand in trying to save it; the tea
shoots out and splashes over the teacup; lastly the "spout dribbles when
you set the pot down." All these sins are provided against in the old
Wedgwood teapot.
The _Flora of British India_ having been finished, he was asked to
complete the handbook to the Flora of Ceylon, interrupted by the death of
Trimen, and this occupied him for three years. He was then led to what
was to be his final piece of work, namely, a study of the difficult group
of the Balsams (_Impatiens_), and he certainly was not coloured by what
he worked in, for the whole stock of his admirable patience was needed
for this difficult research. His perseverance was a by-product of his
noble enthusiasm. In 1906, when he was eighty-nine years of age, he
writes enthusiastically to a friend in the East expressing his longing
for more Balsams, and concluding, "I do love Indian Botany." And in 1909
he hears that the Paris Herbarium had overlooked forty sheets of
Indo-Chinese specimens--and writes, "This is like a stroke of paralysis
to a man approaching his ninety-third year, but it is no use grumbling,
my eyes are as good as ever, and my fingers are as agile as ever, and I
am indeed thankful."
The _Life_ of Hooker is enriched by a striking essay from the pen of
Professor Bower. He points out (ii., p. 412) that "few, if indeed any,
have ever known plants as he did. Such knowledge comes only from growing
up with them from earliest childhood." Professor Bower adds that Hooker
"shared with Darwin that wider outlook upon the field of Science that
gave a special value to the writings of both"; and he adds, "The
_Himalayan Journals_ ranks with Darwin's _Voyage of the_ '_Beagle_'."
When _More Letters of Charles Darwin_ was in preparation, Hooker was
appealed to for assistance, and wrote a characteristically kind letter
(1st Feb. 1899) to one of the editors:--
"I will gladly help you all I can; so have no scruples. . . . You are
right to make the book uncompromisingly scientific. It will be greatly
valued. I am getting so old and oblivious that I fear I may not be of
much use."
And a few weeks later (24th Feb. 1899):--
"I had no idea that your father had kept my letters. Your account of 742
pp. of them is a revelation. I do enjoy re-reading your father's; as to
my own, I regard it as a punishment for my various sins of blindness,
perversity, and inattention to his thousand and one facts and hints that
I did not profit by as much as I should have, all as revealed by my
letters."
In 1907 he received the Order of Merit, the Insignia being conveyed to
him by Colonel Douglas Dawson from the King. I had the honour of being
the only person present on the occasion, though why Sir Joseph allowed me
this pleasure I cannot guess. I remember Colonel Dawson in vain trying
to persuade Sir Joseph not to see him to his carriage at the door. I
have, too, a picture of Sir Joseph fidgeting round the room afterwards,
unwillingly wearing the collar to please his family.
In 1908 he took the chief part in the fiftieth anniversary of the
Darwin-Wallace papers of 1858. He characteristically begged the Darwins
to tell him if they entertained "the _smallest_ doubt of the expediency
or propriety of telling the public the part" which he took on that
historic occasion!
He was also the chief guest at the 1909 celebration at Cambridge of the
centenary of Darwin's birth. I recollect him wandering about at the
evening reception, quite unconsciously the object of all eyes.
Unfortunately, Hooker was not present at the banquet, where, as Mr L.
Huxley says, "Mr Balfour's historic speech was only eclipsed by the sense
of personal charm in Mr W. E. Darwin's reminiscences of his father" (ii.,
p. 467).
It is delightful to find Hooker in 1911 vigorously corresponding with Dr
Bruce, a "brother Antarctic." He writes to Bruce, 20th February 1911, "I
return herewith the proof-sheets, which I have perused with extraordinary
interest and an amount of instruction and information that I never
expected to receive at my age" (_Life_, ii., p. 478). It is touching
that in extreme old age the first work that occupied his youth should
still find so clear an echo in his vigorous old age.
Mr Huxley records (ii., p. 480) that though Sir Joseph "kept at work till
but a little before the end," his physical strength began to fail in the
late summer; but his mental powers were undimmed. He died in his sleep
on 10th December 1911, and was buried (as he had desired) near his
father's grave at Kew.
A GREAT HOSPITAL {137a}
Dr Moore writes in his preface: "The History is a gift from me to St
Bartholomew's, and I hope that the labour of investigating historical
events, of meditating upon them, and of finally writing the book in such
hours as my profession allowed during more than thirty years, may be
taken as a proof of the gratitude I feel to the noble hospital with which
my whole professional life has been connected."
The book seems to me eminently worthy of its subject and of its learned
author. {137b} As a record of the 800 years during which the Hospital
has existed it naturally contains an enormous mass of detail, and this
means that the book is physically very big. The first volume is of 614
quarto pages, and the second of 992 pages. The index contains at least
20,000 entries.
