Lavengro

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I did not like reviewing at all--it was not to my taste; it was not in my
way; I liked it far less than translating the publisher's philosophy for
that was something in the line of one whom a competent judge had surnamed
Lavengro. I never could understand why reviews were instituted; works of
merit do not require to be reviewed, they can speak for themselves, and
require no praising; works of no merit at all will die of themselves,
they require no killing. The review to which I was attached was, as has
been already intimated, established on an entirely new plan; it professed
to review all new publications, which certainly no review had ever
professed to do before, other reviews never pretending to review more
than one-tenth of the current literature of the day. When I say it
professed to review all new publications, I should add, which should be
sent to it; for, of course, the review would not acknowledge the
existence of publications, the authors of which did not acknowledge the
existence of the review. I don't think, however, that the review had
much cause to complain of being neglected; I have reason to believe that
at least nine-tenths of the publications of the day were sent to the
review, and in due time reviewed. I had good opportunity of judging--I
was connected with several departments of the review, though more
particularly with the poetical and philosophic ones. An English
translation of Kant's philosophy made its appearance on my table the day
before its publication. In my notice of this work, I said that the
English shortly hoped to give the Germans a _quid pro quo_. I believe at
that time authors were much in the habit of publishing at their own
expense. All the poetry which I reviewed appeared to be published at the
expense of the authors. If I am asked how I comported myself, under all
circumstances, as a reviewer--I answer--I did not forget that I was
connected with a review established on Oxford principles, the editor of
which had translated Quintilian. All the publications which fell under
my notice I treated in a gentlemanly and Oxford-like manner, no
personalities--no vituperation--no shabby insinuations; decorum, decorum
was the order of the day. Occasionally a word of admonition, but gently
expressed, as an Oxford undergraduate might have expressed it, or master
of arts. How the authors whose publications were consigned to my
colleagues were treated by them I know not; I suppose they were treated
in an urbane and Oxford-like manner, but I cannot say; I did not read the
reviewals of my colleagues, I did not read my own after they were
printed. I did not like reviewing.

Of all my occupations at this period I am free to confess I liked that of
compiling the "Newgate Lives and Trials" the best; that is, after I had
surmounted a kind of prejudice which I originally entertained. The
trials were entertaining enough; but the lives--how full were they of
wild and racy adventures, and in what racy, genuine language were they
told. What struck me most with respect to these lives was the art which
the writers, whoever they were, possessed of telling a plain story. It
is no easy thing to tell a story plainly and distinctly by mouth; but to
tell one on paper is difficult indeed, so many snares lie in the way.
People are afraid to put down what is common on paper, they seek to
embellish their narratives, as they think, by philosophic speculations
and reflections; they are anxious to shine, and people who are anxious to
shine, can never tell a plain story. "So I went with them to a music
booth, where they made me almost drunk with gin, and began to talk their
flash language, which I did not understand," says, or is made to say,
Henry Simms, executed at Tyburn some seventy years before the time of
which I am speaking. I have always looked upon this sentence as a
masterpiece of the narrative style, it is so concise and yet so very
clear. As I gazed on passages like this, and there were many nearly as
good in the Newgate lives, I often sighed that it was not my fortune to
have to render these lives into German rather than the publisher's
philosophy--his tale of an apple and pear.

Mine was an ill-regulated mind at this period. As I read over the lives
of these robbers and pickpockets, strange doubts began to arise in my
mind about virtue and crime. Years before, when quite a boy, as in one
of the early chapters I have hinted, I had been a necessitarian; I had
even written an essay on crime (I have it now before me, penned in a
round boyish hand), in which I attempted to prove that there is no such
thing as crime or virtue, all our actions being the result of
circumstances or necessity. These doubts were now again reviving in my
mind; I could not, for the life of me, imagine how, taking all
circumstances into consideration, these highwaymen, these pickpockets,
should have been anything else than highwaymen and pickpockets; any more
than how, taking all circumstances into consideration, Bishop Latimer
(the reader is aware that I had read "Fox's Book of Martyrs") should have
been anything else than Bishop Latimer. I had a very ill-regulated mind
at that period.

