Of Kings' Treasuries

'You shall each have a cake of sesame, — and ten pound.'

LUCIAN : The Fisherman.



My first duty this evening is to ask your pardon for the ambiguity of title under which the subject of lecture has been announced: for indeed I am not going to talk of kings, known as regnant, nor of treasuries, understood to contain wealth; but of quite another order of royalty, and another material of riches, than those usually acknowledged. I had even intended to ask your attention for a little while on trust, and (as sometimes one contrives, in taking a friend to see a favourite piece of scenery) to hide what I wanted most to show, with such imperfect cunning as I might, until we unexpectedly reached the best point of view by winding paths. But — and as also I have heard it said, by men practised in public address, that hearers are never so much fatigued as by the endeavour to follow a speaker who gives them no clue to his purpose, — I will take the slight mask off at once, and tell you plainly that I want to speak to you about the treasures hidden in books; and about the way we find them, and the way we lose them. A grave subject, you will say; and a wide one! Yes; so wide that I shall make no effort to touch the compass of it. I will try only to bring before you a few simple thoughts about reading, which press themselves upon me every day more deeply, as I watch the course of the public mind with respect to our daily enlarging means of education; and the answeringly wider spreading on the levels, of the irrigation of literature.

It happens that I have practically some connection with schools for different classes of youth; and I receive many letters from parents respecting the education of their children. In the mass of these letters I am always struck by the precedence which the idea of a 'position in life' takes above all other thoughts in the parents' — more especially in the mothers' — minds. 'The education befitting such and such a station in life ' — this is the phrase, this the object, always. They never seek, as far as I can make out, an education good in itself; even the conception of abstract rightness in training rarely seems reached by the writers. But, an education 'which shall keep a good coat on my son's back; — which shall enable him to ring with confidence the visitors' bell at doublebelled doors; which shall result ultimately in establishment of a double-belled door to his own house; — in a word, which shall lead to advancement in life; — this we pray for on bent knees — and this is all we pray for.' It never seems to occur to the parents that there may be an education which, in itself, is advancement in Life; — that any other than that may perhaps be advancement in Death; and that this essential education might be more easily got, or given, than they fancy, if they set about it in the right way; while it is for no price, and by no favour, to be got, if they set about it in the wrong.

Indeed, among the ideas most prevalent and effective in the mind of this busiest of countries, I suppose the first — at least that which is confessed with the greatest frankness, and put forward as the fittest stimulus to youthful exertion — is this of 'Advancement in life.' May I ask you to consider with me, what this idea practically includes, and what it should indude?

Practically, then, at present, 'advancement in life' means, becoming conspicuous in life; obtaining a position which shall be acknowledged by others to be respectable or honourable. We do not understand by this advancement, in general, the mere making of money, but the being known to have made it; not the accomplishment of any great aim, but the being seen to have accomplished it. In a word, we mean the gratification of our thirst for applause. That thirst, if the last infirmity of noble minds, is also the first infirmity of weak ones; and, on the whole, the strongest impulsive influence of average humanity: the greatest efforts of the race have always been traceable to the love of praise, as its greatest catastrophes to the love of pleasure.

I am not about to attack or defend this impulse. I want you only to feel how it lies at the root of effort; especially of all modern effort. It is the gratification of vanity which is, with us, the stimulus of toil and balm of repose; so closely does it touch the very springs of life that the wounding of our vanity is always spoken of (and truly) as in its measure mortal ; we call it 'mortification,' using the same expression which we should apply to a gangrenous and incurable bodily hurt. And although a few of us may be physicans enough to recognize the various effect of this passion upon health and energy, I believe most honest men know, and would at once acknowledge, its leading power with them as a motive. The seaman does not commonly desire to be made captain only because he knows he can manage the ship better than any other sailor on board. He wants to be made captain that he may be called captain. The clergyman does not usually want to be made a bishop only because he believes that no other hand can, as firmly as his, direct the diocese through its difficulties. He wants to be made bishop primarily that he may be called 'My Lord.' And a prince does not usually desire to enlarge, or a subject to gain, a kingdom, because he believes no one else can as well serve the State, upon its throne; but, briefly, because he wishes to be addressed as 'Your Majesty,' by as many lips as may be brought to such utterance.

This, then, being the main idea of 'advancement in life,' the force of it applies, for all of us, according to our station, particularly to that secondary result of such advancement which we call 'getting into good society.' We want to get into good society, not that we may have it, but that we may be seen in it; and our notion of its goodness depends primarily on its conspicuousness.

Will you pardon me if I pause for a moment to put what I fear you may think an impertinent question? I never can go on with an address unless I feel, or know, that my audience are either with me or against me: I do not much care which, in beginning; but I must know where they are; and I would fain find out, at this instant, whether you think I am putting the motives of popular action too low. I am resolved, to-night, to state them low enough to be admitted as probable; for whenever, in my writings on Political Economy, I assume that a little honesty, or generosity, — or what used to be called 'virtue,' — may be calculated upon as a human motive of action, people always answer me, saying, 'You must not calculate on that: that is not in human nature: you must not assume anything to be common to men but acquisitiveness and jealousy; no other feeling ever has influence on them, except accidentally, and in matters out of the way of business.' I begin, accordingly, tonight low in the scale of motives; but I must know if you think me right in doing so. Therefore, let me ask those who admit the love of praise to be usually the strongest motive in men's minds in seeking advancement, and the honest desire of doing any kind of duty to be an entirely secondary one, to hold up their hands. (About a dozen hands held up — the audience, partly, not being sure the lecturer is serious, and, partly, shy of expressing opinion .) I am quite serious — I really do want to know what you think; however, I can judge by putting the reverse question. Will those who think that duty is generally the first, and love of praise the second motive, hold up their hands? (One hand reported to have been held up behind the lecturer .) Very good: I see you are with me, and that you think I have not begun too near the ground. Now, without teasing you by putting farther question, I venture to assume that you will admit duty as at least a secondary or tertiary motive. You think that the desire of doing something useful, or obtaining some real good, is indeed an existent collateral idea, though a secondary one, in most men's desire of advancement. You will grant that moderately honest men desire place and office, at least in some measure for the sake of beneficent power; and would wish to associate rather with sensible and well-informed persons than with fools and ignorant persons, whether they are seen in the company of the sensible ones or not. And finally, without being troubled by repetition of any common truisms about the preciousness of friends, and the influence of companions, you will admit, doubtless, that according to the sincerity of our desire that our friends may be true, and our companions wise, — and in proportion to the earnestness and discretion with which we choose both, — will be the general chances of our happiness and usefulness.

But, granting that we had both the will and the sense to choose our friends well, how few of us have the power! or, at least, how limited, for most, is the sphere of choice! Nearly all our associations are determined by chance or necessity; and restricted within a narrow circle. We cannot know whom we would; and those whom we know, we cannot have at our side when we most need them. All the higher circles of human intelligence are, to those beneath, only momentarily and partially open. We may, by good fortune, obtain a glimpse of a great poet, and hear the sound of his voice; or put a question to a man of science, and be answered good-humouredly. We may intrude ten minutes' talk on a cabinet minister, answered probably with words worse than silence, being deceptive; or snatch, once or twice in our lives, the privilege of throwing a bouquet in the path of a princess, or arresting the kind glance of a queen. And yet these momentary chances we covet; and spend our years, and passions, and powers, in pursuit of little more than these; while, meantime, there is a society continually open to us, of people who will talk to us as long as we like, whatever our rank or occupation; — talk to us in the best words they can choose, and of the things nearest their hearts. And this society, because it is so numerous and so gentle, and can be kept waiting round us all day long, — kings and statesmen lingering patiently, not to grant audience, but to gain it! — in those plainly furnished and narrow ante-rooms, our bookcase shelves, — we make no account of that company, — perhaps never listen to a word they would say, all day long!

You may tell me, perhaps, or think within yourselves, that the apathy with which we regard this company of the noble, who are praying us to listen to them; and the passion with which we pursue the company, probably of the ignoble, who despise us, or who have nothing to teach us, are grounded in this, — that we can see the faces of the living men, and it is themselves, and not their sayings, with which we desire to become familiar. But it is not so. Suppose you never were to see their faces; — suppose you could be put behind a screen in the states man's cabinet, or the prince's chamber, would you not be glad to listen to their words, though you were for bidden to advance beyond the screen? And when the screen is only a little less, folded in two instead of four, and you can be hidden behind the cover of the two boards that bind a book, and listen all day long, not to the casual talk, but to the studied, determined, chosen addresses of the wisest of men; — this station of audience, and honourable privy council, you despise!

But perhaps you will say that it is because the living people talk of things that are passing, and are of immediate interest to you, that you desire to hear them. Nay; that cannot be so, for the living people will themselves tell you about passing matters much better in their writings than in their careless talk. Yet I admit that this motive does influence you, so far as you prefer those rapid and ephemeral writings to slow and enduring writings — books, properly so called. For all books are divisible into two classes, the books of the hour, and the books of all time. Mark this distinction — it is not one of quality only. It is not merely the bad book that does not last, and the good one that does. It is a distinction of species. There are good books for the hour, and good ones for all time; bad books for the hour, and bad ones for all time. I must define the two kinds before I go farther.

The good book of the hour, then, — I do not speak of the bad ones, — is simply the useful or pleasant talk of some person whom you cannot otherwise converse with, printed for you. Very useful often, telling you what you need to know; very pleasant often, as a sensible friend's present talk would be. These bright accounts of travels; good-humoured and witty discussions of question; lively or pathetic story-telling in the form of novel; rum fact-telling, by the real agents concerned in the events of passing history; — all these books of the hour, multiplying among us as education becomes more general, are a peculiar possession of the present age: we ought to be entirely thankful for them, and entirely ashamed of ourselves if we make no good use of them. But we make the worst possible use if we allow them to usurp the place of true books: for, strictly speaking, they are not books at all, but merely letters or newspapers in good print. Our friend's letter may be delightful, or necessary, to-day: whether worth keeping or not, is to be considered. The newspaper may be entirely proper at breakfast time, but assuredly it is not reading for all day. So, though bound up in a volume, the long letter which gives you so pleasant an account of the inns, and roads, and weather, last year at such a place, or which tells you that amusing story, or gives you the real circumstances of such and such events, however valuable for occasional reference, may not be, in the real sense of the word, a 'book' at all, nor, in the real sense, to be 'read.' A book is essentially not a talking thing, but a written thing; and written, not with a view of mere communication, but of permanence. The book of talk is printed only because its author cannot speak to thousands of people at once; if he could, he would — the volume is mere multiplication of his voice. You cannot talk to your friend in India; if you could, you would; you write instead: that is mere conveyance of voice. But a book is written, not to multiply the voice merely, not to carry it merely, but to perpetuate it. The author has something to say which he perceives to be true and useful, or helpfully beautiful. So far as he knows, no one has yet said it; so far as he knows, no one else can say it. He is bound to say it, clearly and melodiously if he may; clearly at all events. In the sum of his life he finds this to be the thing, or group of things, manifest to him; — this, the piece of true knowledge, or sight, which his share of sunshine and earth has permitted him to seize. He would fain set it down for ever; engrave it on rock, if he could; saying, 'This is the best of me; for the rest, I ate, and drank, and slept, loved, and hated, like another; my life was as the vapour, and is not; but this I saw and knew: this, if anything of mine, is worth your memory.' That is his 'writing'; it is, in his small human way, and with whatever degree of true inspiration is in him, his inscription, or scripture. That is a 'Book.'

Perhaps you think no books were ever so written?

But, again, I ask you, do you at all believe in honesty, or at all in kindness, or do you think there is never any honesty or benevolence in wise people? None of us, I hope, are so unhappy as to think that. Well, whatever bit of a wise man's work is honestly and benevolently done, that bit is his book or his piece of art. It is mixed always with evil fragments — ill-done, redundant, affected work. But if you read rightly, you will easily discover the true bits, and those are the book.

Now books of this kind have been written in all ages by their greatest men: -by great leaders, great statesmen, and great thinkers. These are all at your choice; and Life is short. You have heard as much before; — yet have you measured and mapped out this short life and its possibilities? Do you know, if you read this, that you cannot read that — that what you lose to-day you cannot gain to-morrow? Will you go and gossip with your housemaid, or your stable-boy, when you may talk with queens and kings; or flatter yourself that it is with any worthy consciousness of your own claims to respect, that you jostle with the hungry and common crowd for entrée here, and audience there, when all the while this eternal court is open to you, with its society, wide as the world, multitudinous as its days, the chosen, and the mighty, of every place and time? Into that you may enter always; in that you may take fellowship and rank according to your wish; from that, once entered into it, you can never be outcast but by your own fault; by your aristocracy of companionship there, your own inherent aristocracy will be assuredly tested, and the motives with which you strive to take high place in the society of the living, measured, as to all the truth and sincerity that are in them, by the place you desire to take in this company of the Dead.

'The place you desire,' and the place you fit yourself for , I must also say; because, observe, this court of the past differs from all living aristocracy in this: — it is open to labour and to merit, but to nothing else. No wealth will bribe, no name overawe, no artifice deceive, the guardian of those Elysian gates. In the deep sense, no vile or vulgar person ever enters there. At the portières of that silent Faubourg St Germain, there is but brief question: — 'Do you deserve to enter? Pass. Do you ask to be the companion of nobles? Make yourself noble, and you shall be. Do you long for the conversation of the wise? Learn to understand it, and you shall hear it. But on other terms? — no. If you will not rise to us, we cannot stoop to you. The living lord may assume courtesy, the living philosopher explain his thought to you with considerate pain; but here we neither feign nor interpret; you must rise to the level of our thoughts if you would be gladdened by them, and share our feelings, if you would recognize our presence.'

This, then, is what you have to do, and I admit that it is much. You must, in a word, love these people, if you are to be among them. No ambition is of any use. They scorn your ambition. You must love them, and show your love in these two following ways.

(1) First, by a true desire to be taught by them, and to enter into their thoughts. To enter into theirs, observe; not to find your own expressed by them. If the person who wrote the book is not wiser than you, you need not read it; if he be, he will think differently from you in many respects.

(2) Very ready we are to say of a book, 'How good this is — that's exactly what I think!' But the fight feeling is, 'How strange that is! I never thought of that before, and yet I see it is true; or if I do not now, I hope I shall, some day.' But whether thus submissively or not, at least be sure that you go to the author to get at his meaning, not to find yours. Judge it afterwards if you think yourself qualified to do so; but ascertain it first. And be sure, also, if the author is worth anything, that you will not get at his meaning all at once; — nay, that at his whole meaning you will not for a long time arrive in any wise. Not that he does not say what he means, and in strong words too; but he cannot say it all; and what is more strange, will not, but in a hidden way and in parables, in order that he may be sure you want it. I cannot quite see the reason of this, nor analyse that cruel reticence in the breasts of wise men which makes them always hide their deeper thought. They do not give it you by way of help, but of reward; and will make themselves sure that you deserve it before they allow you to reach it. But it is the same with the physical type of wisdom, gold. There seems, to you and me, no reason why the electric forces of the earth should not carry whatever there is of gold within it at once to the mountain tops, so that kings and people might know that all the gold they could get was there; and without any trouble of digging, or anxiety, or chance, or waste of time, cut it away, and coin as much as they needed. But Nature does not manage it so. She puts it in little fissures in the earth, nobody knows where: you may dig long and find none; you must dig painfully to find any.

And it is just the same with men's best wisdom. When you come to a good book, you must ask yourself, 'Am I inclined to work as an Australian miner would? Are my pickaxes and shovels in good order, and am I in good trim myself, my sleeves well up to the elbow, and my breath good, and my temper?' And, keeping the figure a little longer, even at cost of tiresomeness, for it is a thoroughly useful one, the metal you are in search of being the author's mind or meaning, his words are as the rock which you have to crush and smelt in order to get at it. And your pickaxes are your own care, wit, and learning; your smelting furnace is your own thoughtful soul. Do not hope to get at any good author's meaning without those tools and that fire; often you will need sharpest, finest chiselling, and patientest fusing, before you can gather one grain of the metal.

And, therefore, first of all, I tell you earnestly and authoritatively (I know I am right in this), you must get into the habit of looking intensely at words, and assuring yourself of their meaning, syllable by syllable — nay, letter by letter. For though it is only by reason of the opposition of letters in the function of signs, to sounds in the function of signs, that the study of books is called 'literature,' and that a man versed in it is called, by the consent of nations, a man of letters instead of a man of books, or of words, you may yet connect with that accidental nomenclature this real fact: — that you might read all the books in the British Museum (if you could live long enough), and remain an utterly 'illiterate,' uneducated person; but that if you read ten pages of a good book, letter by letter, — that is to say, with real accuracy, — you are for evermore in some measure an educated person. The entire difference between education and non education (as regards the merely intellectual part of it), consists in this accuracy. A well-educated gentleman may not know many languages, — may not be able to speak any but his own, — may have read very few books. But whatever language he knows, he knows precisely; whatever word he pronounces, he pronounces rightly; above all, he is learned in the peerage of words; knows the words of true descent and ancient blood, at a glance, from words of modem canaille; remembers all their ancestry, their intermarriages, distant relationships, and the extent to which they were admitted, and offices they held, among the national noblesse of words at any time, and in any country. But an uneducated person may know, by memory, many languages, and talk them all, and yet truly know not a word of any, — not a word even of his own. An ordinarily clever and sensible seaman will be able to make his way ashore at most ports; yet he has only to speak a sentence of any language to be known for an illiterate person: so also the accent, or turn of expression of a single sentence, will at once mark a scholar. And this is so strongly felt, so conclusively admitted, by educated persons, that a false accent or a mistaken syllable is enough, in the parliament of any civilized nation, to assign to a man a certain degree of inferior standing for ever.

