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MOCKING AT MATRIMONY

The world has reason to be grateful to the writer who lately demonstrated the possibility of being happy ‘though married.’ Some exposition of the sort was sadly needed. Hitherto the estate of matrimony has met with a long succession of jibes and sneers. It has had its apologists, even its prophets and eulogists; but it has had many more detractors. There is, indeed, no subject on which the satirists of the world, both great and small, have so largely and so persistently made merry. It has been a stock subject with them. It is as if they had said to themselves, ‘When at a loss, revile the connubial condition.’ Married life has been the sport of every wit, and, sorrowful to relate, society has been well content to join in the pastime. There is nothing so common as sarcasm on matrimony, and nothing, apparently, so welcome, even to the married.

The banter in question has been of all sorts – sometimes vague, sometimes particular, in its import. A few censors have confined themselves to simple condemnation. ‘A fellow that’s married’s a felo-de-se,’ wrote the late Shirley Brooks; and he had been anticipated in the stricture. An anonymous satirist had written:

 
‘“Wedlock’s the end of life,” one cried;
“Too true, alas!” said Jack, and sigh’d —
“’Twill be the end of mine.”’
 

And if matrimony was not suicide, it was ruin. Old Sir Thomas More had said of a student who had married that ‘in knitting of himself so fast, himself he had undone.’ And a later rhymer, contrasting wedding with hanging, had come to the conclusion that

 
‘Hanging is better of the twain —
Sooner done and shorter pain.’
 

To the suggestion that a youth should not marry till he has more wisdom, the Italian epigrammatist replies that if he waits till he has sense he will not wed at all. Marriage, said the famous Marshal Saxe, in effect, is a state of penance; Rome declares there are seven sacraments, but there are really only six, because penance and matrimony are one.

Hymen, says Chamfort, comes after love, like smoke after flame. It is the high sea, observes Heine, for which no compass has yet been invented. Its melancholy uncertainty is illustrated by the remark of Samuel Rogers, that it does not matter whom you marry – she will be quite another woman the next day. It was Rogers, too, who, when he heard of a certain person’s nuptials, declared that if his friends were pleased his enemies were delighted. Selden’s complaint against marriage was that it is ‘a desperate thing,’ out of which it is impossible to extract one’s self; but then he lived before the era of Sir Cresswell Cresswell. And the utmost that the conventional detractor will admit is, that the institution gives to man two happy hours. ‘Cursed be the hour I first became your wife,’ cries the lady in the well-known quotation; to which her spouse replies that – ‘That’s too bad; you’ve cursed the only happy hour we’ve had.’ But Palladas, the Greek, as translated by Mr. J. H. Merivale, goes a little farther than this, declaring that

 
‘All wives are bad; yet two blest hours they give:
When first they wed, and when they cease to live.’
 

A favourite notion with the satirists is that marriage is a state of mutual recrimination. John Heywood has the couplet:

 
‘“Wife, I perceive thy tongue was made at Edgware.”
“Yes, sir, and your’s made at Rayly, hard by there.”’
 

And this is typical of many another utterance; for example, this:

 
‘Know ye not all, the Scripture saith,
That man and wife are one till death?
But Peter and his scolding wife
Wage such an endless war of strife,
You’d swear, on passing Peter’s door,
That man and wife at least were four.’
 

Doctor Johnson, too, draws attention to the fact – if it be one – that all the reasons which a man and a woman have for remaining in the estate of matrimony, and the restraints which civilized society imposes to prevent separation, are hardly sufficient to keep them together. Or, as Mr. William Allingham has, of recent years, more pithily put it:

 
‘If any two can live together well,
’Tis (and yet such things are) a miracle!’
 

If we are to believe the aforesaid satirists, this is all the fault of the wives. Now and again one comes across a jest in which the lady has the better of the gentleman, as in the following:

 
‘“Wife, from all evil, when shalt thou delivered be?”
“Sir, when I” (said she) “shall be delivered from thee.”’
 

But such things are rare. Usually the laugh is on the other side. As the Frenchman wrote:

 
‘While Adam slept, Eve from his side arose:
Strange! his first sleep should be his last repose!’
 

Everybody knows the epitaph which Dryden intended for his wife; and side by side with it may be placed the lines by an anonymous author:

 
‘God has to me sufficiently been kind,
To take my wife, and leave me here behind.’
 

So again:

 
‘Brutus unmoved heard how his Portia fell;
Should Jack’s wife die, he would behave as well.’
 

The story of the man who, at his spouse’s funeral, deprecated hurry, on the ground that one should not make a toil of a pleasure, need only be alluded to.

