Part 10

The whole address in _Hamlet_ delivered by the Ghost is free from metaphor with few exceptions towards the end, as—

“Make thy two eyes like stars dart from their spheres;”

also—

“Like quills upon a fretful porcupine.”

These two lines are the only exceptions. They are mighty, and at the very summit of human art, but in this respect do not actually reveal more than may be set forth in a pure simplicity of diction.

This great truth of truths was known to David and Solomon. It came to them as the only means through which the interests of a pure humanity could be enlarged on, and made to reach the heart.

Moses enjoyed the art, as shown in his account of the creation; so likewise did the authors of Esther, Ruth, and Job. It came to them because their poetry was so human, and consisted not, as it did with the Greeks, in exalting heroes and conquerors.

It is easy enough to use simple language in descriptive poetry or in prose; not so easy to attain to sublimity by its means. To do this demands genius of the first order. Shakespeare, the most gifted of men, was not too great to employ it in his highest achievements. He was a perfect master of simplicity; he knew that there was but one simple thing, and that was truth.

“The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,”

and the lines that follow, are entirely free from metaphor, yet no purer and nobler description ever found utterance. The more a writer deviates from simplicity, the less sincere he appears. Let every man of genius mark my words, that He who delivered the parables to the multitude was Sincerity itself; that His teachings were allegories, but that metaphor never crossed His lips. Take as examples those exquisite poems—for such they are, unfettered by artificial metre—the parables of the Prodigal Son, and of the Ten Virgins: a critical reading of them will readily reveal that not a single metaphor exists in either, and yet what an elevated poetry pervades them! After perusing them, turn at once to Milton and read his account of Satan’s exaltation in hell—

“High on a throne of royal state which far Outshone the wealth of Ormus, or of Ind, Or where the gorgeous East, with richest hand, Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold, Satan exalted sat, by merit raised To that bad eminence.”

This is great language, is marvellous, high-sounding, impressive, but is it sincere? Would an angel sent from heaven to report on the proceedings in hell, have brought back such a description as this of what he had beheld?

It is grand, as is Homer’s exaltation of his heroes; but does it touch the innermost heart?

This is said not to find fault; not to withdraw admiration from one of the few who have made their country famous before all other lands, for there is time for all things; for

“The pomp and circumstance of glorious war,”

and for sadness at the sufferings of humanity.

In writing about Shakespeare and Coleridge, I have showed that poems from their hand, however short, had the three essentials of art—that is, the three parallels, not more or less—namely, the statement of the subject, the development of it in detail, and the climax. The bare statement of the subject is the basis of the whole; the development employs the retrospective imagination which embraces an acquaintance with all nature and human life; finally, the climax involves the moral by means of the prospective imagination or the circumspective, and rises into the incommensurable.

An analysis of the parables shows that these three parallels are invariably to be found in each. A poet who cares little or nothing for nature uses the introspective imagination, substituting himself for the universe, whence his climax often sinks into a mere reflection.

I would say a few more words on the subject of parables.

Dr. Angus, the masterly author of an English Grammar, defines the allegory, parable, and fable. He says of the parable that it is an allegory of something that might happen, written in metaphoric language. This is an instance in which a great scholar may err by dispensing with scrutiny and relying on his instinctive belief.

XL.

But I must not forget that these records are meant to be about myself, the author of poems and other effusions let loose when from time to time he drew out the spigot. The author’s insurance policy is still under discussion. His trial is still going on, as did that of Warren Hastings; it has gone into a new generation, and some say that when, like the traditional door-nail, he is dead, it will terminate in his acquittal, it being found at last that he did not make himself, but was planned out by Nature to serve her purpose; having fulfilled which, she withdrew the chemical compound of which he consisted, and utilized his waste materials.

As said before, I had the “Piromides” printed and published; it was by Saunders and Ottley, in 1839, while I resided in Gordon Square on my return from Paris, where I had spent twelve months in making the acquaintance of scientific physicians, naturalists, and others; going round the wards of La Charité with Andral every morning at six o’clock; attending the lectures on chemistry of Thénard at a later hour, and revelling in the bones of Cuvier’s osteological museum. I was much with Milne-Edwards; and with Dujardin, whose _éclairage_ for the microscope I introduced into London, lending mine to Ross and to Powell as a pattern, and these opticians and their successors have supplied the scientific profession with it ever since. It consisted of an achromatic illuminator, the invention of which Wollaston pronounced impossible, and which Dujardin achieved.

In that year I made the discovery of an animalcule in the liver; it was a time when such things were unknown, now fifty years ago. This discovery has recently attracted the attention of the Pathological Society, who have given an account of it in their “Transactions” for 1890, in a eulogistic tone.

In that year, too, I published “Vates.”