And this is right; but it is a pity that the accuracy insisted on is not greater, and required to a serious purpose. It is right that a false Latin quantity should excite a smile in the House of Commons; but it is wrong that a false English meaning should not excite a frown there. Let the accent of words be watched; and closely: let their meaning be watched more closely still, and fewer will do the work. A few words well chosen, and distinguished, will do work that a thousand cannot, when every one is acting, equivocally, in the function of another. Yes; and words, if they are not watched, will do deadly work sometimes. There are masked words droning and skulking about us in Europe just now, — (there never were so many, owing to the spread of a shallow, blotching, blundering, infectious 'information,' or rather deformation, everywhere, and to the teaching of catechisms and phrases at school instead of human meanings) — there are masked words abroad, I say, which nobody understands, but which everybody uses, and most people will also fight for, live for, or even die for, fancying they mean this or that, or the other, of things dear to them: for such words wear chameleon cloaks — 'ground-lion' cloaks, of the colour of the ground of any man's fancy: on that ground they lie in wait, and rend them with a spring from it. There never were creatures of prey so mischievous, never diplomatists so cunning, never poisoners so deadly, as these masked words; they are the unjust stewards of all men's ideas: whatever fancy or favourite instinct a man most cherishes, he gives to his favourite masked word to take care of for him; the word at last comes to have an infinite power over him, — you cannot get at him but by its ministry.

And in languages so mongrel in breed as the English, there is a fatal power of equivocation put into men's hands, almost whether they will or no, in being able to use Greek or Latin words for an idea when they want it to be awful; and Saxon or otherwise common words when they want it to be vulgar. What a singular and salutary effect, for instance, would be produced on the minds of people who are in the habit of taking the Form of the 'Word' they live by, for the Power of which that Word tells them, if we always either retained, or refused, the Greek form 'biblos,' or 'biblion,' as the right expression for 'book' — instead of employing it only in the one instance in which we wish to give dignity to the idea, and translating it into English everywhere else. How wholesome it would be for many simple persons if, in such places (for instance) as Acts xix.19, we retained the Greek expression, instead of translating it, and they had to read — 'Many of them also which used curious arts, brought their bibles together, and burnt them before all men; and they counted the price of them, and found it fifty thousand pieces of silver'! Or if, on the other hand, we translated where we retain it, and always spoke of 'The Holy Book,' instead of 'Holy Bible,' it might come into more heads than it does at present, that the Word of God, by which the heavens were, of old, and by which they are now kept in store, 1 cannot be made a present of to anybody in morocco binding; nor sown on any wayside by help either of steam plough or steam press; but is nevertheless being offered to us daily, and by us with contumely refused; and sown in us daily, and by us, as instantly as may be, choked.

So, again, consider what effect has been produced on the English vulgar mind by the use of the sonorous Latin form 'damno,' in translating the Greek κατακρίνω, when people charitably wish to make it forcible; and the substitution of the temperate 'condemn' for it, when they choose to keep it gentle; and what notable sermons have been preached by illiterate clergymen on — 'He that believeth not shall be damned'; though they would shrink with horror from translating Heb. xi.7, 'The saving of his house, by which he damned the world,' or John viii.10-11, 'Woman, hath no man damned thee? She saith, No man, Lord. Jesus answered her, Neither do I damn thee: go and sin no more.' And divisions in the mind of Europe, which have cost seas of blood, and in the defence of which the noblest souls of men have been cast away in frantic desolation, countless as forest-leaves — though, in the heart of them, founded on deeper causes — have nevertheless been rendered practically possible, mainly, by the European adoption of the Greek word for a public meeting, 'ecclesia,' to give peculiar respectability to such meetings, when held for religious purposes; and other collateral equivocations, such as the vulgar English one of using the word 'priest' as a contraction for 'presbyter.'

Now, in order to deal with words rightly, this is the habit you must form. Nearly every word in your language has been first a word of some other language – of Saxon, German, French, Latin, or Greek; (not to speak of eastern and primitive dialects). And many words have been all these — that is to say, have been Greek first, Latin next, French or German next, and English last: undergoing a certain change of sense and use on the lips of each nation; but retaining a deep vital meaning, which all good scholars feel in employing them, even at this day. If you do not know the Greek alphabet, learn it; young or old — girl or boy — whoever you may be, if you think of reading seriously (which, of course, implies that you have some leisure at command), learn your Greek alphabet; then get good dictionaries of all these languages, and whenever you are in doubt about a word, hunt it down patiently. Read Max Müller's lectures thoroughly, to begin with; and, after that, never let a word escape you that looks suspicious. It is severe work; but you will find it, even at first, interesting, and at last endlessly amusing. And the general gain to your character, in power and precision, will be quite incalculable.

Mind, this does not imply knowing, or trying to know, Greek or Latin, or French. It takes a whole life to learn any language perfectly. But you can easily ascertain the meanings through which the English word has passed; and those which in a good writer's work it must still bear.

And now, merely for example's sake, I will, with your permission, read a few lines of a true book with you, carefully; and see what will come out of them. I will take a book perfectly known to you all. No English words are more familiar to us, yet few perhaps have been read with less sincerity. I will take these few following lines of Lycidas : —



'Last came, and last did go,

The pilot of the Galilean lake.

Two massy keys he bore of metals twain,

(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain,)

He shook his mitred locks, and stem bespake,

"How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,

Enow of such as for their bellies' sake

Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold!

Of other care they little reckoning make,

Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,

And shove away the worthy bidden guest;

Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold

A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else, the least

That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!

What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;

And when they list, their lean and flashy songs

Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;

The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,

But, swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw,

Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread;

Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw

Daily devours apace, and nothing said.'



Let us think over this passage, and examine its words.

First, is it not singular to find Milton assigning to St Peter, not only his full episcopal function, but the very types of it which Protestants usually refuse most passionately? His 'mitred' locks! Milton was no Bishoplover; how comes St Peter to be 'mitred'? 'Two massy keys he bore.' Is this, then, the power of the keys claimed by the Bishops of Rome? and is it acknowledged here by Milton only in a poetical licence, for the sake of its picturesqueness, that he may get the gleam of the golden keys to help his effect?

Do not think it. Great men do not play stage tricks with the doctrines of life and death: only little men do that. Milton means what he says; and means it with his might too — is going to put the whole strength of his spirit presently into the saying of it. For though not a lover of false bishops, he was a lover of true ones; and the Lake-pilot is here, in his thoughts, the type and head of true episcopal power. For Milton reads that text, 'I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven,' quite honestly. Puritan though he be, he would not blot it out of the book because there have been bad bishops; nay, in order to understand him , we must understand that verse first; it will not do to eye it askance, or whisper it under our breath, as if it were a weapon of an adverse sect. It is a solemn, universal assertion, deeply to be kept in mind by all sects. But perhaps we shall be better able to reason on it if we go on a little farther, and come back to it. For clearly this marked insistence on the power of the true episcopate is to make us feel more weightily what is to be charged against the false claimants of episcopate; or generally, against false claimants of power and rank in the body of the clergy; they who, 'for their bellies' sake, creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold.'

Never think Milton uses those three words to fill up his verse, as a loose writer would. He needs all the three; — especially those three, and no more than those – 'creep,' and 'intrude,' and 'climb'; no other words would or could serve the turn, and no more could be added. For they exhaustively comprehend the three classes, correspondent to the three characters, of men who dishonestly seek ecclesiastical power. First, those who 'creep ' into the fold; who do not care for office, nor name, but for secret influence, and do all things occulfiy and cunningly, consenting to any servility of office or conduct, so only that they may intimately discern, and unawares direct, the minds of men. Then those who 'intrude' (thrust, that is) themselves into the fold, who by natural insolence of heart, and stout eloquence of tongue, and fearlessly perseverant self-assertion, obtain hearing and authority with the common crowd. Lastly, those who 'climb,' who, by labour and learning, both stout and sound, but selfishly exerted in the cause of their own ambition, gain high dignities and authorities, and become 'lords over the heritage,' though not 'ensamples to the flock.'

Now go on: —



'Of other care they little reckoning make,
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast.
Blind mouths — '


I pause again, for this is a strange expression; a broken metaphor, one might think, careless and unscholarly.

Not so: its very audacity and pithiness are intended to make us look dose at the phrase and remember it. Those two monosyllables express the precisely accurate contraries of right character, in the two great offices of the Church — those of bishop and pastor.

A 'Bishop' means 'a person who sees.'

A 'Pastor' means 'a person who feeds.'

The most unbishoply character a man can have is therefore to be Blind.

The most unpastoral is, instead of feeding, to want to be fed, — to be a Mouth.

Take the two reverses together, and you have 'blind mouths.' We may advisably follow out this idea a little. Nearly all the evils in the Church have arisen from bishops desiring power more than light . They want authority, not outlook. Whereas their real office is not to rule; though it may be vigorously to exhort and rebuke: it is the king's office to rule; the bishop's office is to oversee the flock; to number it, sheep by sheep; to be ready always to give full account of it. Now it is clear he cannot give account of the souls, if he has not so much as numbered the bodies, of his flock. The first thing, therefore, that a bishop has to do is at least to put himself in a position in which, at any moment, he can obtain the history, from childhood, of every living soul in his diocese, and of its present state. Down in that back street, Bill and Nancy, knocking each other's teeth out! — Does the bishop know all about it? Has he his eye upon them? Has he had his eye upon them? Can he circumstantially explain to us how Bill got into the habit of beating Nancy about the head? If he cannot, he is no bishop, though he had a mitre as high as Salisbury steeple; he is no bishop, — he has sought to be at the helm instead of the masthead; he has no sight of things. 'Nay,' you say, 'it is not his duty to look after Bill in the back street.' What! the fat sheep that have full fleeces — you think it is only those he should look after while (go back to your Milton) 'the hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, besides what the grim wolf, with privy paw' (bishops knowing nothing about it), 'daily devours apace, and nothing said'?

'But that's not our idea of a bishop.' Perhaps not; but it was St Paul's; and it was Milton's. They may be right, or we may be; but we must not think we are reading either one or the other by putting our meaning into their words.

I go on.



'But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw.'



This is to meet the vulgar answer that 'if the poor are not looked after in their bodies, they are in their souls; they have spiritual food.'

And Milton says, 'They have no such thing as spiritual food; they are only swollen with wind.' At first you may think that is a coarse type, and an obscure one. But again, it is a quite literally accurate one. Take up your Latin and Greek dictionaries, and find out the meaning of 'spirit.' It is only a contraction of the Latin word 'breath,' and an indistinct translation of the Greek word for 'wind.' The same word is used in writing, 'The wind bloweth where it listeth'; and in writing, 'so is every one that is born of the Spirit'; born of the breath , that is; for it means the breath of God, in soul and body. We have the true sense of it in our words 'inspiration' and 'expire.' Now, there are two kinds of breath with which the flock may be filled, — God's breath, and man's. The breath of God is health, and life, and peace to them, as the air of heaven is to the flocks on the hills; but man's breath — the word which he calls spiritual — is disease and contagion to them, as the fog of the fen. They rot inwardly with it; they are puffed up by it, as a dead body by the vapours of its own decomposition. This is literally true of all false religious teaching; the first and last, and fatalest sign of it, is that 'puffing up.' Your converted children, who teach their parents; your converted convicts, who teach honest men; your converted dunces, who, having lived in cretinous stupefaction half their lives, suddenly awaking to the fact of there being a God, fancy themselves therefore His peculiar people and messengers; your sectarians of every species, small and great, Catholic or Protestant, of high church or low, in so far as they think themselves exclusively in the right and others wrong; and, pre-eminently, in every sect, those who hold that men can be saved by thinking tightly instead of doing rightly, by word instead of act, and wish instead of work; — these are the true fog children — clouds, these, without water; bodies, these, of putrescent vapour and skin, without blood or flesh: blown bagpipes for the fiends to pipe with — corrupt, and corrupting, — 'swollen with wind, and the rank mist they draw.'

Lastly, let us return to the lines respecting the power of the keys, for now we can understand them. Note the difference between Milton and Dante in their interpretation of this power: for once, the latter is weaker in thought; he supposes both the keys to be of the gate of heaven; one is of gold, the other of silver: they are given by St Peter to the sentinel angel; and it is not easy to determine the meaning either of the substances of the three steps of the gate, or of the two keys. But Milton makes one, of gold, the key of heaven; the other, of iron, the key of the prison in which the wicked teachers are to be bound who 'have taken away the key of knowledge, yet entered not in themselves.'

We have seen that the duties of bishop and pastor are to see, and feed; and of all who do so it is said, 'He that watereth, shall be watered also himself.' But the reverse is truth also. He that watereth not, shall be withered himself; and he that seeth not, shall himself be shut out of sight — shut into the perpetual prison-house. And that prison opens here, as well as hereafter: he who is to be bound in heaven must first be bound on earth. That command to the strong angels, of which the rock-apostle is the image, 'Take him, and bind him hand and foot, and cast him out,' issues, in its measure, against the teacher, for every help withheld, and for every truth refused, and for every falsehood enforced; so that he is more strictly fettered the more he fetters, and farther outcast as he more and more misleads, till at last the bars of the iron cage close upon him, and as 'the golden opes, the iron shuts amain.'

We have got something out of the lines, I think, and much more is yet to be found in them; but we have done enough by way of example of the kind of word-by-word examination of your author which is rightly called 'reading'; watching every accent and expression, and putting ourselves always in the author's place, annihilating our own personality, and seeking to enter into his, so as to be able assuredly to say, 'Thus Milton thought,' not 'Thus I thought, in mis-reading Milton.' And by this process you will gradually come to attach less weight to your own 'Thus I thought' at other times. You will begin to perceive that what you thought was a matter of no serious importance; — that your thoughts on any subject are not perhaps the clearest and wisest that could be arrived at thereupon: — in fact, that unless you are a very singular person, you cannot be said to have any 'thoughts' at all; that you have no materials for them, in any serious matters: 2 — no right to 'think,' but only to try to learn more of the facts. Nay, most probably all your life (unless, as I said, you are a singular person) you will have no legitimate fight to an 'opinion' on any business, except that instantly under your hand. What must of necessity be done, you can always find out, beyond question, how to do. Have you a house to keep in order, a commodity to sell, a field to plough, a ditch to cleanse? There need be no two opinions about these proceedings; it is at your peril if you have not much more than an 'opinion' on the way to manage such matters. And also, outside of your own business, there are one or two subjects on which you are bound to have but one opinion. That roguery and lying are objection able, and are instantly to be flogged out of the way whenever discovered; — that covetousness and love of quarrelling are dangerous dispositions even in children, and deadly dispositions in men and nations; — that, in the end, the God of heaven and earth loves active, modest, and kind people, and hates idle, proud, greedy, and cruel ones; — on these general facts you are bound to have but one, and that a very strong, opinion. For the rest, respecting religions, governments, sciences, arts, you will find that, on the whole, you can know NOTHING, — judge nothing; that the best you can do, even though you may be a well-educated person, is to be silent, and strive to be wiser every day, and to understand a little more of the thoughts of others, which so soon as you try to do honestly, you will discover that the thoughts even of the wisest are very little more than pertinent questions. To put the difficulty into a dear shape, and exhibit to you the grounds for in decision, that is all they can generally do for you! — and well for them and for us, if indeed they are able 'to mix the music with our thoughts and sadden us with heavenly doubts.' This writer, from whom I have been reading to you, is not among the first or wisest: he sees shrewdly as far as he sees, and therefore it is easy to find out its full meaning; but with the greater men, you cannot fathom their meaning; they do not even wholly measure it themselves, — it is so wide. Suppose I had asked you, for instance, to seek for Shakespeare's opinion, instead of Milton's, on this matter of Church authority? — or for Dante's? Have any of you, at this instant, the least idea what either thought about it? Have you ever balanced the scene with the bishops in Richard III against the character of Cranmer? the description of St Francis and St Dominic against that of him who made Virgil wonder to gaze upon him, — 'disteso, tanto vilmente, nell' eterno esilio': or of him whom Dante stood beside, 'come 'l frate che confessa lo perfido assassin'? Shakespeare and Alighieri knew men better than most of us, I presume! They were both in the midst of the main struggle between the temporal and spiritual powers. They had an opinion, we may guess. But where is it? Bring it into court! Put Shakespeare's or Dante's creed into articles, and send it up for trial by the Ecclesiastical Courts!

You will not be able, I tell you again, for many and many a day, to come at the real purposes and teaching of these great men; but a very little honest study of them will enable you to perceive that what you took for your own 'judgment' was mere chance prejudice, and drifted, helpless, entangled weed of castaway thought; nay, you will see that most men's minds are indeed little better than rough heath wilderness, neglected and stubborn, partly barren, partly overgrown with pestilent brakes, and venomous, wind-sown herbage of evil surmise; that the first thing you have to do for them, and yourself, is eagerly and scornfully to set fire to this; burn all the jungle into wholesome ash-heaps, and then plough and sow. All the true literary work before you, for life, must begin with obedience to that order, 'Break up your fallow ground, and sow not among thorns .'

(II.) Having then faithfully listened to the great teachers, that you may enter into their Thoughts, you have yet this higher advance to make; — you have to enter into their Hearts. As you go to them first for clear sight, so you must stay with them, that you may share at last their just and mighty Passion. Passion, or 'sensation.' I am not afraid of the word; still less of the thing. You have heard many outcries against sensation lately; but, I can tell you, it is not less sensation we want, but more. The ennobling difference between one man and another, — between one animal and another, — is precisely in this, that one feels more than another. If we were sponges, perhaps sensation might not be easily got for us; if we were earth-worms, liable at every instant to be cut in two by the spade, perhaps too much sensation might not be good for us. But being human creatures, it is good for us; nay, we are only human in so far as we are sensitive, and our honour is precisely in proportion to our passion.