My own peculiar ideas with respect to everything being a lying dream
began also to revive. Sometimes at midnight, after having toiled for
hours at my occupations, I would fling myself back on my chair, look
about the poor apartment, dimly lighted by an unsnuffed candle, or upon
the heaps of books and papers before me, and exclaim,--"Do I exist? Do
these things, which I think I see about me, exist, or do they not? Is
not every thing a dream--a deceitful dream? Is not this apartment a
dream--the furniture a dream? The publisher a dream--his philosophy a
dream? Am I not myself a dream--dreaming about translating a dream? I
can't see why all should not be a dream; what's the use of the reality?"
And then I would pinch myself, and snuff the burdened smoky light. "I
can't see, for the life of me, the use of all this; therefore why should
I think that it exists? If there was a chance, a probability of all this
tending to anything, I might believe; but--" and then I would stare and
think, and after some time shake my head and return again to my
occupations for an hour or two; and then I would perhaps shake, and
shiver, and yawn, and look wistfully in the direction of my sleeping
apartment; and then, but not wistfully, at the papers and books before
me; and sometimes I would return to my papers and books; but oftener I
would arise, and, after another yawn and shiver, take my light, and
proceed to my sleeping chamber.

They say that light fare begets light dreams; my fare at that time was
light enough; but I had anything but light dreams, for at that period I
had all kind of strange and extravagant dreams, and amongst other things
I dreamt that the whole world had taken to dog-fighting; and that I,
myself, had taken to dog-fighting, and that in a vast circus I backed an
English bulldog against the bloodhound of the Pope of Rome.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

My Brother--Fits of Crying--Mayor Elect--The Committee--The Norman Arch--A
Word of Greek--Church and State--At My Own Expense--If You Please.

One morning I arose somewhat later than usual, having been occupied
during the greater part of the night with my literary toil. On
descending from my chamber into the sitting room I found a person seated
by the fire, whose glance was directed sideways to the table, on which
were the usual preparations for my morning's meal. Forthwith I gave a
cry, and sprang forward to embrace the person; for the person by the
fire, whose glance was directed to the table, was no one else than my
brother.

"And how are things going on at home?" said I to my brother, after we had
kissed and embraced. "How is my mother, and how is the dog?"

"My mother, thank God, is tolerably well," said my brother, "but very
much given to fits of crying. As for the dog, he is not so well; but we
will talk more of these matters anon," said my brother, again glancing at
the breakfast things: "I am very hungry, as you may suppose, after having
travelled all night."

Thereupon I exerted myself to the best of my ability to perform the
duties of hospitality, and I made my brother welcome--I may say more than
welcome; and, when the rage of my brother's hunger was somewhat abated we
recommenced talking about the matters of our little family, and my
brother told me much about my mother; he spoke of her fits of crying, but
said that of late the said fits of crying had much diminished, and she
appeared to be taking comfort; and, if I am not much mistaken, my brother
told me that my mother had of late the prayer book frequently in her
hand, and yet oftener the Bible.

We were silent for a time--at last I opened my mouth and mentioned the
dog.

"The dog," said my brother, "is, I am afraid, in a very poor way; ever
since the death he has done nothing but pine and take on. A few months
ago, you remember, he was as plump and fine as any dog in the town; but
at present he is little more than skin and bone. Once we lost him for
two days, and never expected to see him again, imagining that some
mischance had befallen him; at length I found him--where do you think?
Chancing to pass by the churchyard, I found him seated on the grave!"

"Very strange," said I; "but let us talk of something else. It was very
kind of you to come and see me."