From 1839 to 1853, living in East Anglia, I was engaged in an art-novel or romance, called “Valdarno,” taking it up only from time to time, as Goethe did his “Faust.” I began its foundations in Florence, and published four numbers under the title of “Vates,” illustrated by Charles Landseer, and I then dropped it, as in costing too much money it became a gift to the world. Dante Rossetti, whose father was a professor at King’s, like Pepoli at University College, used, as a student-boy at the first-named, to purchase “Vates,” and devour it eagerly; so he told me when many years later we met.

Leaving the arena of letters and art for country life, which is, however, worth seeing once, I settled myself down in the monastic borough of Bury St. Edmunds. Like all the old county towns, it was formerly the little metropolis of a squirearchy, where the dowagers retired for life into the family mansions. The place has great architectural features in the shape of abbey ruins, still haunted by the ghost of Abbot Sampson; of noble churches, such as are not built now; of Norman tower and Gothic gateway, such as may never be built again.

There was no lord in the place to adorn it, but there was a great plenty of the kind to bless it and conserve it within reach—the Duke of Norfolk, the Marquis of Bristol, and baronets sufficient in number to engage the fingers of one hand when counted up. But the town itself had its magnates; there was an honourable Mr. Petre, brother of a lord of that name, and an honourable Mr. Pellew, son of the naval hero, and my own familiar friend, not to mention an admiral of the great name and family of Wollaston, and a post-captain, with a C.B. that he never wore; and it must not be forgotten that the august mother of the Bishop of London, Dr. Bloomfield, also resided there, among others of great worth, including a solitary baronet and his lady, Sir John Walsham.

There was a famous grammar school, too, with Dr. Donaldson of classic fame as head master, which had supplied England with a president of the Royal College of Physicians, Sir Thomas Watson; a lord chancellor, Sir Robert Rolfe, Lord Cranworth; besides a bishop of London, whose scholarship was on a par with that of the most learned of the day; and all these alive at the same time.

The Marquis of Bristol was the younger son of the earl of that house, who was also Bishop of Derry, and owing to his elder brother’s early death, he became the owner of Ickworth, a park within a short drive of Bury, which, including all the parish and part of the one adjoining, lies within a circuit of eleven miles. It is said that the father disliked the son, probably owing to some act of disobedience, and exercised his power of depriving the inheritance of its charm. He destroyed all the fine old timber in the park, but nearly a hundred years have sufficed to restore it; and he left the plan of a colossal palace, of which he himself erected the central shell, and laid the whole of the foundations. I was credibly informed that ten thousand a year was to be spent for fifty years, according to the bishop’s will, to complete the structure.

The building was completed on the original grand scale about fifty years ago, and it took fifty years to finish. In the drawings of this marvellous structure it is designated Ickworth Building, and it bears that name, which, given it by Time, it will always retain, for people call it by no other.

Ickworth Building was the design of a Mr. Sandys, I believe a clergyman, not an architect by profession. He had been much in Rome, as had the bishop, who loved Italy, and lived more in that country than elsewhere; and, though an absentee bishop, the beneficence he exercised in his see was so great that at his death the people of Derry subscribed to raise a monument of their gratitude to him, which stands near the building in Ickworth Park.

There must be descriptions of Ickworth Building in works on architecture, and I think one will be found in Mr. Rookwood Gage’s fine “History of Suffolk;” but I do not possess such, and what I say is from memory.

I have heard Lord Bristol say that often when he looked out of window in the morning on the new building from the old, he wished the earth would swallow it up. One knows the feeling of something always hanging over one; it is like that of a man sitting underneath a gallows after an execution.

The marquis might doubtless have eluded the burden imposed on him by his father’s will, but _je noublieray jamais_ was the motto he inherited, and he lived to finish his task and to enjoy the magnificent dwelling-place as a home. The building itself, wholly unique in grace and beauty, consists of a central structure, almost circular, surmounted by a dome, intended to represent the Coliseum; its summit is belted by sculptures of the Homeric legends, the work of Flaxman. There are two square wings at a proportionate distance from the body of the building, connected with it by corridors, each being the segment of a circle, with its concavity to the front. The left wing was designed for a picture-gallery, the right one for a gallery of sculpture, intended by the bishop to receive his collections of art.

The building is of white material externally; its area is planted with cedars alone. Of all the palaces and mansions I have ever beheld, it is the most surprising; perhaps equalled only, though not in grace, by the temples of India, with the designs of which one is familiar.

The Pavilion at Brighton should not be forgotten in such a comparison, but that is semi-barbarous, while Ickworth is classic, of the Ionic and Corinthian orders.

Approached by a serpentine road, its perspective conveys the impression of a moving object; it seems to swing round, as on a pivot, at every turn one takes in driving towards the portico, now slowly, now rapidly revolving, on its aërial axis, now remaining still.