You know I said of that great and pure society of the Dead, that it would allow 'no vain or vulgar person to enter there.' What do you think I meant by a 'vulgar' person? What do you yourselves mean by 'vulgarity'? You will find it a fruitful subject of thought; but, briefly, the essence of all vulgarity lies in want of sensation. Simple and innocent vulgarity is merely an untrained and undeveloped bluntness of body and mind; but in true inbred vulgarity, there is a dreadful callousness, which, in extremity, becomes capable of every sort of bestial habit and crime, without fear, without pleasure, without horror, and without pity. It is in the blunt hand and the dead heart, in the diseased habit, in the hardened conscience, that men become vulgar; they are for ever vulgar, precisely in proportion as they are incapable of sympathy, — of quick understanding, — of all that, in deep insistence on the common, but most accurate term, may be called the 'tact' or 'touch-faculty,' of body and soul: that tact which the Mimosa has in trees, which the pure woman has above all creatures; — fineness and fulness of sensation, beyond reason; — the guide and sanctifier of reason itself. Reason can but determine what is true: — it is the God-given passion of humanity which alone can recognize what God has made good.

We come then to that great concourse of the Dead, not merely to know from them what is True, but chiefly to feel with them what is just. Now, to feel with them, we must be like them; and none of us can become that without pains. As the true knowledge is disciplined and tested knowledge, — not the first thought that comes, so the true passion is disciplined and tested passion, — not the first passion that comes. The first that come are the vain, the false, the treacherous; if you yield to them they will lead you wildly and far, in vain pursuit, in hollow enthusiasm, till you have no true purpose and no true passion left. Not that any feeling possible to humanity is in itself wrong, but only wrong when undisciplined. Its nobility is in its force and justice; it is wrong when it is weak, and felt for paltry cause. There is a mean wonder, as of a child who sees a juggler tossing golden balls; and this is base, if you will. But do you think that the wonder is ignoble, or the sensation less, with which every human soul is called to watch the golden balls of heaven tossed through the night by the Hand that made them? There is a mean curiosity, as of a child opening a forbidden door, or a servant prying into her master's business; — and a noble curiosity, questioning, in the front of danger, the source of the great river beyond the sand, — the place of the great continents beyond the sea; — a nobler curiosity still, which questions of the source of the River of Life, and of the space of the Continent of Heaven, — things which 'the angels desire to look into.' So the anxiety is ignoble, with which you linger over the course and catastrophe of an idle tale; but do you think the anxiety is less, or greater, with which you watch, or ought to watch, the dealings of fate and destiny with the life of an agonized nation? Alas! it is the narrowness, selfishness, minuteness, of your sensation that you have to deplore in England at this day; — sensation which spends itself in bouquets and speeches: in revellings and junketings; in sham fights and gay puppet shows, while you can look on and see noble nations murdered, man by man, without an effort or a tear.

I said 'minuteness' and 'selfishness' of sensation, but it would have been enough to have said 'injustice' or 'unrighteousness' of sensation. For as in nothing is a gentleman better to be discerned from a vulgar person, so in nothing is a gentle nation (such nations have been) better to be discerned from a mob, than in this, — that their feelings are constant and just, results of due contemplation, and of equal thought. You can talk a mob into anything; its feelings may be — usually are — on the whole, generous and right; but it has no foundation for them, no hold of them; you may tease or tickle it into any, at your pleasure; it thinks by infection, for the most part, catching an opinion like a cold, and there is nothing so little that it will not roar itself wild about, when the fit is on; — nothing so great but it will forget in an hour, when the fit is past. But a gentleman's, or a gentle nation's, passions are just, measured, and continuous. A great nation, for instance, does not spend its entire national wits for a couple of months in weighing evidence of a single ruffian's having done a single murder; and for a couple of years see its own children murder each other by their thousands or tens of thousands a day, considering only what the effect is likely to be on the price of cotton, and caring no wise to determine which side of battle is in the wrong. Neither does a great nation send its poor little boys to jail for stealing six walnuts; and allow its bankrupts to steal their hundreds of thousands with a bow, and its bankers, rich with poor men's savings, to close their doors 'under circumstances over which they have no control, ' with a 'by your leave'; and large landed estates to be bought by men who have made their money by going with armed steamers up and down the China Seas, selling opium at the cannon's mouth, and altering, for the benefit of the foreign nation, the common highwayman's demand of 'your money or your life, ' into that of 'your money and your life.' Neither does a great nation allow the lives of its innocent poor to be parched out of them by fog fever, and rotted out of them by dunghill plague, for the sake of sixpence a life extra per week to its landlords; and then debate, with drivelling tears, and diabolical sympathies, whether it ought not piously to save, and nursingly cherish, the lives of its murderers. Also, a great nation having made up its mind that hanging is quite the wholesomest process for its homicides in general, can yet with mercy distinguish between the degrees of guilt in homicides; and does not yelp like a pack of frost-pinched wolf-cubs on the blood-track of an unhappy crazed boy, or greyhaired clodpate Othello, 'perplexed i' the extreme,' at the very moment that it is sending a Minister of the Crown to make polite speeches to a man who is bayoneting young girls in their fathers' sight, and killing noble youths in cool blood, faster than a country butcher kills lambs in spring. And, lastly, a great nation does not mock Heaven and its Powers, by pretending belief in a revelation which asserts the love of money to be the root of all evil, and declaring, at the same time, that it is actuated, and intends to be actuated, in all chief national deeds and measures, by no other love.

My friends, I do not know why any of us should talk about reading. We want some sharper discipline than that of reading; but, at all events, be assured, we cannot read. No reading is possible for a people with its mind in this state. No sentence of any great writer is intelligible to them. It is simply and sternly impossible for the English public, at this moment, to understand any thoughtful writing, — so incapable of thought has it become in its insanity of avarice. Happily, our disease is, as yet, little worse than this incapacity of thought; it is not corruption of the inner nature; we ring true still, when anything strikes home to us; and though the idea that everything should 'pay' has infected our every purpose so deeply, that even when we would play the good Samaritan, we never take out our two pence and give them to the host, without saying, 'When I come again, thou shalt give me fourpence,' there is a capacity of noble passion left in our hearts' core. We show it in our work — in our war, — even in those unjust domestic affections which make us furious at a small private wrong, while we are polite to a boundless public one: we are still industrious to the last hour of the day, though we add the gambler's fury to the labourer's patience; we are still brave to the death, though incapable of discerning true cause for battle; and are still true in affection to our own flesh, to the death, as the sea monsters are, and the rock-eagles. And there is hope for a nation while this can be still said of it. As long as it holds its life in its hand, ready to give it for its honour (though a foolish honour), for its love (though a selfish love), and for its business (though a base business), there is hope for it. But hope only; for this instinctive, reckless virtue cannot last. No nation can last, which has made a mob of itself, however generous at heart. It must discipline its passions, and direct them, or they will discipline it, one day, with scorpion whips. Above all, a nation cannot last as a money-making mob: it cannot with impunity, — it cannot with existence, — go on despising literature, despising science, despising art, despising nature, despising compassion, and concentrating its soul on Pence. Do you think these are harsh or wild words? Have patience with me but a little longer. I will prove their truth to you, clause by clause.

(I.) I say first we have despised literature. What do we, as a nation, care about books? How much do you think we spend altogether on our libraries, public or private, as compared with what we spend on our horses? If a man spends lavishly on his library, you call him mad — a bibliomaniac. But you never call any one a horsemaniac, though men ruin themselves every day by their horses, and you do not hear of people ruining themselves by their books. Or, to go lower still, how much do you think the contents of the book-shelves of the United Kingdom, public and private, would fetch, as compared with the contents of its wine-cellars? What position would its expenditure on literature take, as compared with its expenditure on luxurious eating? We talk of food for the mind, as of food for the body: now a good book contains such food inexhaustibly; it is a provision for life, and for the best part of us; yet how long most people would look at the best book before they would give the price of a large turbot for it? Though there have been men who have pinched their stomachs and bared their backs to buy a book, whose libraries were cheaper to them, I think, in the end, than most men's dinners are. We are few of us put to such trial, and more the pity; for, indeed, a precious thing is all the more precious to us if it has been won by work or economy; and if public libraries were half so costly as public dinners, or books cost the tenth part of what bracelets do, even foolish men and women might sometimes suspect there was good in reading, as well as in munching and sparkling: whereas the very cheapness of literature is making even wise people forget that if a book is worth reading, it is worth buying. No book is worth anything which is not worth much ; nor is it serviceable, until it has been read, and re-read, and loved, and loved again; and marked, so that you can refer to the passages you want in it, as a soldier can seize the weapon he needs in an armoury, or a housewife bring the spice she needs from her store. Bread of flour is good; but there is bread, sweet as honey, if we would eat it, in a good book; and the family must be poor indeed, which, once in their lives, cannot, for such multipliable barley-loaves, pay their baker's bill. We call ourselves a rich nation, and we are filthy and foolish enough to thumb each other's books out of circulating libraries!

(II.) I say we have despised science. 'What!' you exclaim, 'are we not foremost in all discovery, 3 and is not the whole world giddy by reason, or unreason, of our inventions?' Yes; but do you suppose that is national work? That work is all done in spite of the nation; by private people's zeal and money. We are glad enough, indeed, to make our profit of science; we snap up anything in the way of a scientific bone that has meat on it, eagerly enough; but if the scientific man comes for a bone or a crust to us , that is another story. What have we publicly done for science? We are obliged to know what o'clock it is, for the safety of our ships, and therefore we pay for an observatory; and we allow ourselves, in the person of our Parliament, to be annually tormented into doing something, in a slovenly way, for the British Museum; sullenly apprehending that to be a place for keeping stuffed birds in, to amuse our children. If anybody will pay for their own telescope, and resolve another nebula, we cackle over the discernment as if it were our own; if one in ten thousand of our hunting squires suddenly perceives that the earth was indeed made to be something else than a portion for foxes, and burrows in it himself, and tells us where the gold is, and where the coals, we understand that there is some use in that; and very properly knight him: but is the accident of his having found out how to employ himself usefully any credit to us ? (The negation of such discovery among his brother squires may perhaps be some dis credit to us, if we would consider of it.) But if you doubt these generalities, here is one fact for us all to mediate upon, illustrative of our love of science. Two years ago there was a collection of the fossils of Solenhofen to be sold in Bavaria; the best in existence, containing many specimens unique for perfectness, and one unique as an example of a species (a whole kingdom of unknown living creatures being announced by that fossil). This collection, of which the mere market worth, among private buyers, would probably have been some thou sand or twelve hundred pounds, was offered to the English nation for seven hundred: but we would not give seven hundred, and the whole series would have been in the Munich Museum at this moment, if Professor Owen had not, with loss of his own time, and patient tormenting of the British public in person of its representatives, got leave to give four hundred pounds at once, and himself became answerable for the other three! which the said public will doubtless pay him eventually, but sulkily, and caring nothing about the matter all the while; only always ready to cackle if any credit comes of it. Consider, I beg of you, arithmetically, what this fact means. Your annual expenditure for public purposes, (a third of it for military apparatus,) is at least 50 millions. Now £700 is to £50,000,000 roughly, as seven pence to two thousand pounds. Suppose, then, a gentleman of unknown income, but whose wealth was to be conjectured from the fact that he spent two thousand a year on his park-walls and footmen only, professes himself fond of science; and that one of his servants comes eagerly to tell him that an unique collection of fossils, giving clue to a new era of creation, is to be had for a sum of seven pence sterling; and that the gentleman who is fond of science, and spends two thousand a year on his park, answers, after keeping his servant waiting several months, 'Well! I'll give you fourpence for them, if you will be answerable for the extra threepence yourself, till next year!'

(III.) I say you have despised Art! 'What!' you again answer, 'have we not Art exhibitions, miles long? and do we not pay thousands of pounds for single pictures? and have we not Art schools and institutions, more than ever nation had before?' Yes, truly, but all that is for the sake of the shop. You would fain sell canvas as well as coals, and crockery as well as iron; you would take every other nation's bread out of its mouth if you could; not being able to do that, your ideal of life is to stand in the thoroughfares of the world, like Ludgate apprentices, screaming to every passer-by, 'What d'ye lack?' You know nothing of your own faculties or circumstances; you fancy that, among your damp, fiat, fat fields of day, you can have as quick art-fancy as the Frenchman among his bronzed vines, or the Italian under his volcanic cliffs; — that Art may be learned, as book-keeping is, and when learned, will give you more books to keep. You care for pictures, absolutely, no more than you do for the bills pasted on your dead walls. There is always room on the walls for the bills to be read, — never for the pictures to be seen. You do not know what pictures you have (by repute) in the country, nor whether they are false or true, nor whether they are taken care of or not; in foreign countries, you calmly see the noblest existing pictures in the world rotting in abandoned wreck — (in Venice you saw the Austrian guns deliberately pointed at the palaces containing them), and if you heard that all the fine pictures in Europe were made into sand-bags tomorrow on the Austrian forts, it would not trouble you so much as the chance of a brace or two of game less in your own bags, in a day's shooting. That is your national love of Art.

(IV.) You have despised Nature; that is to say, all the deep and sacred sensations of natural scenery. The French revolutionists made stables of the cathedrals of France; you have made race-courses of the cathedrals of the earth. Your one conception of pleasure is to drive in railroad carriages round their aisles, and eat off their altars. 4 You have put a railroad-bridge over the falls of Schaffhausen. You have tunnelled the cliffs of Lucerne by Tell's chapel; you have destroyed the Clarens shore of the Lake of Geneva; there is not a quiet valley in England that you have not filled with bellowing fire; there is no particle left of English land which you have not trampled coal ashes into 5 — nor any foreign city in which the spread of your presence is not marked among its fair old streets and happy gardens by a consuming white leprosy of new hotels and perfumers' shops: the Alps themselves, which your own poets used to love so reverently, you look upon as soaped poles in a bear garden, which you set yourselves to climb and slide down again, with 'shrieks of delight.' When you are past shrieking, having no human articulate voice to say you are glad with, you fill the quietude of their valleys with gunpowder blasts, and rush home, red with cutaneous eruption of conceit, and voluble with convulsive hiccough of self-satisfaction. I think nearly the two sorrowfullest spectacles I have ever seen in humanity, taking the deep inner significance of them, are the English mobs in the valley of Chamouni, amusing themselves with firing rusty howitzers; and the Swiss vintagers of Zurich expressing their Christian thanks for the gift of the vine, by assembling in knots in the 'towers of the vineyards,' and slowly loading and firing horse-pistols from morning till evening. It is pitiful, to have dim conceptions of duty; more pitiful, it seems to me, to have conceptions like these, of mirth.

Lastly. You despise compassion. There is no need of words of mine for proof of this. I will merely print one of the newspaper paragraphs which I am in the habit of cutting out and throwing into my store-drawer; here is one from a Morning Post of an early date this year (1865); […] it relates only one of such facts as happen now daily; this by chance having taken a form in which it came before the coroner. I will print the paragraph in red. Be sure, the facts themselves are written in that colour, in a book which we shall all of us, literate or illiterate, have to read our page of, some day.



'An inquiry was held on Friday by Mr Richards, deputy coroner, at the White Horse Tavern, Christ Church, Spitalfields, respecting the death of Michael Collins, aged 58 years. Mary Collins, a miserable-looking woman, said that she lived with the deceased and his son in a room at 2, Cobb's Court, Christ Church. Deceased was a "translator" of boots. Witness went out and bought old boots; deceased and his son made them into good ones, and then witness sold them for what she could get at the shops, which was very little indeed. Deceased and his son used to work night and day to try and get a little bread and tea, and pay for the room (2s. a week), so as to keep the home together. On Friday-night-week deceased got up from his bench and began to shiver. He threw down the boots, saying, "Somebody else must finish them when I am gone, for I can do no more." There was no fire, and he said, "I would be better if I was warm." Witness therefore took two pairs of translated boots to sell at the shop, but she could only get 14d. for the two pairs, for the people at the shop said, "We must have our profit." Witness got 14 lb. of coal, and a little tea and bread. Her son sat up the whole night to make the "translations," to get money, but deceased died on Saturday morning. The family never had enough to eat. — Coroner: "It seems to me deplorable that you did not go into the workhouse." Witness: "We wanted the comforts of our little home." A juror asked what the comforts were, for he only saw a little straw in the comer of the room, the windows of which were broken. The witness began to cry, and said that they had a quilt and other little things. The deceased said he never would go into the workhouse. In summer, when the season was good, they sometimes made as much as ios. profit in the week. They then always saved towards the next week, which was generally a bad one. In winter they made not half so much. For three years they had been getting from bad to worse. — Cornelius Collins said that he had assisted his father since 1847. They used to work so far into the night that both nearly lost their eyesight. Witness now had a film over his eyes. Five years ago deceased applied to the parish for aid. The relieving officer gave him a 4 lb. loaf, and told him if he came again he should "get the stones." 6 That disgusted deceased, and he would have nothing to do with them since. They got worse and worse until last Friday week, when they had not even a halfpenny to buy a candle. Deceased then lay down on the straw, and said he could not live fill morning. — A juror: "You are dying of starvation yourself, and you ought to go into the house until the summer." — Witness: "If we went in we should die. When we come out in the summer we should be like people dropped from the sky. No one would know us, and we would not have even a room. I could work now if I had food, for my sight would get better.' Dr G. P. Walker said deceased died from syncope, from exhaustion from want of food. The deceased had had no bedclothes. For four months he had had nothing but bread to eat. There was not a particle of fat in the body. There was no disease, but, if there had been medical attendance, he might have survived the syncope or fainting. The Coroner having remarked upon the painful nature of the case, the jury returned the following verdict: "That deceased died from exhaustion from want of food and the common necessaries of life; also through want of medical aid." '



'Why would witness not go into the workhouse?' you ask. Well, the poor seem to have a prejudice against the workhouse which the rich have not; for of course everyone who takes a pension from Government goes into the workhouse on a grand scale: 7 only the workhouses for the rich do not involve the idea of work, and should be called play-houses. But the poor like to die independently, it appears; perhaps if we made the play houses for them pretty and pleasant enough, or gave them their pensions at home, and allowed them a little introductory peculation with the public money, their minds might be reconciled to the conditions. Meantime, here are the facts: we make our relief either so insulting to them, or so painful, that they rather die than take it at our hands; or, for third alternative, we leave them so untaught and foolish that they starve like brute creatures, wild and dumb, not knowing what to do, or what to ask. I say, you despise compassion; if you did not, such a newspaper paragraph would be as impossible in a Christian country as a deliberate assassination permitted in its public streets. 'Christian,' did I say? Alas! If we were but wholesomely un -Christian, it would be impossible: it is our imaginary Christianity that helps us to commit these crimes, for we revel and luxuriate in our faith, for the lewd sensation of it; dressing it up, like everything else, in fiction. The dramatic Christianity of the organ and aisle, of dawn-service and twilight-revival- the Christianity, which we do not fear to mix the mockery of, pictorially, with our play about the devil, in our Satanellas, — Roberts, — Fausts; chanting hymns through traceried windows for background effect, and artistically modulating the 'Dio' through variation on variation of mimicked prayer: (while we distribute tracts, next day, for the benefit of uncultivated swearers, upon what we suppose to be the signification of the Third Commandment; —) this gas-lighted, and gas-inspired Christianity, we are triumphant in, and draw back the hem of our robes from the touch of the heretics who dispute it. But to do a piece of common Christian righteousness in a plain English word or deed; to make Christian law any rule of life, and found one National act or hope thereon, — we know too well what our faith comes to for that! You might sooner get lightning out of incense smoke than true action or passion out of your modem English religion. You had better get rid of the smoke, and the organ pipes, both: leave them, and the Gothic windows, and the painted glass, to the property man; give up your carburetted hydrogen ghost in one healthy expiration, and look after Lazarus at the doorstep. For there is a true Church wherever one hand meets another helpfully, and that is the only holy or Mother Church which ever was, or ever shall be.

