From The Spectator. then assumed a museum-like appearance, and the collection which has just been dispersed was well worth a visit, before the WHEN Mr. Charles Dickens and Mr. objects which composed it were removed Wilkie Collins went on their "Lazy Tour" from their accustomed places, and within their ironically-assumed character of drawn from daily use, to the undignified "Two Idle Apprentices," they halted for confusion of a sale by auction in a dismana time at Lancaster, the half-way stage be- tled billiard-room. For the old inn is to tween London and Scotland, and they put be pulled down, in the interest of streetup at the King's Arms. That comforta- widening, and a new hotel, with all the ble, quaint old inn looks as if it might have modern improvements, is to take its place. sheltered the helter skelterers from the Visitors will hardly find themselves so north in many troublous times, and the comfortable among the marble and the ponderous sign suspended above its door-gilding, and though one might not particway might have suggested the Dragon in "Martin Chuzzlewit," had not that rampant animal creaked in its place in contemporary history long before the idle apprentices set forth upon their tour. The sojourn of the friends at the King's Arms led to the writing, by Mr. Dickens, of one of his most fantastic fictions. In the ghost of the hanged man in the story on "A Bridal Chamber," the ghost with a queer twitch of one nostril, as if it had been caught up by a hook, we recognize the first outline of the elaborated picture of Mr. Jaggers' office, in "Great Expectations; " while the rest of the tale is a variation of the "Madman's Story" in "Master Humphry's Clock." The tale supplied the King's Arms Inn with the only thing which it wanted for the thorough establishment of its claim to the interest of antiquity, a ghost of its own; and so authentic has that article of property become, that persons visiting the town have been gravely asked whether they "mind" the chance of seeing the old man who was hanged at Lancaster Castle! ularly miss the ghost of the hanged man, there are old associations which one will miss. A week ago the King's Arms was like the room in which Little Nell lies sleeping, in the beautiful illustration to one of the earliest chapters of "The Old Curiosity Shop" in the original edition; with its dim, panelled corridors, hung with old pictures and complicated brackets, and lined with ancient chairs, whose backs and legs are perfect marvels of carving; its spacious rooms, with beam-crossed ceilings and heavy oaken doors, whence any sort of people except those of to day, in any sort of costume except such clothes as we are wearing, might naturally be expected to issue, and descending the ancient staircase, lighted by fine chandeliers, disdainful of the vulgar gas that flaunts hard by, betake themselves to sedan chairs at the stair-foot, or to glass coaches at the old doorway, or even to sober steeds and pillions in the courtyard. In the background, seen from the wide hall, the ruddy light of the old kitchen sent warm reflections out upon the dark shining What with its panelled entrance-hall, its carved timber which is everywhere, in rail solid oaken screen, with recesses like a and door, and wainscoting and recess, linpair of pulpits on either side, its fine old ing the passages in which one could not staircase, richly carved, almost black with easily find one's way, but did not mind, for age, as solid as the fortune of the prosper- a sense of friendly leisure and at-homeishous merchant who owned the house in ness settled immediately upon one's spirits, 1625, and the ghost contributed by Mr. and every step disclosed objects not the Dickens, the King's Arms had an undeni- least like the ordinary furniture of an inn. able claim to be regarded as something For instance, one was led through a grove uncommon among inns, but it was to be of suspended hams, irresistibly suggestive come more uncommon still. The really of Mark Tapley and Mrs. Lupin, to the grand and artistic staircase, and the curious inspection of a quantity of crown Derby carved fittings of the old inn, appealed to ware, and a choice assortment of monsters the imagination of Mr. Dickens, and led in Chinese pottery. Miss Austen's Lady him to inspire "his good friend Mr. Sly Bertram and Mrs. Norris might have -as an autograph inscription on the sipped their tea from the former, and Miss famous novelist's portrait which hangs Ferrier's Lady Julia Douglas added the over the staircase designates the landlord latter to the collection which cost her with an ambition to collect ancient fur-" adored Henry" so dear. The numbered niture, tapestry, china, and other objects suitable to the style and the antiquity of the house. The King's Arms has since - hours of the old inn were ticked off by old clocks; one has been telling its unheeded tale for two hundred years, a sturdy time piece this, of English