The Hospital and the Priory of St Bartholomew were the first buildings
erected on the open space of Smithfield. The foundation took place in
1123, and Rahere, the founder, was the first Prior. He is said to have
been of lowly race, and to have made himself popular in the houses of
nobles and princes "by witcisms and flattering talk." Then he repented
of such a mode of life and made a pilgrimage to Rome to obtain
forgiveness. On his way back he had a vision of St Bartholomew, by whom
he was directed to found a church in Smithfield.
It seems that "no part of the hospital as built by Rahere is now
standing, but within the present building, which covers the original
site, there still remains one thing which was there in his time. It is a
legal document which his eyes beheld, and which was sealed in his
presence. This charter is written on vellum in the clear hand-writing of
the first half of the twelfth century." The seal shows a "turreted
building, which is probably the Priory of St Bartholomew's as it looked
in the first twenty years of its existence."
The two parts of an indented chirograph have been preserved in the
hospital, which give (i., p. 239) a view of the state of agriculture in
Essex in the reign of King John. Mention is made of fields of wheat,
rye, barley, oats and beans; of oxen, horses, of brew-house and barn.
Rent was paid in kind and sent by water to the hospital quay, which may
have been on the River Fleet and therefore nearer to the hospital than a
landing-place on the Thames. The Fleet river, as Dr Moore happily points
out (i., p. 246), is now shut up in a tubular dungeon, "as if to remind
it of all the unhappiness it had passed by in the Gaola de Flete from the
time" when the prisoners watched "the ships passing up it with corn for
St Bartholomew's Hospital . . . to the days when the body of Samuel
Pickwick was confided to the custody of the tipstaff, to be by him taken
to the Warden of the Fleet Prison, and there detained until the amount of
the damages and costs in the action of Bardell against Pickwick was fully
paid and satisfied."
The author never fails to make interesting use of the driest of charters.
Thus in the reign of King John a person with the pleasant name of Adam
Pepercorn grants to the hospital ten shillings quit-rent for some land in
Grub Street, a region full of unhappy memories. Dr Moore quotes passages
from Johnson, Swift, and Goldsmith to show that the name Grub Street
should have been protected by such associations from any change; but
nothing is sacred, and Grub Street is now known as Milton Street.
The author (i., p. 279) asks whether the brethren of St Bartholomew's
made any medical studies, and points out they may well have read parts of
the _Liber Etymologiarum_ by St Isidore of Seville, who flourished A.D.
601. The book is a general summary of knowledge in Isidore's day, and
few religious houses in England were without a copy.
I like the facts in the region of domestic economy which are given. For
instance, that in 1229 Richard of Muntfichet was ordered by Henry III. to
give "six leafless oaks for the hospital fire." We want to know whether
they were the King's oaks, or was Muntfichet forced to supply the wood?
If Dr R. W. Darwin (father of Charles Darwin) had then been King of
England he would have ordered apple-trees, for these he considered much
superior to all other fuel. The reader is constantly meeting interesting
stories. Thus Bishop Roger Niger was, in the year 1230, celebrating mass
in St Paul's when a great thunderstorm burst over the church and the
congregation fled in terror. But Roger and one deacon were not to be
frightened, and went on with the Mass.
In the 13th Century John of Marsham (i., p. 390) made oath that he would
carry through the affairs of Alan of Culing at the Court of Rome. Did
John die on his journey, or did he fail in his suit? He never claimed
the charter which he left at the hospital, where it may still be seen.
A charter recording a grant by the Master of St Bartholomew's to the
Bishop of Bath is preserved in St Paul's; Sir Norman Moore says (i., p.
392), "It was pleasant to find this original document in the charter room
of the cathedral, where mine was probably the first hand from St
Bartholomew's Hospital which had touched it since it received the seal of
William the master and the brethren, six hundred and seventy years ago."
I cannot resist quoting (i., p. 412) one more of the many touching and
interesting episodes with which the history of St Bartholomew's
abounds:--
Cecilia, a widow, devoted herself to the altar of St Edmund and received
a wedding ring. When she was dying (1251), a Dominican father, giving
her the last sacrament, noticed the ring and said, "Take off that ring,
lest she die so decked out." Cecilia roused herself and said she would
offer the ring "before the judgement seat of God my betrothed."
It is interesting to find that surnames were beginning to be established
in the reign of Henry III. Thus a certain Thomas Niger is described as
the son of Walter Niger. {141}
There are innumerable facts given in the history of St Bartholomew which
illustrate the permanence of the London streets. Thus in a document of
1256 is mentioned a little lane going towards the church of St Mary
Staining Lane. The little lane is easily found at this day leading from
Wood Street to a small churchyard, on a stone in the wall of which is cut
"Before the dreadful fire of 1666, here stood the church of St Mary
Staining" (i., p. 441).
A document quoted (i., p. 454) is of interest in regard to the value of
money in mediaeval times; the following extract shows what in the reign
of Henry II. was considered a serious sum. The hospital owed the butcher
eleven pounds, and the master and brethren agreed to pay it in eight
years and a quarter by a rent charge on a house.
The reader of Sir Norman Moore's book is continually coming across
unexpected facts. For instance, that St James' Palace is on the site of
what, i
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