All these pleasures then, and all these virtues, I repeat, you nationally despise. You have, indeed, men among you who do not; by whose work, by whose strength, by whose life, by whose death, you live, and never thank them. Your wealth, your amusement, your pride, would all be alike impossible, but for those whom you scorn or forget. The policeman, who is walking up and down the black lane all night to watch the guilt you have created there; and may have his brains beaten out, and be maimed for life, at any moment, and never be thanked; the sailor wrestling with the sea's rage; the quiet student poring over his book or his vial; the common worker, without praise, and nearly without bread, fulfilling his task as your horses drag your carts, hopeless, and spumed of all: these are the men by whom England lives; but they are not the nation; they are only the body and nervous force of it, acting still from old habit in a convulsive perseverance, while the mind is gone. Our National wish and purpose are only to be amused; our National religion is the performance of church ceremonies, and preaching of soporific truths (or untruths) to keep the mob quietly at work, while we amuse ourselves; and the necessity for this amusement is fastening on us, as a feverous disease of parched throat and wandering eyes — senseless, dissolute, merciless. How literally that word D is-Ease, the Negation and impossibility of Ease, expressed the entire moral state of our English Industry and its Amusements!

When men are rightly occupied, their amusement grows out of their work, as the colour-petals out of a fruitful flower; — when they are faithfully helpful and compassionate, all their emotions become steady, deep, perpetual, and vivifying to the soul as the natural pulse to the body. But now, having no true business, we pour our whole masculine energy into the false business of money-making; and having no true emotion, we must have false emotions dressed up for us to play with, not innocently, as children with dolls, but guiltily and darkly, as the idolatrous Jews with their pictures on cavern walls, which men had to dig to detect. The justice we do not execute, we mimic in the novel and on the stage; for the beauty we destroy in nature, we substitute the metamorphosis of the pantomime, and (the human nature of us imperatively requiring awe and sorrow of some kind) for the noble grief we should have borne with our fellows, and the pure tears we should have wept with them, we gloat over the pathos of the police court, and gather the night-dew of the grave.

It is difficult to estimate the true significance of these things; the facts are frightful enough; — the measure of national fault involved in them is perhaps not as great as it would at first seem. We permit, or cause, thousands of deaths daily, but we mean no harm; we set fire to houses, and ravage peasants' fields, yet we should be sorry to find we had injured anybody. We are still kind at heart; still capable of virtue, but only as children are. Chalmers, at the end of his long life, having had much power with the public, being plagued in some serious matter by a reference to 'public opinion,' uttered the impatient exclamation, 'The public is just a great baby!' And the reason that I have allowed all these graver subjects of thought to mix themselves up with an inquiry into methods of reading, is that, the more I see of our national faults or miseries, the more they resolve themselves into conditions of childish illiterateness and want of education in the most ordinary habits of thought. It is, I repeat, not vice, not selfishness, not dulness of brain, which we have to lament; but an unreachable schoolboy's recklessness, only differing from the true schoolboy's in its incapacity of being helped, because it acknowledges no master.

There is a curious type of us given in one of the lovely, neglected works of the last of our great painters. It is a drawing of Kirkby Lonsdale churchyard, and of its brook, and valley, and hills, and folded morning sky beyond. And unmindful alike of these, and of the dead who have left these for other valleys and for other skies, a group of schoolboys have pried their little books upon a grave, to strike them off with stones. So, also, we play with the words of the dead that would teach us, and strike them far from us with our bitter, reckless will; little thinking that those leaves which the wind scatters had been pried, not only upon a gravestone, but upon the seal of an enchanted vault — nay, the gate of a great city of sleeping kings, who would awake for us and walk with us, if we knew but how to call them by their names. How often, even if we lift the marble entrance gate, do we but wander among those old kings in their repose, and finger the robes they lie in, and stir the crowns on their foreheads; and still they are silent to us, and seem but a dusty imagery; because we know not the incantation of the heart that would wake them; — which, if they once heard, they would start up to meet us in their power of long ago, narrowly to look upon us, and consider us; and, as the fallen kings of Hades meet the newly fallen, saying, 'Art thou also become weak as we — art thou also become one of us?' so would these kings, with their undimmed, unshaken diadems, meet us, saying, 'Art thou also become pure and mighty of heart as we — art thou also become one of us?'

Mighty of heart, mighty of mind — 'magnanimous' — to be this, is indeed to be great in life; to become this increasingly, is, indeed, to 'advance in life,' — in life itself — not in the trappings of it. My friends, do you remember that old Scythian custom, when the head of a house died? How he was dressed in his finest dress, and set in his chariot, and carried about to his friends' houses; and each of them placed him at his table's head, and all feasted in his presence? Suppose it were offered to you in plain words, as it is offered to you in dire facts, that you should gain this Scythian honour, gradually, while you yet thought yourself alive. Suppose the offer were this: You shall die slowly; your blood shall daily grow cold, your flesh petrify, your heart beat at last only as a rusted group of iron valves. Your life shall fade from you, and sink through the earth into the ice of Caina; but, day by day, your body shall be dressed more gaily, and set in higher chariots, and have more orders on its breast — crowns on its head, if you will. Men shall bow before it, stare and shout round it, crowd after it up and down the streets; build palaces for it, feast with it at their tables' heads all the night long; your soul shall stay enough within it to know what they do, and feel the weight of the golden dress on its shoulders, and the furrow of the crown-edge on the skull; — no more. Would you take the offer, verbally made by the death-angel? Would the meanest among us take it, think you? Yet practically and verily we grasp at it, every one of us, in a measure; many of us grasp at it in its fulness of horror. Every man accepts it, who desires to advance in life without knowing what life is; who means only that he is to get more horses, and more footmen, and more fortune, and more public honour, and — not more personal soul. He only is advancing in life, whose heart is getting softer, whose blood wanner, whose brain quicker, whose spirit is entering into Living peace. And the men who have this life in them are the true lords or kings of the earth — they, and they only. All other king ships, so far as they are true, are only the practical issue and expression of theirs; if less than this, they are either dramatic royalties, — costly shows, set. off, indeed, with real jewels, instead of tinsel — but still only the toys of nations; or else they are no royalties at all, but tyrannies, or the mere active and practical issue of national folly; for which reason I have said of them elsewhere, 'Visible governments are the toys of some nations, the diseases of others, the harness of some, the burdens of more. '

But I have no words for the wonder with which I hear Kinghood still spoken of, even among thoughtful men, as if governed nations were a personal property, and might be bought and sold, or otherwise acquired, as sheep, of whose flesh their king was to feed, and whose fleece he was to gather; as if Achilles' indignant epithet of base kings, 'people-eating, ' were the constant and proper title of all monarchs; and the enlargement of a king's dominion meant the same thing as the increase of a private man's estate! Kings who think so, however powerful, can no more be the true kings of the nation than gadflies are the kings of a horse; they suck it, and may drive it wild, but do not guide it. They, and their courts, and their armies are, if one could see clearly, only a large species of marsh mosquito, with bayonet proboscis and melodious, band-mastered trumpeting, in the summer air; the twilight being, perhaps, sometimes fairer, but hardly more wholesome, for its glittering mists of midge companies. The true kings, meanwhile, rule quietly, if at all, and hate ruling; too many of them make 'il gran rifiuto'; and if they do not, the mob, as soon as they are likely to become useful to it, is pretty sure to make its 'gran rifiuto' of them .

Yet the visible king may also be a true one, some day, if ever day comes when he will estimate his dominion by the force of it, — not the geographical boundaries. It matters very little whether Trent cuts you a cantel out here, or Rhine rounds you a castle less there. But it does matter to you, king of men, whether you can verily say to this man, 'Go,' and he goeth; and to another, 'Come,' and he cometh. Whether you can mm your people, as you can Trent — and where it is that you bid them come, and where go. It matters to you, king of men, whether your people hate you, and die by you, or love you, and live by you. You may measure your dominion by multitudes, better than by miles; and count degrees of love-latitude, not from, but to, a wonderfully warm and infinite equator.

Measure! — nay, you cannot measure. Who shall measure the difference between the power of those who 'do and teach,' and who are greatest in the kingdoms of earth, as of heaven — and the power of those who undo, and consume — whose power, at the fullest, is only the power of the moth and the rust? Strange! to think how the Moth-kings lay up treasures for the moth; and the Rust-kings, who are to their peoples' strength as rust to armour, lay up treasures for the rust; and the Robberkings, treasures for the robber; but how few kings have ever laid up treasures that needed no guarding- treasures of which, the more thieves there were, the better! Broidered robe, only to be rent; helm and sword, only to be dimmed; jewel and gold, only to be scattered; — there have been three kinds of kings who have gathered these. Suppose there ever should arise a Fourth order of kings, who had read, in some obscure writing of long ago, that there was a Fourth kind of treasure, which the jewel and gold could not equal, neither should it be valued with pure gold. A web made fair in the weaving, by Athena's shuttle; an armour, forged in divine fire by Vulcanian force; a gold to be mined in the very sun's red heart, where he sets over the Delphian cliffs; — deep-pictured tissue; — impenetrable armour; — potable gold! — the three great Angels of Conduct, Toil, and Thought, still calling to us, and waiting at the posts of our doors, to lead us, with their winged power, and guide us, with their unerring eyes, by the path which no fowl knoweth, and which the vulture's eye has not seen! Suppose kings should ever arise, who heard and believed this word, and at last gathered and brought forth treasures of — Wisdom — for their people?

Think what an amazing business that would be! How inconceivable, in the state of our present national wisdom! That we should bring up our peasants to a book exercise instead of a bayonet exercise! — organise, drill, maintain with pay, and good generalship, armies of thinkers, instead of armies of stabbers! — find national amusement in reading-rooms as well as riflegrounds; give prizes for a fair shot at a fact, as well as for a leaden splash on a target. What an absurd idea it seems, put fairly in words, that the wealth of the capitalists of civilized nations should ever come to support literature instead of war!

Have yet patience with me, while I read you a single sentence out of the only book, properly to be called a book, that I have yet written myself, the one that will stand (if anything stand), surest and longest of all work of mine.



'It is one very awful form of the operation of wealth in Europe that it is entirely capitalists' wealth which supports unjust wars. Just wars do not need so much money to support them; for most of the men who wage such, wage them gratis; but for an unjust war, men's bodies and souls have both to be bought; and the best tools of war for them besides, which make such war costly to the maximum; not to speak of the cost of base fear, and angry suspicion, between nations which have not grace nor honesty enough in all their multitudes to buy an hour's peace of mind with; as, at present, France and England, purchasing of each other ten millions sterling worth of consternation, annually (a remarkably light crop, half thorns and half aspen leaves, sown, reaped, and granaried by the "science" of the modem political economist, teaching covetousness instead of truth). And, all unjust war being supportable, if not by pillage of the enemy, only by loans from capitalists, these loans are repaid by subsequent taxation of the people, who appear to have no will in the matter, the capitalists' will being the primary root of the war; but its real root is the covetousness of the whole nation, rendering it incapable of faith, frankness, or justice, and bringing about, therefore, in due time, his own separate loss and punishment to each person.'



France and England literally, observe, buy panic of each other; they pay, each of them, for ten thousand-thousand-pounds' — worth of terror, a year. Now suppose, instead of buying these ten millions' worth of panic annually, they made up their minds to be at peace with each other, and buy ten millions' worth of knowledge annually; and that each nation spent its ten thousand thousand pounds a year in founding royal libraries, royal art galleries, royal museums, royal gardens, and places of rest. Might it not be better somewhat for both French and English?

It will be long, yet, before that comes to pass. Nevertheless, I hope it will not be long before royal or national libraries will be founded in every considerable city, with a royal series of books in them; the same series in every one of them, chosen books, the best in every kind, prepared for that national series in the most perfect way possible; their text printed all on leaves of equal size, broad of margin, and divided into pleasant volumes, light in the hand, beautiful, and strong, and thorough as examples of binders' work; and that these great libraries will be accessible to all clean and orderly persons at all times of the day and evening; strict law being enforced for this cleanliness and quietness.

I could shape for you other plans, for art-galleries, and for natural history galleries, and for many precious — many, it seems to me, needful — things; but this book plan is the easiest and needfullest, and would prove a considerable tonic to what we call our British constitution, which has fallen dropsical of late, and has an evil thirst, and evil hunger, and wants healthier feeding. You have got its corn laws repealed for it; try if you cannot get corn laws established for it, dealing in a better bread; — bread made of that old enchanted Arabian grain, the Sesame, which opens doors; — doors not of robbers', but of Kings' Treasuries.

Notes

1.  2 Peter iii. 5-7.

2.  Modem 'Education' for the most part signifies giving people the faculty of thinking wrong on every conceivable subject of importance to them.

3.  Since this was written, the answer has become definitely — No; we having surrendered the field of Arctic discovery to the Continental nations, as being ourselves too poor to pay for ships.

4.  I meant that the beautiful places of the world — Switzerland, Italy, South Germany, and so on — are, indeed, the truest cathedrals — places to be reverent in, and to worship in; and that we only care to drive through them: and to eat and drink at their most sacred places.

5.  I was singularly struck, some years ago, by finding all the river shore at Richmond, in Yorkshire, black in its earth, from the mere drift of soot-laden air from places many miles away.

6.  This abbreviation of the penalty of useless labour is curiously coincident in verbal form with a certain passage which some of us may remember. It may perhaps be well to preserve beside this paragraph another cutting out of my store-drawer, from the Morning Post , of about a parallel date, Friday, March 10th, 1865: — 'The salons of Mme. C —, who did the honours with clever imitative grace and elegance, were crowded with princes, dukes, marquises, and counts — in fact, with the same male company as one meets at the parties of the Princess Metternich and Madame Drouyn de Lhuys. Some English peers and members of Parliament were present, and appeared to enjoy the animated and dazzlingly improper scene. On the second floor the supper tables were loaded with every delicacy of the season. That your readers may form some idea of the dainty fare of the Parisian demi-monde, I copy the menu of the supper, which was served to all the guests (about 200) seated at four o'clock. Choice Yquem, Johannisberg, Laffitte, Tokay, and champagne of the finest vintages were served most lavishly throughout the morning. After supper dancing was resumed with increased animation, and the ball terminated with a chaîne diabolique and a cancan d'enfer at seven in the morning. (Morning service — 'Ere the fresh lawns appeared, under the opening eyelids of the Morn. —') Here is the menu: — 'Consommé de volaille à la Bagration: 16 hors-dœvres variés. Bouchées à la Talleyrand. Saumons froids, sauce Ravigote. Filets de bœuf en Bellevue, timbales milanaises, chaudfroid de gibier. Dindes truffées. Pâtés de foies gras, buissons d'écrevisses, salades vénétiennes, gelées blanches aux fruits, gâteaux mancini, parisiens et parisiennes. Fromages glacés. Ananas. Dessert. "'

7.  Please observe this statement, and think of it, and consider how it happens that a poor old woman will be ashamed to take a shilling a week from the country — but no one is ashamed to take a pension of a thousand a year.

Traffic

Delivered in the Town Hall, Bradford

[ April 21, 1864 ]



My good Yorkshire friends, you asked me down here among your hills that I might talk to you about this Exchange you are going to build: but, earnestly and seriously asking you to pardon me, I am going to do nothing of the kind. I cannot talk, or at least can say very little, about this same Exchange. I must talk of quite other things, though not willingly; — I could not deserve your pardon, if, when you invited me to speak on one subject, I wilfully spoke on another. But I cannot speak, to purpose, of anything about which I do not care; and most simply and sorrowfully I have to tell you, in the outset, that I do not care about this Exchange of yours.