The chief charge against the wives is that they will insist upon being the heads of the households. That is the refrain of many a flout hurled against them. To marry – such is the moral of some lines by Samuel Bishop – is to lose your liberty. The lady will have everything her way:

 
‘For ne’er heard I of woman, good or ill,
But always lovèd best her own sweet will.’
 

So says a seventeenth-century writer; and the complaint is general.

 
‘Men, dying, make their wills – why cannot wives?
Because wives have their wills during their lives.’
 

‘Here,’ wrote Burns – ‘here lies a man a woman ruled; the Devil ruled the woman.’ And Landor makes someone say to a scholar about to marry:

 
‘So wise thou art that I foresee
A wife will make a fool of thee.’
 

That wives are talkative is a venerable commonplace. The historic husband thought that the fact of his spouse’s likeness not being a ‘speaking’ one was its principal merit. And Lessing makes a man excuse himself for marrying a deaf woman on the ground that she was also dumb. We all remember Hood’s particular trouble:

 
‘A wife who preaches in her gown,
And lectures in her night-dress.’
 

And so with those who are more than merely talkative – who are positively scolds; while sometimes the conventional helpmeet is as active with her fists as with her tongue – as in the case of the lady whose picture, her husband thought, would soon ‘strike’ him, it was so exceedingly like her.

It is, however, unnecessary to carry the tale further. This mocking at matrimony has always been a feature of life and literature, and probably will always remain so – partly because it is so easy of achievement; partly because it is not less easy of comprehension; and also, perhaps, because humanity has ever been inclined to chasten that which it loves. It rails against marriage, but it marries all the same. Or is it that it recognises the wedded life as a necessity, which cannot be put away, but which it is a pleasure to ridicule? Perhaps that is the best explanation one can offer. All this satire may be mankind’s way of revenging itself upon one of the laws of nature.

PARSON POETS

The publication of a memoir of Archbishop Trench has sufficed to recall prominently to the public mind the virtues, endowments, and achievements of one of the most notable of latter-day divines. Richard Chenevix Trench was one of the most versatile of writers. He discoursed with equal knowledge and effect on Biblical and philological topics, and his prose work will always be respectfully regarded by the students alike of divinity and of language. But though, on these subjects, his pronouncements may in time grow stale or require correction, he will ever hold an honourable place in English literature as one of the most thoughtful and vigorous of those parson poets of whom this country has always had so large and valuable a supply.

There is, indeed, a natural connection between parsons and poetry. It is precisely in the ranks of the clerical body in all civilized countries that one would look for successful cultivators of the art of verse. For what is, above all things, necessary for such cultivation? In the first place, polite learning; in the second, sufficient leisure. It is in the atmosphere of culture that good verse, as apart from high poetry, takes its rise. There are probably few educated men who have not at one time or another essayed to pen a stanza. The busy city clergyman may nowadays have no time for such elegant diversions, but at all periods the lettered country parson has been inclined to occupy some of his spare moments in wooing the Muse of Song. There are other things than learning and leisure which impel him to the task. There is the nature of his profession, with the experience it brings him and the reflections it induces. The most unliterary pastor cannot but be a meditative man. The literary pastor cannot but be disposed to turn his meditations into verse, often finding in that ‘mechanic exercise’ the means of ‘numbing pain.’

Other things being equal, the modern cleric would take serious subjects for his verse, and it is characteristic of the whole race of parson poets that the first poetic effort in English literature should be the Scriptural paraphrases supplied by Caedmon, monk of Whitby. But it was not in the sphere of Bible history that the immediate successors of Caedmon, monks (or friars) like himself, sought to disport themselves most largely. Our early clerical versifiers set themselves rather to give rhythmical renderings to the romances and chronicles of their time. They were the secular as well as sacred teachers of the day; and so we find the names of Wace, Layamon, Robert of Gloucester, Robert of Brunne, Archdeacon Barbour, Andrew of Wyntoun, and John Lydgate, all associated with the recital of the deeds of ancient or modern heroes. Not that the claims of religion or morality were forgotten: they were remembered by Richard Rolle in his ‘Prick of Conscience,’ and indirectly recognised by Barclay in his ‘Ship of Fools.’ The interests of the poor were served by Langland in his ‘Piers the Plowman,’ and poetry, pure and simple, had its devotees in the persons of the Bishop of Dunkeld and the Franciscan friar who produced respectively ‘The Palace of Honour’ and ‘The Golden Terge.’