I am not aware of it, if what follows has ever been put on record authentically, though it may have been so in part. The earl-bishop lived much at Rome and spent his large income in making a collection of pictures and sculptures to fill the galleries at Ickworth. It was at the time when we were at war with France on account of Napoleon Bonaparte’s usurpations.

The bishop having completed his collections of sculptures made his arrangements for transmitting them to England, when they were seized on their way by Bonaparte as belonging to a British subject. This act aroused a strong feeling of indignation in the minds of the Italian artists, who had met with so generous a patron in the bishop, and, that he might not be a sufferer, they subscribed a large sum of money and offered it to Bonaparte as a ransom for the treasures he had put under confiscation. Bonaparte took the money and set the collection free, restoring it to their owner, when it was no sooner despatched a second time than he seized it again.

No more fortunate fate awaited the pictures. The bishop succeeded in having them safely conveyed to Dover, but while in the custom house the building was burnt down, and the fine collection of paintings was destroyed in the flames.

I was told by one of the family a singular anecdote of the bishop. When at Rome he was invited to a banquet by the cardinals, and, while the company gathered, he learnt accidentally that the dining-hall was over the debtor’s prison. His anger at once burst forth and knew no bounds. He, a prelate of the Church of England, was insulted; he had been asked to dine over the heads of those wretched prisoners who, during the feast, would be pining in their narrow cells. His hosts naturally explained that such an affront was unintended by them; but he was not to be pacified. At length his course was determined on: he would remain where he was until a full list of all the prisoners’ debts was brought him. For this he waited sulkily, and when it arrived he wrote a cheque for the entire amount.

The prison doors were opened, and he sat down.

The private history of a country has not the same interest as the public, which is enduring; but it has a charm and is instructive. Biology profits by observing the influence of a higher life on the temperaments of men, on their principles, their manners, and their views. How different all these become to what we meet with in the common working men, from whom the best of us are descended!

The bishop was for some time confined by the republicans in the castle of Milan, and afterwards still remained in Italy, where he died in 1803. Except the central shell and the foundations, Ickworth was left for the next successor to erect: a gigantic undertaking.

The Herveys were always distinguished by their manners; Lord Hervey, in Pope’s time, was so conspicuous on this ground as to be called “Fanny Hervey.” It was with him, probably, the saying arose that the human race was divided into men, women, and Herveys.

The present Lord Arthur, now bishop of Bath and Wells, has a manner which, once seen, could never be forgotten. The same might be said of Lord Charles Hervey, who, however, had taken a different polish from having been a member of the Spanish embassy.

Lord Bristol was at Ickworth chiefly at Christmas, when he packed his house with all his descendants, having a separate table for those who were yet children.

Unfortunately, the offices being in the basement, half a mile distant, as people said, the dinner had plenty of time to cool before it reached the table.

Lord Bristol was always very pleasant with his guests: after dinner he would sit with his legs crossed and enter into familiar chat on political matters. He had veered a good deal towards the Liberal side. I remember his saying to me, “It is incumbent on us to move with the times; it was very easy to govern when there was only a population of eleven millions, but it is a different matter now.”

Earl Jermyn was very unlike his younger brothers and his father. He had a manner peculiarly his own, a politeness so mingled with shyness that one could not distinguish the one from the other, but withal a commanding air. His countess, Lady Catherine Jermyn, sister of the present Duke of Rutland, had a most imposing figure, and was both beautiful and full of charm. She died in London in her prime, so absolutely the prey of small-pox that no feature was longer recognizable.

Lord Alfred was member for Bury at one time, with Earl Jermyn, but he made no place for himself in political life.

I was informed that the earl-bishop had built himself a residence in Ireland, similar to the Ickworth Building, but on a greatly reduced scale. When I read Lever’s novel of “The Bishop’s Folly,” I wondered whether its plot was laid in the place in question. I quite read the work with the impression that it was so.

XLI.

Much culture shows itself in the families of Suffolk. I often thought it was owing to the vicinity of Cambridge, which is not more than a drive of thirty miles from Bury. This remark applies to many of the resident gentry, and notably to two sons of Sir Henry Bunbury: to his eldest, Sir C. F. Bunbury, the late baronet and a distinguished botanist, who was only debarred from a Fellowship of Trinity by his being an heir to an estate and title; an honour which his next brother, Sir Edward, received, and who sustained his reputation in becoming the most learned ancient geographer of the day.

Sir Henry, a lieutenant-general, was a man not to be readily forgotten. He had a sound judgment, was a constant reader of books, old and new, a clear-headed critic of art productions, and he held temperate opinions on national affairs; in fact, he encouraged the repeal of the corn laws, though at Barton and Mildenhall the owner of over fifteen thousand acres of land. He was the son of a famous man, the greatest of caricaturists, Henry Bunbury, whose initials of H. B. were adopted by one who came later and who reaped fame on the bold impersonation.