If, however, when you sent me your invitation, I had answered, 'I won't come, I don't care about the Exchange of Bradford,' you would have been justly offended with me, not knowing the reasons of so blunt a carelessness. So I have come down, hoping that you will patiently let me tell you why, on this, and many other such occasions, I now remain silent, when formerly I should have caught at the opportunity of speaking to a gracious audience.

In a word, then, I do not care about this Exchange — because you don't; and because you know perfectly well I cannot make you. Look at the essential conditions of the case, which you, as business men, know perfectly well, though perhaps you think I forget them. You are going to spend £30,000, which to you, collectively, is nothing; the buying a new coat is, as to the cost of it, a much more important matter of consideration to me, than building a new Exchange is to you. But you think you may as well have the right thing for your money. You know there are a great many odd styles of architecture about; you don't want to do anything ridiculous; you hear of me, among others, as a respectable architectural man-milliner; and you send for me, that I may tell you the leading fashion; and what is, in our shops, for the moment, the newest and sweetest thing in pinnacles.

Now, pardon me for telling you frankly, you cannot have good architecture merely by asking people's advice on occasion. All good architecture is the expression of national life and character; and it is produced by a prevalent and eager national taste, or desire for beauty. And I want you to think a little of the deep significance of this word 'taste'; for no statement of mine has been more earnestly or oftener controverted than that good taste is essentially a moral quality. 'No,' say many of my antagonists, 'taste is one thing, morality is another. Tell us what is pretty: we shall be glad to know that; but we need no sermons — even were you able to preach them, which may be doubted. '

Permit me, therefore, to fortify this old dogma of mine somewhat. Taste is not only a part and an index of morality; — it is the only morality. The first, and last, and closest trial question to any living creature is, 'What do you like?' Tell me what you like, and I'll tell you what you are. Go out into the street, and ask the first man or woman you meet, what their 'taste' is; and if they answer candidly, you know them, body and soul. 'You, my friend in the rags, with the unsteady gait, what do you like?' 'A pipe, and a quartern of gin.' I know you. 'You, good woman, with the quick step and tidy bonnet, what do you like?' 'A swept hearth, and a dean tea-table; and my husband opposite me, and a baby at my breast.' Good, I know you also. 'You, little girl with the golden hair and the soft eyes, what do you like?' 'My canary, and a run among the wood hyacinths.' 'You, little boy with the dirty hands, and the low forehead, what do you like?' 'A shy at the sparrows, and a game at pitch farthing.' Good; we know them all now. What more need we ask?

'Nay,' perhaps you answer; 'we need rather to ask what these people and children do, than what they like. If they do fight, it is no matter that they like what is wrong; and if they do wrong, it is no matter that they like what is fight. Doing is the great thing; and it does not matter that the man likes drinking, so that he does not drink; nor that the little girl likes to be kind to her canary, if she will not learn her lessons; nor that the little boy likes throwing stones at the sparrows, if he goes to the Sunday school.' Indeed, for a short time, and in a provisional sense, this is true. For if, resolutely, people do what is fight, in time to come they like doing it. But they only are in a right moral state when they have come to like doing it; and as long as they don't like it, they are still in a vicious state. The man is not in health of body who is always thinking of the bottle in the cupboard, though he bravely bears his thirst; but the man who heartily enjoys water in the morning, and wine in the evening, each in its proper quantity and time. And the entire object of true education is to make people not merely do the fight things, but enjoy the right things: — not merely industrious, but to love industry — not merely learned, but to love knowledge — not merely pure, but to love purity — not merely just, but to hunger and thirst after justice.

But you may answer or think, 'Is the liking for outside ornaments, — for pictures, or statues, or furniture, or architecture, a moral quality?' Yes, most surely, if a rightly set liking. Taste for any pictures or statues is not a moral quality, but taste for good ones is. Only here again we have to define the word 'good.' I don't mean by 'good,' clever — or learned — or difficult in the doing. Take a picture by Teniers, of sots quarrelling over their dice; it is an entirely clever picture; so clever that nothing in its kind has ever been done equal to it; but it is also an entirely base and evil picture. It is an expression of delight in the prolonged contemplation of a vile thing, and delight in that is an 'unmannered,' or 'immoral' quality. It is 'bad taste' in the profoundest sense — it is the taste of the devils. On the other hand, a picture of Titian's, or a Greek statue, or a Greek coin, or a Turner landscape, expresses delight in the perpetual contemplation of a good and perfect thing. That is an entirely moral quality — it is the taste of the angels. And all delight in fine art, and all love of it, resolve themselves into simple love of that which deserves love. That deserving is the quality which we call 'loveliness' — (we ought to have an opposite word, hateliness, to be said of the things which deserve to be hated); and it is not an indifferent nor optional thing whether we love this or that; but it is just the vital function of all our being. What we like determines what we are , and is the sign of what we are; and to teach taste is inevitably to form character.

As I was thinking over this, in walking up Fleet Street the other day, my eye caught the title of a book standing open in a bookseller's window. It was — On the necessity of the diffusion of taste among all classes . 'Ah,' I thought to myself, 'my classifying friend, when you have diffused your taste, where will your classes be? The man who likes what you like, belongs to the same class with you, I think. Inevitably so. You may put him to other work if you choose; but, by the condition you have brought him into, he will dislike the work as much as you would yourself. You get hold of a scavenger or a costermonger, who enjoyed the Newgate Calendar for literature, and "Pop goes the Weasel" for music. You think you can make him like Dante and Beethoven? I wish you joy of your lessons; but if you do, you have made a gentleman of him: — he won't like to go back to his costermongering. '

And so completely and unexceptionally is this so, that, if I had time to-night, I could show you that a nation cannot be affected by any vice, or weakness, without expressing it, legibly, and for ever, either in bad art, or by want of art; and that there is no national virtue, small or great, which is not manifestly expressed in all the art which circumstances enable the people possessing that virtue to produce. Take, for instance, your great English virtue of enduring and patient courage. You have at present in England only one art of any consequence — that is, iron-working. You know thoroughly well how to cast and hammer iron. Now, do you think, in those masses of lava which you build volcanic cones to melt, and which you forge at the mouths of the Infernos you have created; do you think, on those iron plates, your courage and endurance are not written for ever, — not merely with an iron pen, but on iron parchment? And take also your great English vice — European vice — vice of all the world — vice of all other worlds that roll or shine in heaven, bearing with them yet the atmosphere of hell — the vice of jealousy, which brings competition into your commerce, treachery into your councils, and dishonour into your wars — that vice which has rendered for you, and for your next neighbouring nation, the daily occupations of existence no longer possible, but with the mail upon your breasts and the sword loose in its sheath; so that at last, you have realized for all the multitudes of the two great peoples who lead the so-called civilization of the earth, — you have realized for them all, I say, in person and in policy, what was once true only of the rough Border riders of your Cheviot hills —



'They carved at the meal

With gloves of steel,  

And they drank the red wine through the helmet barr'd;' —



do you think that this national shame and dastardliness of heart are not written as legibly on every rivet of your iron armour as the strength of the right hands that forged it?

Friends, I know not whether this thing be the more ludicrous or the more melancholy. It is quite unspeakably both. Suppose, instead of being now sent for by you, I had been sent for by some private gentleman, living in a suburban house, with his garden separated only by a fruit wall from his next door neighbour's; and he had called me to consult with him on the furnishing of his drawing-room. I begin looking about me, and find the walls rather bare; I think such and such a paper might be desirable — perhaps a little fresco here and there on the ceiling — a damask curtain or so at the windows. 'Ah,' says my employer, 'damask curtains, indeed! That's all very fine, but you know I can't afford that kind of thing just now!' 'Yet the world credits you with a splendid income!' 'Ah, yes,' says my friend, 'but do you know, at present I am obliged to spend it nearly all in steel-traps?' 'Steel-traps! for whom?' 'Why, for that fellow on the other side the wall, you know: we're very good friends, capital friends; but we are obliged to keep our traps set on both sides of the wall; we could not possibly keep on friendly terms without them, and our spring guns. The worst of it is, we are both dever fellows enough; and there's never a day passes that we don't find out a new trap, or a new gunbarrel, or something; we spend about fifteen millions a year each in our traps, take it altogether; and I don't see how we're to do with less.' A highly comic state of life for two private gentlemen! but for two nations, it seems to me, not wholly comic. Bedlam would be comic, perhaps, if there were only one madman in it; and your Christmas pantomime is comic, when there is only one clown in it; but when the whole world turns clown, and paints itself red with its own heart's blood instead of vermilion, it is something else than comic, I think.

Mind, I know a great deal of this is play, and willingly allow for that. You don't know what to do with yourselves for a sensation: fox-hunting and cricketing will not carry you through the whole of this unendurably long mortal life: you liked pop-guns when you were schoolboys, and rifles and Armstrongs are only the same things better made: but then the worst of it is, that what was play to you when boys, was not play to the sparrows; and what is play to you now, is not play to the small birds of State neither; and for the black eagles, you are somewhat shy of taking shots at them, if I mistake not.

I must get back to the matter in hand, however. Believe me, without farther instance, I could show you, in all time, that every nation's vice, or virtue, was written in its art: the soldiership of early Greece; the sensuality of late Italy; the visionary religion of Tuscany; the splendid human energy of Venice. I have no time to do this to-night (I have done it elsewhere before now); but I proceed to apply the principle to ourselves in a more searching manner.

I notice that among all the new buildings which cover your once wild hills, churches and schools are mixed in due, that is to say, in large proportion, with your mills and mansions; and I notice also that the churches and schools are almost always Gothic, and the mansions and mills are never Gothic. May I ask the meaning of this? for, remember, it is peculiarly a modem phenomenon. When Gothic was invented, houses were Gothic as well as churches; and when the Italian style superseded the Gothic, churches were Italian as well as houses. If there is a Gothic spire to the cathedral of Antwerp, there is a Gothic belfry to the Hôtel de Ville at Brussels; if Inigo Jones builds an Italian Whitehall, Sir Christopher Wren builds an Italian St Paul's. But now you live under one school of architecture, and worship under another. What do you mean by doing this? Am I to understand that you are thinking of changing your architecture back to Gothic; and that you treat your churches experimentally, because it does not matter what mistakes you make in a church? Or am I to understand that you consider Gothic a pre-eminently sacred and beautiful mode of building, which you think, like the fine frankincense, should be mixed for the tabernacle only, and reserved for your religious services? For if this be the feeling, though it may seem at first as if it were graceful and reverent, at the root of the matter, it signifies neither more nor less than that you have separated your religion from your life.

For consider what a wide significance this fact has; and remember that it is not you only, but all the people of England, who are behaving thus, just now.

You have all got into the habit of calling the church 'the house of God.' I have seen, over the doors of many churches, the legend actually carved, 'This is the house of God and this is the gate of heaven.' Now, note where that legend comes from, and of what place it was first spoken. A boy leaves his father's house to go on a long journey on foot, to visit his uncle: he has to cross a wild hill-desert; just as if one of your own boys had to cross the wolds to visit an uncle at Carlisle. The second or third day your boy finds himself somewhere between Hawes and Brough, in the midst of the moors, at sunset. It is stony ground, and boggy; he cannot go one foot farther that night. Down he lies, to sleep, on Wharnside, where best he may, gathering a few of the stones together to put under his head; — so wild the place is, he cannot get anything but stones. And there, lying under the broad night, he has a dream; and he sees a ladder set up on the earth, and the top of it reaches to heaven, and the angels of God are seen ascending and descending upon it. And when he wakes out of his sleep, he says, 'How dreadful is this place; surely this is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.' This Place, observe; not this church; not this city; not this stone, even, which he puts up for a memorial — the piece of flint on which his head was lain. But this place ; this windy slope of Wharnside; this moorland hollow, torrent-bitten, snow blighted! this any place where God lets down the ladder. And how are you to know where that will be? or how are you to determine where it may be, but by being ready for it always? Do you know where the lightning is to fall next? You do know that, partly; you can guide the lightning; but you cannot guide the going forth of the Spirit, which is as that lightning when it shines from the east to the west.

But the perpetual and insolent warping of that strong verse to serve a merely ecclesiastical purpose, is only one of the thousand instances in which we sink back into gross Judaism. We call our churches 'temples.' Now, you know perfectly well they are not temples. They have never had, never can have, anything whatever to do with temples. They are 'synagogues' — 'gathering places' -where you gather yourselves together as an assembly; and by not calling them so, you again miss the force of another mighty text — 'Thou, when thou prayest, shalt not be as the hypocrites are; for they love to pray standing in the churches' [we should translate it], 'that they may be seen of men. But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father,' — which is, not in chancel nor in aisle, but 'in secret.'

Now, you feel, as I say this to you — I know you feel — as if I were trying to take away the honour of your churches. Not so; I am trying to prove to you the honour of your houses and your hills; not that the Church is not sacred — but that the whole Earth is. I would have you feel what careless, what constant, what infectious sin there is in all modes of thought, whereby, in calling your churches only 'holy,' you call your hearths and homes 'profane'; and have separated yourselves from the heathen by casting all your household gods to the ground, instead of recognizing, in the places of their many and feeble Lares, the presence of your One and Mighty Lord and Lat.

'But what has all this to do with our Exchange?' you ask me, impatiently. My dear friends, it has just everything to do with it; on these inner and great questions depend all the outer and little ones; and if you have asked me down here to speak to you, because you had before been interested in anything I have written, you must know that all I have yet said about architecture was to show this. The book I called The Seven Lamps was to show that certain right states of temper and moral feeling were the magic powers by which all good architecture, without exception, had been produced. The Stones of Venice had, from beginning to end, no other aim than to show that the Gothic architecture of Venice had arisen out of, and indicated in all its features, a state of pure national faith, and of domestic virtue; and that its Renaissance architecture had arisen out of, and in all its features indicated, a state of concealed national infidelity, and of domestic corruption. And now, you ask me what style is best to build in, and how can I answer, knowing the meaning of the two styles, but by another question — do you mean to build as Christians or as infidels? And still more — do you mean to build as honest Christians or as honest Infidels? as thoroughly and confessedly either one or the other? You don't like to be asked such rude questions. I cannot help it; they are of much more importance than this Exchange business; and if they can be at once answered, the Exchange business settles itself in a moment. But before I press them farther, I must ask leave to explain one point clearly.

In all my past work, my endeavour has been to show that good architecture is essentially religious — the production of a faithful and virtuous, not of an infidel and corrupted people. But in the course of doing this, I have had also to show that good architecture is not ecclesiastical . People are so apt to look upon religion as the business of the clergy, not their own, that the moment they hear of anything depending on 'religion,' they think it must also have depended on the priesthood; and I have had to take what place was to be occupied between these two errors, and fight both, often with seeming contradiction. Good architecture is the work of good and believing men; therefore, you say, at least some people 'say, 'Good architecture must essentially have been the work of the clergy, not of the laity.' No — a thousand times no; good architecture has always been the work of the commonalty, not of the clergy. 'What,' you say, 'those glorious cathedrals — the pride of Europe — did their builders not form Gothic architecture?' No; they corrupted Gothic architecture. Gothic was formed in the baron's castle, and the burgher's street. It was formed by the thoughts, and hands, and powers of labouring citizens and warrior kings. By the monk it was used as an instrument for the aid of his superstition: when that superstition became a beautiful madness, and the best hearts of Europe vainly dreamed and pined in the cloister, and vainly raged and perished in the crusade, — through that fury of perverted faith and wasted war, the Gothic rose also to its loveliest, most fantastic, and, finally, most foolish dreams; and in those dreams was lost.

I hope, now, that there is no risk of your misunderstanding me when I come to the gist of what I want to say to-night; — when I repeat, that every great national architecture has been the result and exponent of a great national religion. You can't have bits of it here, bits there — you must have it everywhere or nowhere. It is not the monopoly of a clerical company — it is not the exponent of a theological dogma- it is not the hieroglyphic writing of an initiated priesthood; it is the manly language of a people inspired by resolute and common purpose, and rendering resolute and common fidelity to the legible laws of an undoubted God.

Now there have as yet been three distinct schools of European architecture. I say, European, because Asiatic and African architectures belong so entirely to other races and climates, that there is no question of them here; only, in passing, I will simply assure you that whatever is good or great in Egypt, and Syria, and India, is just good or great for the same reasons as the buildings on our side of the Bosphorus. We Europeans, then, have had three great religions: the Greek, which was the worship of the God of Wisdom and Power; the Mediæval, which was the worship of the God of Judgment and Consolation; the Renaissance, which was the worship of the God of Pride and Beauty: these three we have had — they are past, — and now, at last, we English have got a fourth religion, and a God of our own, about which I want to ask you. But I must explain these three old ones first.

I repeat, first, the Greeks essentially worshipped the God of Wisdom; so that whatever contended against their religion, — to the Jews a stumbling-block, — was, to the Greeks — Foolishness .

The first Greek idea of deity was that expressed in the word, of which we keep the remnant in our words 'Di -umal' and 'Di -vine' — the god of Day , Jupiter the revealer. Athena is his daughter, but especially daughter of the Intellect, springing armed from the head. We are only with the help of recent investigation beginning to penetrate the depth of meaning couched under the Athenaic symbols: but I may note rapidly, that her ægis, the mantle with the serpent fringes, in which she often, in the best statues, is represented as folding up her left hand, for better guard; and the Gorgon, on her shield, are both representative mainly of the chilling horror and sadness (turning men to stone, as it were,) of the outmost and superficial spheres of knowledge — that knowledge which separates, in bitterness, hardness, and sorrow, the heart of the full-grown man from the heart of the child. For out of imperfect knowledge spring terror, dissension, danger, and disdain; but from perfect knowledge, given by the full-revealed Athena, strength and peace, in sign of which she is crowned with the olive spray, and bears the resistless spear.