When we come down to more recent times, we find even greater variety than this in the writings of the parson poets. But the serious element prevails. There have been clerical wits and humorists, but they have been, of necessity, in the minority. A large proportion of the verse composed by clergymen has been, as one would naturally expect, of a distinctly didactic, not to say depressing, tendency. One thinks at once of the ‘Temple’ of George Herbert, the ‘Epigrammata Sacra’ of Richard Crashaw, the ‘Night Thoughts’ of Young, the ‘Grave’ of Blair, the ‘Sabbath’ of Grahame, the ‘Course of Time’ of Pollok, the ‘Christian Year’ of Keble; the hymns of Wesley, Alford, and Stanley; the ‘Dream of Gerontius’ of Newman, and a dozen others, differing very much indeed in all the qualities of poetry, but alike in the earnestness of their intention. Even Herrick, ‘jocund’ though his muse was, left behind him some ‘Noble Numbers.’ And though clerical satire, as furnished by men like John Bramston, Charles Churchill, Samuel Bishop, John Wolcot, and Francis Mahoney, has frequently been flippant both in form and phrase, it has at other times – and especially in the works of Bishop Hall, of Norwich – been very vivid and uncompromising. Hall, indeed, was the Juvenal of his century, filled with the spirit of righteous indignation.

From Donne, Dean of St. Paul’s, downwards, the clerical singers who have not been markedly professional in their outcome have exhibited an agreeable freedom from monotony. In Donne himself we see the sad perfection of the metaphysic method, mitigated, however, by a few lapses into the lucid and the simple. Pomfret gave us in ‘The Choice’ the typical poem of the country parson, sounding the praises of rural scenes and lettered ease. In Parnell we have a sample of the pleasing versifier, touching nothing which he does not adorn, but making no very particular impression. Bishop Percy is less celebrated for the ballads which he wrote than for those which he collected. Logan is remembered only by his verses on ‘The Cuckoo.’ To the reverend brothers Warton we owe respectively ‘The Pleasure of Melancholy’ and some lines ‘To Fancy’; while of Thomas Blacklock, alas! the most remarkable feature was his blindness. One would like to have forgotten Robert Montgomery, of Satanic fame, but Macaulay will not let us do so. Blanco White lives on the strength of one good sonnet, Lisle Bowles on that of many good ones; and there is no need nowadays to distinguish the work of Crabbe, of Moultrie, of John Sterling, and of Charles Kingsley, much as they differed from each other. One of the latest additions to this choir of voices is Mr. Stopford Brooke, and there are other living lyrists, belonging to one or other of the Churches, who might be named if there were no fear of making invidious selection.

There is a certain department of verse-writing in which a cultivated class like the clergy would of necessity make its mark – that of rhythmical translation. In a body whose members are all more or less scholarly, there will always be some, of special scholarship, who will endeavour to put works of classic or foreign literature into an English mould. Thus we have had Francis Fawkes, with his versions from the Greek; Christopher Pitt, with his translation of the ‘Æneid’; H. F. Carey, with his Dante in blank verse; and more others than need be specified. These clergymen followed the excellent instincts of their cloth. But what are we to say of those otherwise estimable parsons who have from time to time attempted, and occasionally with success, to win fame as the authors of poetical drama? The connection between the cassock and the buskin has, to this extent, always been fairly intimate – from the time when Bishop Bale wrote mystery plays, to the recent years in which Sheridan Knowles, after having been a dramatist and an actor, closed his days as a preacher. Shirley, Mason, Home, Milman, Croly, Maturin, White – these are names well known in the history of the theatre, and they are all names of clerical association. Such has been the fascination of the ‘boards’ even for those whose home has been the pulpit and the cloister.

THE OUTSIDES OF BOOKS

This may fairly be claimed as a popular subject. It is one in which nearly everybody – perhaps everybody – is interested. There can surely be few, if any, who do not care about the outside of a book. Even if a man never opens a volume, he likes its exterior to be pleasing. Nay, there are books which may be said to be produced and utilized only for their outward garb. How often does one find a volume described as a charming one ‘for the table’! It is for the table that certain publications are destined. Enter a drawing-room, and you will find a few books scattered here and there ‘with artful care.’ I do not say they are intended never to be opened, but their primary function is to look nice – to ‘set off’ the table-cloth, and, generally, to give a bright appearance to the room. And their adaptability for this purpose is so widely recognised that you can scarcely go anywhere without coming across books of this complexion. You find them exposed to view in your doctor’s or your dentist’s ante-chamber; you find them placed before you, usually very much the worse for wear, in hotel waiting-rooms. And the instinct which prompts all this display is genuine enough. It is perfectly true – there is no furniture so agreeable to the eye as books. Nothing makes a room look at once so picturesque and home-like, if the volumes be but sufficiently varied in size and hue.