manufacture; the that imposing tester. Any of them would other is one of the three which Benjamin be welcome, except, perhaps, Mrs. NickFranklin made. The host's own sanctum, leby. Mysterious things in frames upon where he was regretfully writing addresses the walls attract one. On the whole, the on catalogues of the sale, was not the least Dickens room suggests a night-light, and interesting spot in the old house, for there reading in bed as long as one can keep were "curios" in every nook of it. A one's eyes open, so as to leave no margin case of strange insects from China hung for fright, but in the daylight these myson one wall, and on another a leathern terious things reveal themselves as the drinking-bottle, shaped to fit the shoulder, very pieces of needlework on which Mr. with its strap, which is a relic from a bat- Ruskin expatiates, in his delightful, simtle-field in Lancashire. For that matter, ply superlative style, in an early number most of the things in the house are relics of "Fors Clavigera." Here is, in "an old from battle-fields; spoils of the strife of silken sampler of great grandame's work," creeds, the strife of dynasties, the strife of much patient industry devoted to the fortune, and the silent, always victorious career of Abraham, who is seen ruefully fight of time with human lives and the turning out Hagar and Ishmael, and hos possessions of men. The ancient furni- pitably entertaining the angels; while ture, the pride of the collection, has been Sarah, arrayed in a very voluminous gown gathered from churches and castles and with a stomacher, looks, laughing at both homesteads, which are dust, like the hands performances, out of the aperture of a tent that wrought those rare designs with such barely high enough for her to stand uppatient skill and yet such careless free-right in. This is the "silken sampler" of dom as our age of hurried accuracy and machine-made monotony knows not of; like the heads which rested beneath the stately roofs, rich with pious images and armorial bearings, of those amazing sleeping-places, the contemplation of which makes us understand the legacies in the wills of our remote forefathers, and the feuds which came of favoritism in the article of best beds. The cabinets, the sideboards, the ancient wardrobes, and the chairs - one is said to have belonged to King Henry VII., and subsequently to have formed a portion of the effects of Queen Katharine Parr - were all curious, and many of them were beautiful, but the beds and the chests were more interesting to a mere observer than any of the other objects. In the room which was occupied by Mr. Dickens on his two visits to Lancaster, and which bears his name over its doorway, was one of these wonderful carved oak beds, so ponderous that one finds a world of speculation in the simple questions, How was it ever put up? and how is it ever to be taken down? It is so imposing, with its grand pedestals stand ing beyond the footboard, and its heavy carved panels, that one feels rather timid about sleeping in it, and prepares to do so with a vague sense that one is taking a liberty with a long line of the illustrious ancestors of somebody. Tall carved chairs stand at either side of this monumental couch, all ready for the ghosts in ruff and farthingale, or in powder and patches, or for occupation by some of the creations of the head which rested under which Mr. Ruskin says that it is "all wrought with such involution of ingenious needlework as may well rank, in the patience, the natural skill, and the innocent pleasure of it, with the truest work of Florentine engraving; in it the actual tradition of many of the forms of ancient art is manifoldly evident." Hard by is the "Culture of the Tulip," in silk and silver thread, a beautiful piece of work; of which the art-seer says that "the spirits of Ariadne and Penelope reign vivid in all the work," and that "the richness of pleasurable fancy is as great still in these silken labors as in the marble arches and golden roof of the Cathedral of Monreale." In the great saloon, where Mr. Sly tells, and the inscription over the door records, that the "crowned heads of Europe "have been severally entertained "since the peace," and whose latest illustrious guests were that much-meandering couple, the emperor and empress of the Brazils, hang several pieces of valuable tapestry, old Gobelins and old Florentine; and here some ancient chests again attract one to the most important portion of the collection. Worthy of the bedsteads, even of that from Rydal Mount, and that which once belonged to the Stanleys, and bears the deeply-carven device of the eagle and child, are these chests, so massive, so richly ornamented, so mysterious. Each of them might have been the identical one in which the bride of "Mistletoe Bough" memory so "long lay hid;" each one could easily hold her, and her trousseau too. Whose garments, and papers, and household gear have these