This, then, was the Greek conception of purest Deity; and every habit of life, and every form of his art developed themselves from the seeking this bright, serene, resistless wisdom; and setting himself, as a man, to do things evermore rightly and strongly; I not with any ardent affection or ultimate hope; but with a resolute and continent energy of will, as knowing that for failure there was no consolation, and for sin there was no remission. And the Greek architecture rose unerring, bright, dearly defined, and self-contained.

Next followed in Europe the great Christian faith, which was essentially the religion of Comfort. Its great doctrine is the remission of sins; for which cause, it happens, too often, in certain phases of Christianity, that sin and sickness themselves are partly glorified, as if, the more you had to be healed of, the more divine was the healing. The practical result of this doctrine, in art, is a continual contemplation of sin and disease, and of imaginary states of purification from them; thus we have an architecture conceived in a mingled sentiment of melancholy and aspiration, partly severe, partly luxuriant, which will bend itself to every one of our needs, and every one of our fancies, and be strong or weak with us, as we are strong or weak ourselves. It is, of all architecture, the basest, when base people build it — of all, the noblest, when built by the noble.

And now note that both these religions — Greek and Mediæval — perished by falsehood in their own main purpose. The Greek religion of Wisdom perished in a false philosophy — 'Oppositions of science, falsely so called.' 1 The Mediæval religion of Consolation perished in false comfort; in remission of sins given lyingly. It was the selling of absolution that ended the Mediæval faith; and I can tell you more, it is the selling of absolution which, to the end of time, will mark false Christianity. Pure Christianity gives her remission of sins only by ending them; but false Christianity gets her remission of sins by compounding for them. And there are many ways of compounding for them. We English have beautiful little quiet ways of buying absolution, whether in low Church or high, far more cunning than any of Tetzel's trading.

Then, thirdly, there followed the religion of Pleasure, in which all Europe gave itself to luxury, ending in death. First, bals masqués in every saloon, and then guillotines in every square. And all these three worships issue in vast temple building. Your Greek worshipped Wisdom, and built you the Parthenon — the Virgin's temple. The Mediæval worshipped Consolation, and built you Virgin temples also — but to our Lady of Salvation. Then the Revivalist worshipped beauty, of a sort, and built you Versailles and the Vatican. Now, lastly, will you tell me what we worship, and what we build?

You know we are speaking always of the real, active, continual, national worship; that by which men act, while they live; not that which they talk of, when they die. Now, we have, indeed, a nominal religion, to which we pay tithes of property and sevenths of time; but we have also a practical and earnest religion, to which we devote nine-tenths of our property, and six-sevenths of our time. And we dispute a great deal about the nominal religion: but we are all unanimous about this practical one; of which I think you will admit that the ruling goddess may be best generally described as the 'God dess of Getting-on,' or 'Britannia of the Market.' The Athenians had an 'Athena Agoraia,' or Athena of the Market; but she was a subordinate type of their goddess, while our Britannia Agoraia is the principal type of ours. And all your great architectural works are, of course, built to her. It is long since you built a great cathedral; and how you would laugh at me if I proposed building a cathedral on the top of one of these hills of yours, to make it an Acropolis! But your railroad mounds, vaster than the walls of Babylon; your railroad stations, vaster than the temple of Ephesus, and innumerable; your chimneys, how much more mighty and costly than cathedral spires! your harbour-piers; your warehouses; your exchanges! — all these are built to your great God dess of 'Getting-on'; and she has formed, and will continue to form, your architecture, as long as you worship her; and it is quite vain to ask me to tell you how to build to her ; you know far better than I.

There might, indeed, on some theories, be a conceivably good architecture for Exchanges — that is to say, if there were any heroism in the fact or deed of exchange, which might be typically carved on the outside of your building. For, you know, all beautiful architecture must be adorned with sculpture or painting; and for sculpture or painting, you must have a subject. And hitherto it has been a received opinion among the nations of the world that the only right subjects for either, were heroisms of some sort. Even on his pots and his flagons, the Greek put a Hercules slaying lions, or an Apollo slaying serpents, or Bacchus slaying melancholy giants, and earthborn despondencies. On his temples, the Greek put contests of great warriors in founding states, or of gods with evil spirits. On his houses and temples alike, the Christian put carvings of angels conquering devils; or of hero-martyrs exchanging this world for another: subject inappropriate, I think, to our direction of exchange here. And the Master of Christians not only left His followers without any orders as to the sculpture of affairs of exchange on the outside of buildings, but gave some strong evidence of His dislike of affairs of exchange within them. And yet there might surely be a heroism in such affairs; and all commerce become a kind of selling of doves, not impious. The wonder has always been great to me, that heroism has never been supposed to be in anywise consistent with the practice of supplying people with food, or dothes, but rather with that of quartering one's self upon them for food, and stripping them of their clothes. Spoiling of armour is an heroic deed in all ages; but the selling of clothes, old, or new, has never taken any colour of magnanimity. Yet one does not see why feeding the hungry and clothing the naked should ever become base businesses, even when engaged in on a large scale. If one could contrive to attach the notion of conquest to them anyhow! so that, supposing there were anywhere an obstinate race, who refused to be comforted, one might take some pride in giving them compulsory comfort! 2 and, as it were, 'occupying a country' with one's gifts, instead of one's armies? If one could only consider it as much a victory to get a barren field sown, as to get an eared field stripped; and contend who should build villages, instead of who should 'carry' them! Are not all forms of heroism conceivable in doing these serviceable deeds? You doubt who is strongest? It might be ascertained by push of spade, as well as push of sword. Who is wisest? There are witty things to be thought of in planning other business than campaigns. Who is bravest? There are always the elements to fight with, stronger than men; and nearly as merciless.

The only absolutely and unapproachably heroic element in the soldier's work seems to be — that he is paid little for it — and regularly: while you traffickers, and exchangers, and others occupied in presumably benevolent business, like to be paid much for it — and by chance. I never can make out how it is that a knight -errant does not expect to be paid for his trouble, but a pedlar — errant always does; — that people are willing to take hard knocks for nothing, but never to sell ribands cheap; that they are ready to go on fervent crusades, to recover the tomb of a buried God, but never on any travels to fulfil the orders of a living one; — that they will go anywhere barefoot to preach their faith, but must be well bribed to practise it, and are perfectly ready to give the Gospel grafts, but never the loaves and fishes. 3

If you chose to take the matter up on any such soldierly principle; to do your commerce, and your feeding of nations, for fixed salaries; and to be as particular about giving people the best food, and the best doth, as soldiers are about giving them the best gunpowder, I could carve something for you on your exchange worth looking at. But I can only at present suggest decorating its frieze with pendant purses; and making its pillars broad at the base, for the sticking of bills. And in the innermost chambers of it there might be a statue of Britannia of the Market, who may have, perhaps advisably, a partridge for her crest, typical at once of her courage in fighting for noble ideas, and of her interest in game; and round its neck, the inscription in golden letters, 'Perdix fovit quæ non peperit.' 4 Then, for her spear, she might have a weaver's beam; and on her shield, instead of St George's Cross, the Milanese boar, semi-fleeced, with the town of Gennesaret proper, in the field; and the legend, 'In the best market,' 5 and her corslet, of leather, folded over her heart in the shape of a purse, with thirty slits in it, for a piece of money to go in at, on each day of the month. And I doubt not but that people would come to see your exchange, and its goddess, with applause.

Nevertheless, I want to point out to you certain strange characters in this goddess of yours. She differs from the great Greek and Medieval deities essentially in two things — first, as to the continuance of her presumed power; secondly, as to the extent of it.

1st, as to the Continuance.

The Greek Goddess of Wisdom gave continual increase of wisdom, as the Christian Spirit of Comfort (or Comforter) continual increase of comfort. There was no question, with these, of any limit or cessation of function. But with your Agora Goddess, that is just the most important question. Getting on — but where to? Gathering together — but how much? Do you mean to gather always — never to spend? If so, I wish you joy of your goddess, for I am just as well off as you, without the trouble of worshipping her at all. But if you do not spend, somebody else will — somebody else must. And it is because of this (among many other such errors) that I have fearlessly dedared your so-called science of Political Economy to be no science; because, namely, it has omitted the study of exactly the most important branch of the business — the study of spending . For spend you must, and as much as you make, ultimately. You gather corn: — will you bury England under a heap of grain; or will you, when you have gathered, finally eat? You gather gold: — will you make your house-roofs of it, or pave your streets with it? That is still one way of spending it. But if you keep it, that you may get more, I'll give you more; I'll give you all the gold you want — all you can imagine — if you can tell me what you'll do with it. You shall have thousands of gold pieces; — thousands of thousands — millions — mountains, of gold: where will you keep them? Will you put an Olympus of silver upon a golden Pelion — make Ossa like a wart? Do you think the rain and dew would then come down to you, in the streams from such mountains, more blessedly than they will down the mountains which God has made for you, of moss and whinstone? But it is not gold that you want to gather! What is it? greenbacks? No; not those neither. What is it then — is it ciphers after a capital I? Cannot you practise writing ciphers, and write as many as you want! Write ciphers for an hour every morning, in a big book, and say every evening, I am worth all those noughts more than I was yesterday. Won't that do? Well, what in the name of Plutus is it you want? Not gold, not greenbacks, not ciphers after a capital I? You will have to answer, after all, 'No; we want, somehow or other, money's worth .' Well, what is that? Let your Goddess of Getting-on discover it, and let her learn to stay therein.

II. But there is yet another question to be asked respecting this Goddess of Getting-on. The first was of the continuance of her power; the second is of its extent.

Pallas and the Madonna were supposed to be all the world's Pallas, and all the world's Madonna. They could teach all men, and they could comfort all men. But, look strictly into the nature of the power of your Goddess of Getting-on; and you will find she is the Goddess — not of everybody's getting on — but only of somebody's getting on. This is a vital, or rather deathful, distinction. Examine it in your own ideal of the state of national life which this Goddess is to evoke and maintain. I asked you what it was, when I was last here; — you have never told me. Now, shall I try to tell you?

Your ideal of human life then is, I think, that it should be passed in a pleasant undulating world, with iron and coal everywhere underneath it. On each pleasant bank of this world is to be a beautiful mansion, with two wings; and stables, and coach-houses; a moderately-sized park; a large garden and hot-houses; and pleasant carriage drives through the shrubberies. In this mansion are to live the favoured votaries of the Goddess; the English gentleman, with his gracious wife, and his beautiful family; he always able to have the boudoir and the jewels for the wife, and the beautiful ball dresses for the daughters, and hunters for the sons, and a shooting in the Highlands for himself. At the bottom of the bank, is to be the mill; not less than a quarter of a mile long, with one steam engine at each end, and two in the middle, and a chimney three hundred feet high. In this mill are to be in constant employment from eight hundred to a thousand workers, who never drink, never strike, always go to church on Sunday, and always express themselves in respectful language.

Is not that, broadly, and in the main features, the kind of thing you propose to yourselves? It is very pretty indeed, seen from above; not at all so pretty, seen from below. For, observe, while to one family this deity is indeed the Goddess of Getting-on, to a thousand families she is the Goddess of not Getting-on. 'Nay,' you say, 'they have all their chance.' Yes, so has every one in a lottery, but there must always be the same number of blanks. 'Ah! but in a lottery it is not skill and intelligence which take the lead, but blind chance.' What then! do you think the old practice, that 'they should take who have the power, and they should keep who can, ' is less iniquitous, when the power has become power of brains instead of fist? and that, though we may not take advantage of a child's or a woman's weakness, we may of a man's foolishness? 'Nay, but finally, work must be done, and some one must be at the top, someone at the bottom.' Granted, my friends. Work must always be, and captains of work must always be; and if you in the least remember the tone of any of my writings, you must know that they are thought unfit for this age, because they are always insisting on need of government, and speaking with scorn of liberty. But I beg you to observe that there is a wide difference between being captains or governors of work, and taking the profits of it. It does not follow, because you are general of an army, that you are to take all the treasure, or land, it wins; (if it fight for treasure or land;) neither, because you are king of a nation, that you are to consume all the profits of the nation's work. Real kings, on the contrary, are known invariably by their doing quite the reverse of this, — by their taking the least possible quantity of the nation's work for themselves. There is no test of real kinghood so infallible as that. Does the crowned creature live simply, bravely, unostentatiously? probably he is a King. Does he cover his body with jewels, and his table with delicates? in all probability he is not a King. It is possible he may be, as Solomon was; but that is when the nation shares his splendour with him. Solomon made gold, not only to be in his own palace as stones, but to be in Jerusalem as stones. But, even so, for the most part, these splendid kinghoods expire in ruin, and only the true kinghoods live, which are of royal labourers governing loyal labourers; who, both leading rough lives, establish the true dynasties. Condusively you will find that because you are king of a nation, it does not follow that you are to gather for yourself all the wealth of that nation; neither, because you are king of a small part of the nation, and lord over the means of its maintenance — over field, or mill, or mine, — are you to take all the produce of that piece of the foundation of national existence for yourself.

You will tell me I need not preach against these things, for I cannot mend them. No, good friends, I cannot; but you can, and you will; or something else can and will. Even good things have no abiding power — and shall these evil things persist in victorious evil? All history shows, on the contrary, that to be the exact thing they never can do. Change must come; but it is ours to determine whether change of growth, or change of death. Shall the Parthenon be in ruins on its rock, and Bolton priory in its meadow, but these mills of yours be the consummation of the buildings of the earth, and their wheels be as the wheels of eternity? Think you that 'men may come, and men may go, ' but — mills — go on forever? Not so; out of these, better or worse shall come; and it is for you to choose which.

I know that none of this wrong is done with deliberate purpose. I know, on the contrary, that you wish your workmen well; that you do much for them, and that you desire to do more for them, if you saw your way to such benevolence safely. I know that even all this wrong and misery are brought about by a warped sense of duty, each of you striving to do his best; but, unhappily, not knowing for whom this best should be done. And all our hearts have been betrayed by the plausible impiety of the modem economist, telling us that, 'To do the best for ourselves, is finally to do the best for others. ' Friends, our great Master said not so; and most absolutely we shall find this world is not made so. Indeed, to do the best for others, is finally to do the best for ourselves; but it will not do to have our eyes fixed on that issue. The Pagans had got beyond that. Hear what a Pagan says of this matter; hear what were, perhaps, the last written words of Plato, — if not the last actually written (for this we cannot know), yet assuredly in fact and power his parting words — in which, endeavouring to give full crowning and harmonious close to all his thoughts, and to speak the sum of them by the imagined sentence of the Great Spirit, his strength and his heart fail him, and the words cease, broken off for ever.

They are at the dose of the dialogue called Critias , in which he describes, partly from real tradition, partly in ideal dream, the early state of Athens; and the genesis, and order, and religion, of the fabled isle of Atlantis; in which genesis he conceives the same first perfection and final degeneracy of man, which in our own Scriptural tradition is expressed by saying that the Sons of God inter-married with the daughters of men, for he supposes the earliest race to have been indeed the children of God; and to have corrupted themselves, until 'their spot was not the spot of his children.' And this, he says, was the end; that indeed 'through many generations, so long as the God's nature in them yet was full, they were sub missive to the sacred laws, and carried themselves lovingly to all that had kindred with them in divineness; for their uttermost spirit was faithful and true, and in every wise great; so that, in all meekness of wisdom, they dealt with each other , and took all the chances of life; and despising all things except virtue, they cared little what happened day by day, and bore lightly the burden of gold and of possessions; for they saw that, if only their common love and virtue increased, all these things would be increased together with them ; but to set their esteem and ardent pursuit upon material possession would be to lose that first, and their virtue and affection together with it. And by such reasoning, and what of the divine nature remained in them, they gained all this greatness of which we have already told; but when the God's part of them faded and became extinct, being mixed again and again, and effaced by the prevalent mortality; and the human nature at last exceeded, they then became unable to endure the courses of fortune; and fell into shapelessness of life, and baseness in the sight of him who could see, having lost everything that was fairest of their honour; while to the blind hearts which could not discern the true life, tending to happiness, it seemed that they were then chiefly noble and happy, being filled with all iniquity of inordinate possession and power. Whereupon, the God of Gods, whose Kinghood is in laws, beholding a once just nation thus cast into misery, and desiring to lay such punishment upon them as might make them repent into restraining, gathered together all the gods into his dwelling place, which from heaven's centre overlooks whatever has part in creation; and having assembled them, he said' —

The rest is silence. Last words of the chief wisdom of the heathen, spoken of this idol of riches; this idol of yours; this golden image, high by measureless cubits, set up where your green fields of England are furnace-burnt into the likeness of the plain of Dura: this idol, forbidden to us, first of all idols, by our own Master and faith; forbidden to us also by every human lip that has ever, in any age or people, been accounted of as able to speak according to the purposes of God. Continue to make that forbidden deity your principal one, and soon no more art, no more science, no more pleasure will be possible. Catastrophe will come; or, worse than catastrophe, slow mouldering and withering into Hades. But if you can fix some conception of a true human state of life to be striven for — life, good for all men, as for your selves; if you can determine some honest and simple order of existence; following those trodden ways of wisdom, which are pleasantness, and seeking her quiet and withdrawn paths, which are peace; 6 — then, and so sanctifying wealth into 'commonwealth,' all your art, your literature, your daily labours, your domestic affection, and citizen's duty, will join and increase into one magnificent harmony. You will know then how to build, well enough; you will build with stone well, but with flesh better; temples not made with hands, but riveted of hearts; and that kind of marble, crimson-veined, is indeed eternal.

Notes

1.  It is an error to suppose that the Greek worship, or seeking, was chiefly of Beauty. It was essentially of rightness and strength, founded on Forethought: the principal character of Greek art is not beauty, but design: and the Dorian Apollo-worship and Athenian Virgin-worship are both expressions of adoration of divine wisdom and purity. Next to these great deities, rank, in power over the national mind, Dionysus and Ceres, the givers of human strength and life; then, for heroic examples, Hercules. There is no Venus-worship among the Greeks in the great times: and the Muses are essentially teachers of Truth, and of its harmonies.