And that brings us in presence of a point of controversy. Ought there to be so much variety in the exteriors of books? Ought they to be ‘got up’ in so many different styles? Some people would answer these questions with a decided negative. These are the persons who like uniformity in their libraries, who would have one shelf look for all the world like the facsimile of the other. These are the persons who, almost as soon as they buy a book, are desirous to have it rebound after some fantastic notion of their own. There is a class of purchaser which revels in long lines of volumes in ‘full calf gilt.’ You see that sort of thing in most old-fashioned collections. And the effect is not bad in some respects. The rows look handsome enough. They have solidity and richness. Nor do I say that for a certain species of publication ‘full calf gilt’ is not a very judicious form of binding. One likes to see the quarterlies and higher-class monthlies done up in that style. It befits the seriousness of their contents. But do not let everything be put into ‘full calf gilt,’ solid and rich though it appears. Let us give full play to the element of variety. Let every book have an individuality, a character, of its own. Let us be able to identify it easily. Let it retain its original garb, so that we may always be able to distinguish it. Surely it is one of the greatest charms of a row of volumes that each has its special features, and can readily be found when wanted.

It may be laid down as a general rule that the binding of a book should have a distinct reference to the nature of its contents. It should be appropriate to the author and to the subject. One sympathizes with Posthumus in the play, when, apostrophizing the volume in his prison, he says:

 
‘O rare one!
Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment
Nobler than that it covers: let thy effects
So follow, to be most unlike our courtiers,
As good as promise.’
 

Juliet, when she hears that Romeo has slain Tybalt, asks:

 
‘Was ever book containing such vile matter
So fairly bound?’
 

And in a like spirit Charles Lamb, in his well-known essay, complains of the ‘things in books’ clothing’ which, by reason of their inappropriate exteriors, afford so much disappointment to the reader. ‘To reach down a well-bound semblance of a volume, and hope it is some kind-hearted play-book, then, opening what “seem its leaves,” to come bolt upon a withering population essay’ – ‘to expect a Steele or a Farquhar, and find – Adam Smith’ – those, indeed, are doleful and dispiriting experiences, to which the unsuspecting student ought not in enlightened times to be subjected. If Mr. Gilbert’s Mikado be right in the view that the punishment ought to ‘fit the crime,’ so assuredly ought a book’s binding to fit the matter that is contained within it. It should be the outward sign of the inward grace.

I am ready to admit that, as a rule, this is so. In general, it is quite easy to tell the nature of a volume from its cover. And for this the publishers are greatly to be thanked. An amateur, publishing for himself, may every now and then insist upon dressing up the product of his brains incongruously; but, for the most part, the booksellers of to-day have a very excellent sense of what is fitting. The result is that those who care about books can differentiate them at a glance. They know what is the approved style and line for biography and history, for poetry and fiction, for sermons, for gift-books, and so ad infinitum. The ‘Life’ of So-and-so, and the ‘Annals’ of Such-and-such, are unmistakeable; they have respectability written on every corner and angle of them. The dull brown or the dull green is sufficiently obvious to everyone. And so with poetry. You know minor verse directly you see it. It has a cachet concerning which there can be no possible error. Happily, a Tennyson, a Browning, or a Swinburne is equally recognisable. A novel, of course, bears its character on its face. The three-volume form is notorious. But it scarcely matters what shape fiction may take. It can be identified by instinct, whether it be in yellow boards or in some more quiet habit. Sermons cannot be misapprehended; there is no fear of their being taken on a railway journey instead of the latest book of memoirs. As for gift-books, whether for boy or girl, adult or juvenile, they have their destination marked upon them in all the colours of the rainbow. Some complain of this, and call it vulgar. No doubt it often is so. But a gift-book is produced for a definite purpose, and the public would be surprised, and probably annoyed, if it were not as gorgeous in gold and colours as it was expected to be. Gold and colours are what are wanted, and the publishers do well to supply them.

One thing, perhaps, is too little considered – that a book is, in most cases, intended to be read and to be preserved. Certain books are not issued for that purpose, but are deliberately manufactured to be thrown away when read. The shilling novel, one may presume, is not designed for a permanent existence. If it is, why is it so frequently brought out in a paper cover, which either comes off altogether, or else curls up at the edges in the most irritating fashion? It must be confessed that a paper cover is an infliction, demanding the eventual destruction of the book or its prompt rebinding in more durable style. But it is not sufficient only that a volume should be bound. It should be bound so that it can be opened and perused with comfort. It should not be in too stiff a cover, or it will be awkward to hold. And the cover should not be in white or in too delicate a colour, or one will not care to handle it. Nor should a book be bound too limply, for the cover will soon begin to look shapeless. A parchment binding is charming to gaze at for a time, but how quickly its glory fades! I should say to the ordinary bookbuyer, in metaphoric language, Avoid the kickshaws and stick to the solids! In other words, leave the delicacies to the connoisseur, and give your attention to the books so clothed that you can read and keep them as you will.