"Oh, as for that matter, I did not come up to see you, though of course I
am very glad to see you, having been rather anxious about you, like my
mother, who has received only one letter from you since your departure.
No, I did not come up on purpose to see you; but on quite a different
account. You must know that the corporation of our town have lately
elected a new mayor, a person of many qualifications--big and portly,
with a voice like Boanerges; a religious man, the possessor of an immense
pew; loyal, so much so that I once heard him say that he would at any
time go three miles to hear any one sing 'God save the King;' moreover, a
giver of excellent dinners. Such is our present mayor; who, owing to his
loyalty, his religion, and a little, perhaps, to his dinners, is a mighty
favourite; so much so that the town is anxious to have his portrait
painted in a superior style, so that remote posterity may know what kind
of man he was, the colour of his hair, his air and gait. So a committee
was formed some time ago, which is still sitting; that is, they dine with
the mayor every day to talk over the subject. A few days since, to my
great surprise, they made their appearance in my poor studio, and desired
to be favoured with a sight of some of my paintings; well, I showed them
some, and, after looking at them with great attention, they went aside
and whispered. 'He'll do,' I heard one say; 'Yes, he'll do,' said
another; and then they came to me, and one of them, a little man with a
hump on his back, who is a watchmaker, assumed the office of spokesman,
and made a long speech--(the old town has been always celebrated for
orators)--in which he told me how much they had been pleased with my
productions--(the old town has been always celebrated for its artistic
taste) and, what do you think? offered me the painting of the mayor's
portrait, and a hundred pounds for my trouble. Well, of course I was
much surprised, and for a minute or two could scarcely speak; recovering
myself, however, I made a speech, not so eloquent as that of the
watchmaker, of course, being not so accustomed to speaking; but not so
bad either, taking everything into consideration, telling them how
flattered I felt by the honour which they had conferred in proposing to
me such an undertaking; expressing, however, my fears that I was not
competent to the task, and concluding by saying what a pity it was that
Crome was dead. 'Crome,' said the little man, 'Crome; yes, he was a
clever man, a very clever man in his way; he was good at painting
landscapes and farm-houses, but he would not do in the present instance,
were he alive. He had no conception of the heroic, sir. We want some
person capable of representing our mayor striding under the Norman arch
out of the cathedral.' At the mention of the heroic, an idea came at
once into my head. 'Oh,' said I, 'if you are in quest of the heroic, I
am glad that you came to me; don't mistake me,' I continued, 'I do not
mean to say that I could do justice to your subject, though I am fond of
the heroic; but I can introduce you to a great master of the heroic,
fully competent to do justice to your mayor. Not to me, therefore, be
the painting of the picture given, but to a friend of mine, the great
master of the heroic, to the best, the strongest, [Greek],' I added, for,
being amongst orators, I thought a word of Greek would tell."

"Well," said I, "and what did the orators say?"

"They gazed dubiously at me and at one another," said my brother; "at
last the watchmaker asked me who this Mr. Christo was; adding, that he
had never heard of such a person; that, from my recommendation of him, he
had no doubt that he was a very clever man; but that they should like to
know something more about him before giving the commission to him. That
he had heard of Christie the great auctioneer, who was considered to be
an excellent judge of pictures; but he supposed that I
scarcely--Whereupon, interrupting the watchmaker, I told him that I
alluded neither to Christo nor to Christie; but to the painter of Lazarus
rising from the grave, a painter under whom I had myself studied during
some months that I had spent in London, and to whom I was indebted for
much connected with the heroic."

"I have heard of him," said the watchmaker, "and his paintings too; but I
am afraid that he is not exactly the gentleman by whom our mayor would
wish to be painted. I have heard say that he is not a very good friend
to Church and State. Come, young man," he added, "it appears to me that
you are too modest; I like your style of painting, so do we all, and--why
should I mince the matter?--the money is to be collected in the town, why
should it go into a stranger's pocket, and be spent in London?"