2.  Quite serious, all this, though it reads like jest. [1873.]

3.  Please think over this paragraph, too briefly and antithetically put, but one of those which I am happiest in having written. [1873.]

4.  Jerem. xvii. II, (best in Septuagint and Vulgate). 'As the partridge, fostering what she brought not forth, so he that getteth riches, not by right, shall leave them in the midst of his days, and at his end shall be a fool. '

5.  Meaning, fully, 'We have brought our pigs to it.' [1873.]

6.  I imagine the Hebrew chant merely intends passionate repetition, and not a distinction of this somewhat fanciful kind; yet we may profitably make it in reading the English.

企鹅口袋书系列·伟大的思想

伦敦夜行记

(英汉双语)

[英]查尔斯·狄更斯 著

牛云平 丁振琴 译





中国出版传媒股份有限公司

中国对外翻译出版有限公司


图书在版编目(CIP)数据

伦敦夜行记:英汉对照/(英)狄更斯著;牛云平,丁振琴译.—北京:中国对外翻译出版有限公司,2012.9

(企鹅口袋书系列·伟大的思想)

ISBN 978-7-5001-3349-0

Ⅰ.①伦… Ⅱ.①狄…②牛…③丁… Ⅲ.①英语—汉语—对照读物②长篇小说—英国—近代 Ⅳ.①H319.4:I

中国版本图书馆CIP数据核字(2012)第104212号


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中国对外翻译出版有限公司与企鹅图书有限公司联合出版

观念

——《伟大的思想》代序

梁文道

每隔一段时间,媒体就喜欢评选一次“影响世界的X个人”或者“改变历史的X项发明”。然而,在我看来,几乎所有人类史上最重大的变革,首先都是一种观念的变革。

我们今天之所以会关注气候的暖化与生物多样性的保存,是因为我们看待地球的方式变了,我们比以前更加意识到人在自然中的位置,也更加了解自然其实是一个动态的系统。放弃了人类可以主宰地球的世界观,这就意味着我们接受了一个观念的变化。同样地,我们不再相信男人一出生就该主宰女人,甚至也不再认为男女之别是不可动摇的本质区分;这也是观念的变化。如果说环保运动和女权运动有任何影响的话,那些影响一定就是从大脑开始的。也不要只看好事,20世纪最惨绝人寰的浩劫最初也只不过是一些小小的观念,危险的观念。比如说一位德国人,他相信人类的进化必以“次等种族”的灭绝为代价……

这套丛书不叫“伟大的巨著”,是因为它们体积都不大,而且还有不少是抽取自某些名著的章节。可它们却全是伟大的观念,例如达尔文论天择,潘恩论常识,它们共同构成了人类的观念地图。从头看它们一遍,就是检视文明所走过的道路,从深处理解我们今天变成这个样子的原因。

也许你会发现其中有些陌生的名字,或者看起来没有那么“伟大”的篇章(譬如普鲁斯特追忆他的阅读时光),但你千万不要小看它们。因为真正重要、真正能够产生启蒙效果的观念往往具有跨界移动的能力,它会跨越时空,离开它原属的领域,在另一个世界产生意外的效果。就像马可·波罗在监狱里述说的异国图景,当时有谁料得到那些荒诞的故事会诱发出哥伦布的旅程呢?我也无法猜测,这套小书的读者里头会不会有下一个哥伦布,他将带着令人惊奇的观念航向自己的大海。

《伟大的思想》中文版序

企鹅《伟大的思想》丛书2004年开始出版。在英国,已付印80种,尚有20种计划出版。美国出版的丛书规模略小,德国的同类丛书规模更小一些。丛书销量已远远超过200万册,在全球很多人中间,尤其是学生当中,普及了哲学和政治学。中文版《伟大的思想》丛书的推出,迈出了新的一步,令人欢欣鼓舞。

推出这套丛书的目的是让读者再次与一些伟大的非小说类经典著作面对面地交流。太长时间以来,确定版本依据这样一个假设——读者在教室里学习这些著作,因此需要导读、详尽的注释、参考书目等。此类版本无疑非常有用,但我想,如果能够重建托马斯·潘恩《常识》或约翰·罗斯金《艺术与人生》初版时的环境,重新营造更具亲和力的氛围,那也是一件有意思的事。当时,读者除了原作者及其自身的理性思考外没有其他参照。

这样做有一定的缺点:每个作者的话难免有难解或不可解之处,一些重要的背景知识会缺失。例如,读者对亨利·梭罗创作时的情况毫无头绪,也不了解该书的接受情况及影响。不过,这样做的优点也很明显。最突出的优点是,作者的初衷又一次变得重要起来——托马斯·潘恩的愤怒、查尔斯·达尔文的灵光、塞内加的隐逸。这些作家在那么多国家影响了那么多人的生活,其影响不可估量,有的长达几个世纪,读他们书的乐趣罕有匹敌。没有亚当·斯密或阿图尔·叔本华,难以想象我们今天的世界。这些小书的创作年代已很久远,但其中的话已彻底改变了我们的政治学、经济学、智力生活、社会规划和宗教信仰。

《伟大的思想》丛书一直求新求变。地区不同,收录的作家也不同。在中国或美国,一些作家更受欢迎。英国《伟大的思想》收录的一些作家在其他地方则默默无闻。称其为“伟大的思想”,我们亦慎之又慎。思想之伟大,在于其影响之深远,而不意味着这些思想是“好”的,实际上一些书可列入“坏”思想之列。丛书中很多作家受到同一丛书其他作家的很大影响,例如,马塞尔·普鲁斯特承认受约翰·罗斯金影响很大,米歇尔·德·蒙田也承认深受塞内加影响,但其他作家彼此憎恨,如果发现他们被收入同一丛书,一定会气愤难平。不过,读者可自行决定这些思想是否合理。我们衷心希望,您能在阅读这些杰作中得到乐趣。



《伟大的思想》出版者

西蒙·温德尔

Introduction to the Chinese Editions of Great Ideas

Penguin’s Great Ideas series began publication in 2004. In the UK we now have 80 copies in print with plans to publish a further 20. A somewhat smaller list is published in the USA and a related, even smaller series in Germany. The books have sold now well over two million copies and have popularized philosophy and politics for many people around the world — particularly students. The launch of a Chinese Great Ideas series is an extremely exciting new development.

The intention behind the series was to allow readers to be once more face to face with some of the great non-fiction classics. For too long the editions of these books were created on the assumption that you were studying them in the classroom and that the student needed an introduction, extensive notes, a bibliography and so on. While this sort of edition is of course extremely useful, I thought it would be interesting to recreate a more intimate feeling — to recreate the atmosphere in which, for example, Thomas Paine's Common Sense or John Ruskin's On Art and Life was first published — where the reader has no other guide than the original author and his or her own common sense.

This method has its severe disadvantages — there will inevitably be statements made by each author which are either hard or impossible to understand, some important context might be missing. For example the reader has no clue as to the conditions under which Henry Thoreau was writing his book and the reader cannot be aware of the book's reception or influence. The advantages however are very clear — most importantly the original intentions of the author become once more important. The sense of anger in Thomas Paine, of intellectual excitement in Charles Darwin, of resignation in Seneca — few things can be more thrilling than to read writers who have had such immeasurable influence on so many lives, sometimes for centuries, in many different countries. Our world would not make sense without Adam Smith or Arthur Schopenhauer — our politics, economics, intellectual lives, social planning, religious beliefs have all been fundamentally changed by the words in these little books, first written down long ago.

The Great Ideas series continues to change and evolve. In different parts of the world different writers would be included. In China or in the United States there are some writers who are liked much more than others. In the UK there are writers in the Great Ideas series who are ignored elsewhere. We have also been very careful to call the series Great Ideas — these ideas are great because they have been so enormously influential, but this does not mean that they are Good Ideas — indeed some of the books would probably qualify as Bad Ideas. Many of the writers in the series have been massively influenced by others in the series — for example Marcel Proust owned so much to John Ruskin, Michel de Montaigne to Seneca. But others hated each other and would be distressed to find themselves together in the same series! But readers can decide the validity of these ideas for themselves. We very much hope that you enjoy these remarkable books.

Simon Winder

Publisher

Great Ideas

目 录

观念

《伟大的思想》中文版序

Introduction to the Chinese Editions of Great Ideas

译者导读

伦敦夜行记

迷失金融城

查塔姆造船厂

沃平救济院

东方的小星

业余警察在巡逻

赛马彩票店

死亡交易

Night Walks

Gone Astray

Chatham Dockyard

Wapping Workhouse

A Small Star in the East

On an Amateur Beat

Betting-Shops

Trading in Death

返回总目录

译者导读

查尔斯·狄更斯(Charles Dickens,1812-1870)是英国最伟大的小说家之一,享誉世界的代表作有《匹克威克外传》(1836-1837)、《雾都孤儿》(1837-1839)、《尼古拉斯·尼克贝》(1838-1839)、《圣诞颂歌》(1843)、《董贝父子》(1848)、《大卫·科波菲尔》(1849-1850)、《艰难时世》(1854)、《小杜丽》(1857)、《双城记》(1859)、《远大前程》(1860-1861)等。其文风幽默浑厚、雅俗共赏,因而蜚声天下,迄今不衰。

狄更斯生于朴茨茅斯市郊区,父亲是当地海军工厂附属海军会计处的一名职员。他童年时家境小康、生活幸福。但因父母持家无方,狄更斯12岁时被迫辍学、到漆鞋厂作童工。这段经历,加上因父亲两度负债入狱、举家随之搬到狱中生活的经历,成为他终生不释的创痛。他作品中的孤弃儿主角、怨忿自怜之情、童话式情节、小人物的悲惨生活等莫不与此有关。然而,狄更斯天生颖悟、酷爱读书、勤奋过人,成就了以后的事业。1829年起,他进入报业,开始了高产、高质的写作生涯。事业的成功为他带来了丰厚的收入,1842年起,他携全家多次周游欧美,积累了大量创作素材。至1870年去世,他著有约16部重要长篇小说、4部短篇故事集,以及近10部剧本、诗歌、纪实作品。

1850年至1870年,狄更斯先后编辑出版了周刊《家常话》和《一年四季》。《家常话》以普通大众,特别是正在崛起的中产阶级为主要读者群,发表重大社会价值类、重要信息类和娱乐类三大类文章,致力于揭露政府的腐败和渎职、力倡推进医疗卫生事业、呼吁创建面向全民的全国性公共教育体系。这些文章纪实性强、通俗易读,深受社会关注、影响强大。《一年四季》以刊登小说类作品为主,但继续了《家常话》的许多主题。从1860年至1869年,他在《一年四季》上陆续发表了题为《非商务旅客》的系列笔记体和回忆体小说。

本书8篇短文均出自《家常话》和《非商务旅客》。这些短文或浓墨重彩、或轻描淡写地展现了19世纪中期英国社会的斑驳万象:夜幕下伦敦城中的罪恶与堕落、充满冒险的发财梦、浮躁的下层民众、庞大的海军工业、贫困的伦敦东区、恶劣的工作与生活条件、诈伪的彩票店、狂热的彩民、铺张的葬仪……不一而足。

翻译是一种跨越时空的旅行和洞隐烛微的观察。在狄更斯那随意而锐利的笔锋引领下,这一观察再次揭示:第一,在对华发动鸦片战争前夕,英国内政并非蒸蒸日上,而是同样的矛盾重重、危机潜伏;第二,该时期的英国国力正在上升,但比起前工业化时期,其国民的综合素质并无明显的飞跃;第三,在个体的生存现实面前,自由、平等、博爱等宏大口号不过是蚊蝇的回声;第四,历史不会重复,但故事始终在发生。

伦敦夜行记

数年前,我因心事烦扰,曾短暂失眠。连续几晚,我都整夜在街上巡游。倘若我只是虚弱地躺在床上尝试各种入睡方法,也许得很长时间才能克服病症。所幸我用了一种积极疗法,很快就战胜了失眠症:刚躺下就起床、出门,日出时再筋疲力尽地回家来。

那几晚,我从做业余流浪汉的亲身经历中颇长了些见识。为了挨过长夜,我到处游荡,因而懂得了那些有着同样遭历的夜巡人,他们一年到头夜夜都这般度过。

时值三月,天气潮湿、阴冷。太阳到五点半才会出来,从午夜十二点半之后,夜幕就显得漫长无限。而我,就在此时投入暗夜。

在我们流浪汉心目中,大都市的躁动不宁及其入睡前的翻腾滚动乃是首批娱乐节目之一。它的表演要持续两个小时左右。待到那些营业到深夜的酒馆熄了灯,侍者将店里最后一批吵闹不休的醉汉推到了街上,我们一下就少了许多无眠的同伴。不过,此后我们会遇到一二车辆和三两行人。幸运时,还能骤然看到一名警察咔咔地疾行而来,随之就是一场打斗。但这种消遣通常都难得一见。草市街 [1] 是伦敦市管理最差的地方,除了草市街上、自治区 [2] 的肯特街周围,以及老肯特路的部分路段,别处都一派寂静,罕见激烈事件发生。可是,伦敦好像在效仿它的居民似的,在断气前总要抽搐、抖动几下。一切似乎都已安静下来,可要是有一辆出租马车嘎嘎地飞驰而过,随后肯定还会出现五六辆。流浪汉们甚至观察到,那些酩酊醉客好像也带着磁力,彼此相吸:每当我们看到一个醉汉晃晃荡荡地朝某个商店的百叶窗走去,就知道,不出五分钟,另一个醉汉必会晃晃荡荡地出现在他面前,两人不是兄弟般地搂在一起,就是仇人般地大打出手。这类普通的醉鬼通常是些胳膊纤瘦、毛发蓬乱、唇色青灰的金酒酒徒 [3] 。我们偶尔也会遇到另一类样貌较为体面、身着脏污丧服的醉汉。这类醉鬼十分罕见,二者的比例是五十比一。街道经历夜晚,也经历白天;有些普通人会意外得些财产,也会意外畅饮一番。

这些忽隐忽现的火花最终渐渐消退、慢慢熄灭——清醒生活的最后几粒真正的火星儿从某个很晚才收的馅饼摊或烤土豆摊飘落——伦敦市就会随之沉入梦乡。此时,流浪汉满心向往的就是有同伴存在的迹象:一个亮灯的地方、一点儿动静,以及表明还有人在活动——不,哪怕只是还醒着——的任何事物。流浪汉的眼睛在寻找窗户里的光亮。

雨声滴答,走过大街小巷的流浪汉不停地走啊走啊,眼前除了错综无限的街巷,一无所见。只是偶尔会在某个转角处看到两个警察正在交谈,或是一名警官或巡官正在关照他的部下。夜间,有些时候——但这种时候极少——流浪汉会注意到,有个人头正鬼鬼祟祟地从前面不远处的门口朝外窥视。走上前去就会发现,有个人正紧贴着门站得笔直,试图藏匿在门口的暗影当中,显然没有跟别人作伴儿的意思。流浪汉和这位先生像着了魔一般,在可怕而适时的沉默中彼此从头到脚打量一番,而后一言不发、满腹狐疑地各自走开。滴答、滴答、滴答,雨水从壁架和墙顶上滴落,从管子和喷嘴上溅落。不久,流浪汉的身影就投在了通往滑铁卢大桥 [4] 的石铺路面上。在流浪汉心目中,去滑铁卢大桥花半便士 [5] 对收费员道声“晚安”,顺便瞥一眼他身旁的炉火,这是很值得的。那旺盛的炉火、漂亮的厚大衣、上好的羊毛围脖,加上收费员本人,看上去令人备感舒适。此外,他精神饱满、头脑清醒地将一枚枚半便士铜币放到跟前的金属桌子上,发出嘎啦嘎啦的声响,就像一个公然对抗黑夜及夜幕下所有忧思的挑战者,毫不介意黎明在即,令人备感愉悦。桥上阴郁可怖,所以桥头处很需要这样鼓舞人心的事物。我巡游的那些夜晚,还没人用绳子把那个被剁成碎块的人缒下桥栏。他还活着,且那时已经极适宜地安睡着,无梦相扰,不去忧虑自己的结局。但泰晤士河显得十分骇人:两岸的建筑被蒙裹在漆黑的寿衣里;河面的反光宛似发自水底深处,恰如自杀者的幽灵正擎着它们在指示自己溺死的地点。狂野的月亮和云团躁动不宁,好像罪人在床上辗转难安。伦敦市的巨大阴影似乎沉沉地压在泰晤士河上。

大桥和两座大剧院的间距不过几百步之遥,所以过桥便是剧院。夜晚的剧院,灯火尽熄、黑暗狰狞,人面消失、虚席连片,犹如两口巨大的枯井,荒凉死寂。此时此刻,这种种物事当中,除了尤里克的骷髅 [6] ,恐怕没有一样能够自知自觉。某夜,教堂尖塔在三月的凄风冷雨中敲响四点时,我穿过其中一片宏旷荒漠的边界,进到了里面。我手拿一盏昏暗的提灯,沿着熟悉的路径,摸索到了舞台跟前,隔着乐池向对岸的虚空望去。此时的乐池犹如一个瘟疫猖獗期挖下的宽大墓穴,对岸则像一个辽阔而阴沉的洞穴,枝形吊灯如同其他物什一样已然僵死,在雨雾弥漫的空旷里,触目可见的只有层层的裹尸布。我的脚下便是我上次看戏所在的地方。上次在这里,我观看了那不勒斯的农民们不顾沸腾而来的火山岩浆在葡萄树间跳舞的场面。而现在,这里趴着一条粗蛇般的消防水龙。它警惕地匍匐着,一俟吐着信子的火蛇窜出就会即刻飞扑过去。一个幽灵般的守门人举着黯淡的奠烛在远处的楼座区一晃而过。我退步上了舞台,将灯举过头顶,照向卷起的幕布,只见那幕布不再是绿色,而变成了乌黑色。往上是一个黑暗的穹顶,其中模糊地现出一具船只残骸的模样,上面还带着帆篷与绳索。我想,我的感受可能恰如一个潜水者在海底的感受。

凌晨时分,大街小巷已经了无动静。我去新门监狱 [7] 转了转,找到了些可供沉思的素材。我摸了摸监狱那粗糙的石墙,想象了一下睡梦中的囚犯,然后隔着布满尖钉的便门望了一眼门房,看了看值班狱卒映在白墙上的火光和灯光。这个时间也很适合在那扇邪恶的欠债犯之门外面逗留。门紧紧地关着,比任何别的门关得都牢。对许多人而言,这扇门就是死亡之门 [8] 。在那些乡下来客冒险使用一英镑伪币的时期,多少不幸的男男女女——其中许多人都很无辜——面对着可怕的基督教圣墓堂的尖塔 [9] ,被绞死在刑台上,离开了这个矛盾重重的无情世界!我怀疑,如今的夜晚,那些老经理人懊悔的幽灵有没有重访英格兰银行的营业室?或曰,那营业室里是否如同老贝利街上这个衰落的刑场一样寂静?