laboriously. wrought "kists" contained these kists, which look like the coffins of the dead-andgone occupiers of the stately beds? The old pictures, many of them portraits of course, there is a Mary Stuart and a Queen Elizabeth among them -aided the impression that the old inn was not an inn at all, but a venerable mansion, with all its old life stealthily stirring in it, and we impertinent intruders upon its grave dignity and solid grandeur. Everything in the house looked as immovable as it was ancient; the walls and door-frames bristled with brackets of old oak, which tell the tale of their derivation; here is a bishop's mitre, there a baron's escutcheon, a third has adorned a banqueting-room, a fourth has formed a portion of the decoration of a church organ, then comes a finely-carven face, or a delightful group of fruit or flowers. The art-objects have been brought together from innumerable different places, but they assort with one another, like the time-grown plenishing of an old house, the home of an old race. The antique mirrors might have reflected the faces that lay on the satin pillows under those heavy bed-roofs, sheltered by the curtains of cut velvet or of cunning needlework; and all the bride-gear and the weeds of generations, since long before "the Young Man" marched through China Lane the narrow street unchanged to this day, in front of the old inn-on his way to Worcester, might be mouldering in the great cabinets and chests. It was a pleasant sight to see, before the dispersion of it all, and it was pleasant to leave it, still undisturbed. Not a stick we should rather say beam of the old furniture but is now in the hands of new owners, and a year hence, not a stone will be left standing of the famous old King's Arms Hotel at Lancaster. THE NEW ASCETICISM. SPECTATOR."] [TO THE EDITOR OF THE MISS MARTINEAU'S autobigraphy is the first book that has given the inward experience of a positivist with the same vividness and unction with which the "experience" of Evangelicals used to be given forty years ago. Such pictures are always powerful and have a strong effect upon immature minds, and in this instance the effect is likely to be so hurtful on one point that I should like to see it noticed by some one more capable than I am of Miss showing where the mistake lies. Martineau is always praising the virtue of that sort of obliteration of self which is shown in the utter absence of all wish for life, present or future. We have heard this virtue preached by many prophets, from George Eliot to Schopenhauer, but in Miss Martineau we see it in actual (though partial) operation. Is it truly a virtue, and ought we to strive to possess it? At first sight it appeals to a high instinct, - we are weary of our selfish hopes and fears, and it looks like an escape from them. The old asceticism appealed to the same instinct, men were weary of the fightings of passion, and the convent promised them peace. But it was at the price of half their nature; all their human affections and their health of body and mind had to be given up. This new asceticism strikes deeper still; it attacks our whole nature, for it requires us to care nothing for the existence of that individual self which is the root of all our affections and the key to the worth of the universe. Of course, this true self must not be confounded with the mass of egoistic and unjust desires which we are bound to renounce, with them we have no concern here. Our present question is, -Can it be wrong to care for that self which is our only means of knowing God, loving man, and doing right? Miss Martineau asks what it can signify whether we, with our individual consciousness, live again; and says that "the real and justifiable subject of interest to human beings is the welfare of their fellows," and "the important thing is that the universe should be full of life." But if my own existence is valueless, how do I know that my fellows have any value? If I, who am a part of the universe (and seem to myself to be worth something, though very little) am really worth nothing at all, how do I know that the other parts animals, rocks, seas, Professor Tyndall's fiery cloud itself are worth anything? Suicide may pos Such questions sound futile, but they have a serious bearing, though their chief interest, as yet, relates to the future life, not to the present one. sibly some day come to be the fashion, at least among the disciples of Schopenhauer, but as yet it is chiefly the heavenly life that we are taught to despise. We are continually told that our longing for it is "selfish." To this our first reply is, that we who believe it long for it quite as much for others as we do for ourselves; it is a desire that unites us with our fellows, instead of dividing us from them. Miss Martineau consoled herself in the prospect of death with the thought that she had "had a noble share of life." She had, but what of the dim multitudes who have had