"Thereupon I made them a speech, in which I said that art had nothing to
do with Church and State, at least with English Church and State, which
had never encouraged it; and that, though Church and State were doubtless
very fine things, a man might be a very good artist who cared not a straw
for either. I then made use of more Greek words, and told them how
painting was one of the Nine Muses, and one of the most independent
creatures alive, inspiring whom she pleased, and asking leave of nobody;
that I should be quite unworthy of the favours of the Muse if, on the
present occasion, I did not recommend them a man whom I considered to be
a much greater master of the heroic than myself; and that, with regard to
the money being spent in the city, I had no doubt that they would not
weigh for a moment such a consideration against the chance of getting a
true heroic picture for the city. I never talked so well in my life, and
said so many flattering things to the hunchback and his friends, that at
last they said that I should have my own way; and that if I pleased to go
up to London, and bring down the painter of Lazarus to paint the mayor, I
might; so they then bade me farewell, and I have come up to London."

"To put a hundred pounds into the hands of--"

"A better man than myself," said my brother, "of course."

"And have you come up at your own expense?"

"Yes," said my brother, "I have come up at my own expense."

I made no answer, but looked in my brother's face. We then returned to
the former subjects of conversation, talking of the dead, my mother, and
the dog.

After some time my brother said, "I will now go to the painter, and
communicate to him the business which has brought me to town; and, if you
please, I will take you with me and introduce you to him." Having
expressed my willingness, we descended into the street.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

Painter of the Heroic--I'll Go!--A Modest Peep--Who is this?--A Capital
Pharaoh--Disproportionably Short--Imaginary Picture--English Figures.

The painter of the heroic resided a great way off, at the western end of
the town. We had some difficulty in obtaining admission to him; a maid-
servant, who opened the door, eyeing us somewhat suspiciously: it was not
until my brother had said that he was a friend of the painter that we
were permitted to pass the threshold. At length we were shown into the
studio, where we found the painter, with an easel and brush, standing
before a huge piece of canvas, on which he had lately commenced painting
a heroic picture. The painter might be about thirty-five years old; he
had a clever, intelligent countenance, with a sharp grey eye--his hair
was dark brown, and cut a-la-Rafael, as I was subsequently told, that is,
there was little before and much behind--he did not wear a neckcloth;
but, in its stead, a black riband, so that his neck, which was rather
fine, was somewhat exposed--he had a broad muscular breast, and I make no
doubt that he would have been a very fine figure, but unfortunately his
legs and thighs were somewhat short. He recognised my brother, and
appeared glad to see him.

"What brings you to London?" said he.

Whereupon my brother gave him a brief account of his commission. At the
mention of the hundred pounds, I observed the eyes of the painter
glisten. "Really," said he, when my brother had concluded, "it was very
kind to think of me. I am not very fond of painting portraits; but a
mayor is a mayor, and there is something grand in that idea of the Norman
arch. I'll go; moreover, I am just at this moment confoundedly in need
of money, and when you knocked at the door, I don't mind telling you, I
thought it was some dun. I don't know how it is, but in the capital they
have no taste for the heroic, they will scarce look at a heroic picture;
I am glad to hear that they have better taste in the provinces. I'll go;
when shall we set off?"

Thereupon it was arranged between the painter and my brother that they
should depart the next day but one; they then began to talk of art. "I'll
stick to the heroic," said the painter; "I now and then dabble in the
comic, but what I do gives me no pleasure, the comic is so low; there is
nothing like the heroic. I am engaged here on a heroic picture," said
he, pointing to the canvas; "the subject is 'Pharaoh dismissing Moses
from Egypt,' after the last plague--the death of the first-born,--it is
not far advanced--that finished figure is Moses:" they both looked at the
canvas, and I, standing behind, took a modest peep. The picture, as the
painter said, was not far advanced, the Pharaoh was merely in outline; my
eye was, of course, attracted by the finished figure, or rather what the
painter had called the finished figure; but, as I gazed upon it, it
appeared to me that there was some thing defective--something
unsatisfactory in the figure. I concluded, however, that the painter,
notwithstanding what he had said, had omitted to give it the finishing
touch. "I intend this to be my best picture," said the painter; "what I
want now is a face for Pharaoh; I have long been meditating on a face for
Pharaoh." Here, chancing to cast his eye upon my countenance, of whom he
had scarcely taken any manner of notice, he remained with his mouth open
for some time. "Who is this?" said he at last. "Oh, this is my brother,
I forgot to introduce him--"