Henry Bunbury was the friend of Sir Joshua, and there are several Reynoldses at Barton Hall; one of priceless value, a full-length portraiture of Lady Sarah Lennox as Venus sacrificing to the Graces—a lady destined to perform a notable part in life.

It was said that her beauty was the exciting cause of her sovereign’s madness, for it was well-known that she smote him to the quick; but she was fated to a higher lot, though her path to it was thorny.

Lady Sarah Lennox was married to Sir Charles Bunbury, the uncle of Sir Henry, a man in whose life the world can take no interest, for he was simply of the horse-racing class, the least admirable of shrewd, clever men.

One may imagine the kind of character Sir Charles was when it is told that he grew tired of his lovely wife! She was finally divorced from so unworthy a partner, and retired to Ireland, in the bitterness of her heart.

After a lapse of several years, Lady Sarah met with a Colonel Napier, who belonged to the historical family of that name, and she married him. From that date her better destiny began. She became a mother, but of such a family! Of her five sons, three were Peninsula heroes, with the friendly eye of Wellington always upon them. Sir Charles Napier, the first general of his day; Sir William, the historian of the Peninsular War; and Sir George, a brave, good man, who was governor of the Cape.

Another son of this great lady was a barrister, and a fifth was a post-captain.

But to one, the only daughter, the sister in so bright a galaxy, one may readily credit the charm that attached to her! To complete the romance, she became the second wife of Sir Henry Bunbury, coming to Barton Hall, to find her beautiful mother’s image there, where it had remained over the great library mantelpiece, sacrificing to the Graces still.

Barton was a comfortable home, and Providence, to make perfection joyous, bestowed on Lady Bunbury a niece whose countenance was the daylight, whose voice was the music of all around. This was Cecilia Napier, the only living child of Sir George. She inherited the beauty and grace of Lady Sarah, whose portraiture by Reynolds was hers also. The family of Sir Henry came of a first marriage, but he loved the adopted one of his second wife as his own. This lovely girl became the wife of his third son, Henry, a colonel in the army.

One would almost think that Providence was the near relation of some families—it appoints them to such pleasant places, makes them so welcome upon earth, lets them want for nothing. So it was apparently at Barton Hall, on which the divine patronage was very generously bestowed.

As we learnt at school, _Natura beatis omnibus esse dedit_. Still, as a physician would say, this is only the predisposing cause; exciting causes must follow. And here Providence steps in, with the patronage of a prime minister, which is not, in appearance, dealt out disinterestedly; but there is not enough for all.

Sir Henry, on account of his conciliatory manners, was selected after the war to communicate to General Bonaparte his pending sentence of lifelong exile. Sir Hudson Lowe might perhaps have been as well appointed to the task, for the ex-emperor simply burst out into a torrent of abuse and rage, which not all the persuasiveness of the baronet could soften.

Sir Henry began military life at the battle of Maida, under General Stuart, and wrote an account of it in pamphlet form, but I think not for general circulation. He also similarly described his interview with Napoleon. It gave a fuller account of what passed than appears in Sir Walter Scott’s work, which was borrowed from it by Sir Henry’s permission.

Sir George Napier I knew very well; he was sometimes at Barton. Sir Charles I saw only once, and was charmed by the gentle and unpretending manner of the man who had performed such marvels of valour. When last in India, at the conquest of Scinde, he contracted a dysentery, which afterwards returned and proved fatal. He annexed Scinde, in violation of the orders from home. Lady Bunbury told me she had heard, but could not vouch for the truth of it, that in his despatch to the Government he announced what he had done in one apologetic word—_peccavi_.

It was said that the moral influence enjoyed over the troops by this great soldier even exceeded that of his command as general.

It may be interesting to note that Sir Henry’s successor, the late Charles Fox Bunbury, married a daughter of Leonard Horner, a sister of Lady Lyell. They lived at the old mansion at Mildenhall.

I knew Sir Charles Lyell in 1839, when I was the bearer to him of some fossils; and I met him with Lady Lyell and her sisters in 1853, when I delivered a lecture to a select company in the house.

XLII.

One’s memoirs never seem to end; the more one advances the more one seems to remember. It is like living over again on somewhat easy terms, for a repetition of the reality would by all, if offered it, be respectfully declined, even by those who have passed through it the most smoothly. But this revival of a long life in memory itself is a good; one can set aside and suppress the bad feelings that have had their place in alternate succession, and can so purify being, though too late, as one passes through it over again. We have all had friends, and in thus reviving their recollection we feel how far less stable within us are their failings than their kindly deeds. The models of good men are those who never speak ill of others; there are many such, and in passing once more from childhood to old age we may imitate them at last.