a very poor share of it, who have been born in crime, dirt, and misery, and many of whom die before they have tasted even the common joys of life? What comfort has she for them? The truth is, her philosophical creed is an essentially aristocratic one; it has something to offer the few who already possess high advantages of intellect and education, it has little to offer the masses. Religion speaks straight to these; however low they may be sunk, it has hope, impulse, life to give them at once. Beliefs which put us in close, hopeful, and helpful communion with our kind can hardly be called selfish. But our second reply goes deeper, and denies that it is "egoistic to long for a future life for ourselves. For each of us our true self is that little bit of the universal life which is given into our own keeping, and for which we are responsible. We have no right to think lightly of this. It is only by first feeling for it, and working for it, that we learn to understand other beings, to feel for and work for them. It is only from feeling that it is precious, that we can know the preciousness of other men and women. Carelessness about it is not virtuous and heroic, but morbid and degrading. Many of the old ascetics did despise half their nature-the human half and it grew degraded and deadened in consequence, but the divine half they always cherished. Their heart and will were free to go out towards God, and so they kept their souls alive. But the new asceticism preaches mortification of the higher self, as well as of the lower; its teaching tends gradually to dull the whole emotional nature. It takes the color out of life, and destroys half its motive-power. Hope, sorrow, and longing are to be repressed; we are "not to wish anything to be otherwise than as it is;" sympathy is the one emotion we are to be allowed still to cherish. But we can never sympathize strongly unless we have had a vivid personal life of our own, so this, too, would soon dwindle. It is true that the greatest genius of this school is also the greatest teacher of sympathy now living; we readers of George Eliot can never thank her enough for the quickening and deepening of the heart that has come to us through her books, but it is herself we thank, and not her creed. And in Miss Martineau we think we see the faint beginnings of the chilling influence of her belief, in spite of her warm and noble nature and her intense vitality. The ease with which she dropped her friendships on any difference of opinion, the cool, hard way in which she catalogues her friend's faults and weaknesses, and the fact that on the very threshold (as she believed) of her own death she could care to busy herself with writing harsh things of her survivors, all point to a certain dulling of the affections which could not be natural to her. The stoical indifference with which she regarded the close of life has greatly impressed many with its "grandeur," but here, too, the loss seems more than the gain. Who that has stood face to face with death, and has felt the solemn wonder, the deep hope, the unspeakable trusts that thrill and widen the whole being with the sense of new-coming life, - who that has felt this in ever so small a measure would exchange it for the hard satisfaction she expresses? Yet she was too true-hearted not to soften sometimes at the thought of those she was leaving; there are some touching words in her last letter to Mrs. Chapman, "To be unconsciously apart is an easy matter, quite different from living and yearning apart.” She thought she preferred the unconsciousness, but the "living and yearning" was surely better, and as we trust, the better has been given to her now. There may be selfishness in longing to escape the pain of existence, as well as in longing for more life. The true deliverance from egoism lies in the belief that we are "not our own," that our very being is the gift of one who loves us and, is owed back to him. This faith shuts out both self-contempt and self-love. It sets free all our affections to go forth towards God and our fellow-men; it stunts and chills none of them, but quickens, strengthens, and sweetens them all, and lifts up our whole nature into a higher, healthier, more self-forgetting, and more joyful life. I am, Sir, etc., E. W. S. TIONS. By W. Duppa Crotch, M.A., F.L.S., Popular Science Review, 399 407 XII. STONE ADZES IN THE PACIFIC, All The Year Round, 443 445 446 XI. ITALIAN, Spanish, and GERMAN COMEDY,. New Quarterly Magazine, PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. 386 448 TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year, free of postage. An extra copy of THE LIVING AGE is sent gratis to any one getting up a club of Five New Subscribers. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check. or by post-office money-order. if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & GAY. Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, 18 cents. |