We presently afterwards departed; my brother talked much about the
painter. "He is a noble fellow," said my brother; "but, like many other
noble fellows, has a great many enemies; he is hated by his brethren of
the brush--all the land and waterscape painters hate him--but, above all,
the race of portrait painters, who are ten times more numerous than the
other two sorts, detest him for his heroic tendencies. It will be a kind
of triumph to the last, I fear, when they hear he has condescended to
paint a portrait; however, that Norman arch will enable him to escape
from their malice--that is a capital idea of the watchmaker, that Norman
arch."

I spent a happy day with my brother. On the morrow he went again to the
painter, with whom he dined; I did not go with him. On his return he
said, "The painter has been asking a great many questions about you, and
expressed a wish that you would sit to him as Pharaoh; he thinks you
would make a capital Pharaoh." "I have no wish to appear on canvas,"
said I; "moreover, he can find much better Pharaohs than myself; and, if
he wants a real Pharaoh, there is a certain Mr. Petulengro."
"Petulengro?" said my brother; "a strange kind of fellow came up to me
some time ago in our town, and asked me about you; when I inquired his
name, he told me Petulengro. No, he will not do, he is too short; by-the-
bye, do you not think that figure of Moses is somewhat short?" And then
it appeared to me that I had thought the figure of Moses somewhat short,
and I told my brother so. "Ah!" said my brother.

On the morrow my brother departed with the painter for the old town, and
there the painter painted the mayor. I did not see the picture for a
great many years, when, chancing to be at the old town, I beheld it.

The original mayor was a mighty, portly man, with a bull's head, black
hair, body like that of a dray horse, and legs and thighs corresponding;
a man six foot high at the least. To his bull's head, black hair, and
body the painter had done justice; there was one point, however, in which
the portrait did not correspond with the original--the legs were
disproportionably short, the painter having substituted his own legs for
those of the mayor, which when I perceived I rejoiced that I had not
consented to be painted as Pharaoh, for, if I had, the chances are that
he would have served me in exactly a similar way as he had served Moses
and the mayor.

Short legs in a heroic picture will never do; and, upon the whole, I
think the painter's attempt at the heroic in painting the mayor of the
old town a decided failure. If I am now asked whether the picture would
have been a heroic one provided the painter had not substituted his own
legs for those of the mayor--I must say, I am afraid not. I have no idea
of making heroic pictures out of English mayors, even with the assistance
of Norman arches; yet I am sure that capital pictures might be made out
of English mayors, not issuing from Norman arches, but rather from the
door of the "Checquers" or the "Brewers Three." The painter in question
had great comic power, which he scarcely ever cultivated; he would fain
be a Rafael, which he never could be, when he might have been something
quite as good--another Hogarth; the only comic piece which he ever
presented to the world being something little inferior to the best of
that illustrious master. I have often thought what a capital picture
might have been made by my brother's friend, if, instead of making the
mayor issue out of the Norman arch, he had painted him moving under the
sign of the "Checquers," or the "Three Brewers," with mace--yes, with
mace,--the mace appears in the picture issuing out of the Norman arch
behind the mayor,--but likewise with Snap, and with whiffler, quart pot,
and frying pan, Billy Blind, and Owlenglass, Mr. Petulengro and
Pakomovna;--then, had he clapped his own legs upon the mayor, or any one
else in the concourse, what matter? But I repeat that I have no hope of
making heroic pictures out of English mayors, or, indeed, out of English
figures in general. England may be a land of heroic hearts, but it is
not, properly, a land of heroic figures, or heroic
posture-making.--Italy--what was I going to say about Italy?

CHAPTER XXXIX.

No Authority Whatever--Interference--Wondrous Farrago--Brandt and
Struensee--What a Life!--The Hearse--Mortal Relics--Great Poet--Fashion
and Fame--What a Difference!--Oh, Beautiful!--Good for Nothing.

And now once more to my pursuits, to my Lives and Trials. However
partial at first I might be to these lives and trials, it was not long
before they became regular trials to me, owing to the whims and caprices
of the publisher. I had not been long connected with him before I
discovered that he was wonderfully fond of interfering with other
people's business--at least with the business of those who were under his
control. What a life did his unfortunate authors lead! He had many in
his employ toiling at all kinds of subjects--I call them authors because
there is something respectable in the term author, though they had little
authorship in, and no authority whatever over, the works on which they
were engaged. It is true the publisher interfered with some colour of
reason, the plan of all and every of the works alluded to having
originated with himself; and, be it observed, many of his plans were
highly clever and promising, for, as I have already had occasion to say,
the publisher in many points was a highly clever and sagacious person;
but he ought to have been contented with planning the works originally,
and have left to other people the task of executing them, instead of
which he marred everything by his rage for interference. If a book of
fairy tales was being compiled, he was sure to introduce some of his
philosophy, explaining the fairy tale by some theory of his own. Was a
book of anecdotes on hand, it was sure to be half filled with sayings and
doings of himself during the time that he was common councilman of the
City of London. Now, however fond the public might be of fairy tales, it
by no means relished them in conjunction with the publisher's philosophy;
and however fond of anecdotes in general, or even of the publisher in
particular--for indeed there were a great many anecdotes in circulation
about him which the public both read and listened to very readily--it
took no pleasure in such anecdotes as he was disposed to relate about
himself. In the compilation of my Lives and Trials, I was exposed to
incredible mortification, and ceaseless trouble, from this same rage for
interference. It is true he could not introduce his philosophy into the
work, nor was it possible for him to introduce anecdotes of himself,
having never had the good or evil fortune to be tried at the bar; but he
was continually introducing--what, under a less apathetic government than
the one then being, would have infallibly subjected him, and perhaps
myself, to a trial,--his politics; not his Oxford or pseudo politics, but
the politics which he really entertained, and which were of the most
republican and violent kind. But this was not all; when about a moiety
of the first volume had been printed, he materially altered the plan of
the work; it was no longer to be a collection of mere Newgate lives and
trials, but of lives and trials of criminals in general, foreign as well
as domestic. In a little time the work became a wondrous farrago, in
which Konigsmark the robber figured by the side of Sam Lynn, and the
Marchioness de Brinvilliers was placed in contact with a Chinese outlaw.
What gave me the most trouble and annoyance was the publisher's
remembering some life or trial, foreign or domestic, which he wished to
be inserted, and which I was forthwith to go in quest of and purchase at
my own expense: some of those lives and trials were by no means easy to
find. "Where is Brandt and Struensee?" cries the publisher; "I am sure I
don't know," I replied; whereupon the publisher falls to squealing like
one of Joey's rats. "Find me up Brandt and Struensee by next morning,
or--" "Have you found Brandt and Struensee?" cried the publisher, on my
appearing before him next morning. "No," I reply, "I can hear nothing
about them;" whereupon the publisher falls to bellowing like Joey's bull.
By dint of incredible diligence, I at length discover the dingy volume
containing the lives and trials of the celebrated two who had brooded
treason dangerous to the state of Denmark. I purchase the dingy volume,
and bring it in triumph to the publisher, the perspiration running down
my brow. The publisher takes the dingy volume in his hand, he examines
it attentively, then puts it down; his countenance is calm for a moment,
almost benign. Another moment and there is a gleam in the publisher's
sinister eye; he snatches up the paper containing the names of the
worthies which I have intended shall figure in the forthcoming volumes--he
glances rapidly over it, and his countenance once more assumes a terrific
expression. "How is this?" he exclaims; "I can scarcely believe my
eyes--the most important life and trial omitted to be found in the whole
criminal record--what gross, what utter negligence! Where's the life of
Farmer Patch? where's the trial of Yeoman Patch?"