接下来很轻易地就能走到英格兰银行,一路哀悼着美好的旧时代、叹惋着罪恶的现时代,于是我就这么做了。我还像真的流浪汉那样围着英格兰银行游荡了一圈,考虑了一下里面的财富,也考虑了一下银行外那些守着火炉打盹儿的值夜卫兵。随后,我去了比林斯格特鱼市场,希望能遇到些赶早市的人。但事实证明,我去得太早了。所以我就越过伦敦大桥,下到萨里区一侧的泰晤士河边,穿行在大酒厂的楼房间。酒厂里煞是热闹,那弥漫的烟汽、谷物的气味以及肥壮的货车马匹在食槽前吃草时发出的咯吱声,都是我绝妙的同伴。在它们中间待过之后,我感到精神抖擞、心情焕朗,于是再次上路,奔向下一个目标——老王座法庭监狱 [10] ,而且决定在到达监狱墙下时,想一想可怜的贺拉斯·肯齐和人患干腐病。

人患干腐病是一种怪病,病因不明。它将贺拉斯·肯齐送进了老王座法庭监狱,又从那里将他脚前头后地送了出来。肯齐正值盛年,相貌堂堂、家境富裕、性格和善,深受朋友们欢迎。他的婚姻门当户对,儿女健康漂亮。然而,他却像某些漂亮的房屋或漂亮的船只那样,患上了干腐病。人患干腐病的首要外部症状表现为下述倾向:偷偷地东游西荡、不明所以地站在街角处、有人碰上就说要四处走走、到处溜达而不是待在一处、不做具体事情而打算在明天或后天履行各种抽象的责任。如果有人发现了这些外部症状,通常都会将其与以前的某种模糊印象联系起来,认为病人只是生活得有点痛苦。观察者无暇反复琢磨这些现象,进而怀疑病人是否患上了可怕的“干腐病”。等病人的面貌变得有点邋遢、衰败,可实际又并不贫穷、肮脏、中毒或患病,他才会发觉:病人感染的是干腐病。随后,病人会在早晨散发出烈酒的气味;之后,挥霍钱财;之后,日夜都散发出烈酒的气味;之后,对一切都满不在乎;之后,四肢震颤、嗜睡多梦、困苦潦倒,最终粉身碎骨。染病者的症状与染病木材的症状一般无二。干腐病的扩散速度如同高额复利计息法,根本算不过来。一旦发现一块木板感染了该病,那么整栋房屋就要完了。这情况就发生在不幸的贺拉斯·肯齐身上,他不久前刚靠一笔捐款得以下葬。熟人们还没说完“他的家庭那么富有、生活那么舒适、前途那么光明——可是,唉,真让人担心,他竟沾染上了干腐病!”这句话呢,哎呀!他就整个地被干腐病吞没,变成了一抔坟土。

那静寂的狱墙与这个极普通的故事有着紧密的联系。在那些流浪的夜晚,离开老王座法庭监狱之后,我接着就去伯利恒皇家医院附近逛逛。这样做的部分原因是,它就在我去往威斯敏斯特 [11] 的沿途;另有部分原因是,我脑海里有种对黑夜的奇想,只有看着伯利恒医院的墙壁和圆顶,这想象才能发挥到极致。我的奇想是:到了晚上,睡梦中的正常人难道和精神病人有什么两样吗?在生命中的每一晚,我们这些在医院外面的人都会做梦,这难道不正和医院里面的精神病人多多少少地情形相似吗?在夜晚,我们难道不正像他们在白天那样,荒谬地以为自己同大大小小的国王与王后、皇帝与皇后,与各式各样的名人显要有着关联吗?到了夜晚,我们难道不正像他们在白天那样,将事件、人员、时间和地点混成一团吗?我们有时为自己的纷乱睡梦所扰,对吧?我们有时急于说明或解释这些梦境,正如他们有时急于说明或解释自己在清醒时的幻觉,对吧?上次我在某家同类医院中遇到了一位精神病患者,他对我说:“先生,我经常会飞起来。”我有些羞愧地想,我也会飞——在晚上。在同一家医院,一位女患者说:“维多利亚女王常常来与我共进午餐。我和女王陛下身着睡袍,吃的是桃子和通心面。王夫殿下也盛情驾临。他穿着陆军元帅制服,是骑着马来的。”我想起自己曾(在夜晚)多次举办了盛大的皇室宴会,餐桌上放着数不清的美味佳肴,我在那尊贵的场合多么举止得体、气度非凡!想起这些,难道我能不羞愧得脸红吗?真奇怪,那全知的伟大主人将睡眠称为每一天生命的死亡,却未将睡梦称作每一天健全心智的精神错乱。

这样想着,我已将伯利恒皇家医院抛在了身后,再次朝泰晤士河走去。片刻之间,我便到了威斯敏斯特桥上,用一双流浪汉的眼睛贪赏着英国国会的外墙。我知道它是一所完美的庞大机构,并且深信:所有的周边国家和未来时代都会对它赞羡备至。但如果国会的工作效率也偶尔提高一下,也许就更好了。我拐进了旧宫院 [12] ,在皇家法院待了十五分钟,低声念叨着这些法院令多少人无法入眠,令那些不幸的原告感到深夜是多么悲惨、可怕。接下来的十五分钟,阴郁的威斯敏斯特大教堂 [13] 成了我的好伙伴。教堂里那些黑暗的拱门和立柱中间埋葬着多少杰出的亡者!每一世纪的来客都超拔无匹,令上一世纪叹为观止。实际上,在那些流浪的夜晚,我甚至还去过一些公墓。守墓人定时在墓地中巡逻,并转动一个指示器那磨得光溜溜的手柄,指示器就会记录下他们触动手柄的时间。一个古老的城市埋葬着数量多么惊人的亡者!倘若他们在生者入眠时全都死而复生、出来活动,所有的街巷里、道路上该拥挤到什么程度!生者要想出门来,会连插针的缝隙都找不到。这是一幕多么骇人的景象!不仅如此,连城外都会弥山遍野、密密麻麻,全是那无量数的亡者。只有上帝才会知道,这支连天匝地的大军向外周绵延到多远。

深夜时分,教堂的钟声突然敲响,流浪汉会误认为是同伴来了,发出一声欢呼。然而,在这死寂的中夜,你会分外清晰地听到,声波一圈一圈地荡漾开来、扩散出去,渐远渐轻,或许(像哲人所言)一直淡入那无尽的太空。这时,你才意识到自己的错误,更深邃的孤寂感随之袭来。有一次,我离开威斯敏斯特大教堂后,转弯朝北走去,到达圣马丁教堂那巨大的台阶下时,三点的钟声恰好敲响了。突然,一样东西从我脚前站了起来,同时发出了一声孤独无依的叫喊。它是受到了钟声的惊吓而叫起来的,那种叫声我闻所未闻。我再向前一步就要踩上它了。我们相对而立,彼此惊惧。原来是个眉毛浓密、长有髭须的年轻人,约有二十岁。他一只手紧攥着披在身上的几件破衣烂衫,从头到脚都在颤抖,牙齿咔咔作响。他紧盯着我——是迫害者?是恶魔?是鬼魂?管我是什么呢——就像一只受惊之犬,那哀号着的嘴巴似乎要向我猛咬。他一边尖叫、准备扑咬,一边后退。我想给这个凶恶的可怜人一点钱,就伸出一只手去安抚他,按住了他的肩膀。可他一下就甩掉了外衣,扭身闪开,恰如《新约》中的那个年轻人 [14] 。我独自站在那里,手里拎着他的褴褛衣衫。

逢集的早晨,考文特花园市场 [15] 就成了流浪汉的好伙伴。一辆辆装满了卷心菜的大马车就像是在举行盛会:菜农家的男人们和儿子们就睡在马车底下;这一带人家的凶犬看管着整个市场-花园地区。然而,就我所知,在这里鬼鬼祟祟地游来荡去的孩子乃是伦敦市最糟糕的夜景之一:他们在筐子里睡觉,为争抢被抛弃的禽畜杂肉而打斗,一看到任何可以下手偷盗的东西就飞奔而去,钻到拉车和手推车下躲避巡警;他们总是光着脚跑在这个露天市场的铺砌路面上,阵雨似地发出沉闷的啪啪声。你不由得开始比较:那些人们竭力改良、精心照顾的土地出产的农产品会逐渐腐烂,所有这些(除了被人驱赶之外)无人关心的野孩子显然也在逐渐腐烂,这是多么怪异、多么令人心痛的现实!

在考文特花园市场附近,有家很早就开的咖啡馆,那是流浪汉的又一个伙伴,而且是个温暖的伙伴,这就更好了。咖啡馆还供应大块的面包。面包是那个头发蓬乱的汉子在咖啡馆的一间内室里做出来的。他此时还没穿外套,也没太睡醒,在给顾客送来面包和咖啡之后,就坐在隔扇后面又睡着了,鼾声时塞时通、千变万化,很快就进入了梦乡。这家咖啡馆是弓街 [16] 附近最早的建筑物之一。一天凌晨,我游荡进了咖啡馆,在桌边坐下来,边喝咖啡边思考着接下来往哪去。一个男人走了进来。他身着鼻烟色的高领长大衣,脚上穿着鞋子,头上戴着帽子。我深信,他此外什么都没穿。他从帽子里拿出一大块凉的肉馅布丁。布丁非常大,把帽子撑得鼓鼓的。为了取出布丁,他把帽子的衬里全都翻了出来。肉馅布丁显然是这位神秘顾客的标志。他一到,睡意蒙眬的汉子就端上来一品脱 [17] 热茶、一小条面包、一套大刀叉和餐盘。汉子离开隔间后,这位主顾就直接把布丁放在桌面上,不是拿刀切开它,而是掌心朝下一下刺穿它,就像刺死一个不共戴天的仇敌;之后抽出刀来,在袖子上擦擦,然后用手指撕碎布丁,统统吃掉。这个吃布丁的人是我夜游期间遇到的最像鬼怪的人,至今记忆犹新。我只去过那家咖啡馆两次,两次都看到他直挺挺地大步走进来(应该说,他刚从墓穴爬出来,随即就要回去),取出布丁,刺穿它,擦擦利刃,消灭布丁。其身形令人联想到灰白色的死尸,但那张马脸分外绯红。我第二次看见他时,他嘶哑地问那个爱打盹的汉子:“今天晚上我的脸红吗?”“嗯,很红。”汉子直言不讳。那幽灵就说:“我母亲就是个贪杯的红脸女人。她进了棺材之后,我使劲看了看她,就变成了红脸膛。”不知怎地,那个肉馅布丁自此变得令人作呕,我就再也不去跟他碰面了。

不逢集或者想换换路线时,我就到火车站去。凌晨的邮车到站时,这里会热闹一番。但像世间的大多数伙伴一样,它只能陪我一小会儿:站台灯突然亮起来,搬运员从栖身处冒出来,出租马车、手推车吱吱嘎嘎地到达预定地点(邮局的大拉车已经到位)。最后,铃声响起,火车随即哐哐响着到站。但没有乘客上下车,也没行李可搬运,于是所有车、人都迅速散去。这些火车邮局有着巨大的网络,仿佛是拖着网在国土上打捞尸体。它们的车门倏地打开,喷出一股煤油灯的臭气、一个疲惫的职员、一个穿着红大衣的警卫,以及他们装满信件的背包。火车引擎喘息着、呻吟着、大汗淋漓,像是在边擦额头边诉说:“瞧我这一路跑得!”不到十分钟,灯火尽熄,我又成了孤单的流浪汉。

不过,此时,附近的大路上有人赶着牛群走来了。牛儿(通常都会像牛儿那样)想拐进石墙之中,挤进铁栏间那六英寸宽的空隙,(也通常都会像牛儿那样)低下头去,将货物抛向想象中的恶犬,给它们自己及其所有忠诚的看护人惹来一大堆多余的麻烦。此时,清醒的煤气灯也知道白昼将至,神色开始暗淡下来。大街上已经出现了三三两两的劳动者。夜间,醒时生活随着最后一个馅饼摊的最后一点火花而熄灭;现在,它则随着街角处第一批早点摊的炉火而复苏。这样,白昼的步伐越来越大;最后,它一个飞跃,来临了。而我也已身疲体倦,能够入睡了。在此时转身回家的路上,我曾认为,在夜晚那真正的荒原上,无家可归的流浪者茕然游荡,乃是伦敦最无趣的事情。而今我意识到,情况并非如此。我本就十分清楚,各式各样的罪恶与不幸都在何处,如果我乐意,就会找到它们;但我选择了规避,故此在无数漫长的街道上,我的流浪才能那般形单影只。

(牛云平 译)

[1]  草市街(Haymarket)位于伦敦市中心的繁华地段西区内,17世纪末以前曾是买卖干草、草料的农贸市场,18世纪以后逐渐发展为著名的娱乐区,街道两侧剧院、酒店林立。——译者注

[2]  指萨瑟克(Southwark),泰晤士河南岸地区,伦敦的自治区。——译者注

[3]  在18世纪中叶,金酒(Gin)价格低廉,是包括妇女、幼儿在内的穷人们面对无力改变的悲惨现实,麻醉自我、借以忘忧的主要手段。——译者注

[4]  滑铁卢桥是一座位于泰晤士河上的大桥,原本由斯特兰德桥梁公司出资建造,1811年始建,1817年初次建成使用,正值滑铁卢战役两周年纪念日。为纪念英荷普联军的胜利,此桥被命名为滑铁卢桥。该桥为收费大桥,行人收费标准为半便士/人次。19世纪40年代该桥成为许多寻短见者首选的自杀地点。1878年大桥收归国有,收费站随之取消。——译者注

[5]  便士:一种旧时英国硬币,12便士=1先令,240便士=1英镑。——译者注

[6]  在莎士比亚名剧《哈姆雷特》中,掘墓人挖出了一个据说是尤里克的骷髅,哈姆雷特手拿这骷髅回忆说,尤里克是他父王家里的小丑,他小时候经常骑在尤里克背上玩耍。因此,尤里克这个角色在《哈姆雷特》剧中是以骷髅形式出场的,尤里克的骷髅乃是演出该剧的必备道具。——译者注

[7]  新门监狱是伦敦市内一座著名的监狱,位于新门大街与老贝利大街交界处。据说初建于1188年,使用至1902年,并于1904年拆除。——译者注

[8]  1783年,伦敦城的绞刑架从泰伯恩行刑场搬到了新门监狱的这扇小门外。公开绞刑在此执行,常常吸引大批看客。1868年停止公开绞刑,改在新门监狱内执行。——译者注

[9]  圣墓堂(Church of St. Sepulchre)与新门监狱隔街相对,教堂尖塔的钟声常常意味着死刑的迫近。——译者注

[10]  位于伦敦市萨瑟克区的一座欠债人专用监狱,中世纪时始建,1880年拆除。——译者注

[11]  伦敦所辖的自治市,英国议会所在地。——译者注

[12]  旧宫院(Old Palaceyard)在国会大厦西侧。旧宫院再向西不远就是威斯敏斯特教堂的东端。可以步行穿过这个院子,进入国会大厦。——译者注

[13]  威斯敏斯特大教堂是皇室财产,是历代英国国王加冕的圣地,也是许多王室成员举行婚礼的场所,还是历代皇家陵园。陵园里还埋葬着牛顿、达尔文等许多英国伟人。本文作者狄更斯去世后也安葬于此。迄今为止,已有约3300人安葬在这里。——译者注

[14]  此处典故出自《新约·马可福音》(14:51—52)。在叛徒犹大带人来抓耶稣时,其他门徒都逃走了,但有一个少年人,赤身披着一块麻布,跟随耶稣。众人要抓他,可他甩掉麻布,赤身逃走了。随后,耶稣被带走了。——译者注

[15]  考文特花园市场是伦敦市一个传统的菜果花卉市场,已有300多年历史。——译者注

[16]  考文特花园市场中的一条街道。——译者注

[17]  (英制)品脱:容量或体积单位,约合0.568升。——译者注

迷失金融城

在我年龄和个头都还很小的时候,有一天在伦敦金融城里迷路了。某某(某某的魂灵啊,我忘记你的名字了,请原谅!)带我去观赏圣吉尔斯 [1] 教堂的外景,作为对我的隆重款待。我脑子里满是许多与那座宏伟的宗教建筑有关的浪漫想法,并且坚信:各种乞丐在工作日都装作瞎子、跛子、肢体残缺者、聋哑人或有其他身体疾病患者,可每到周日就抛开伪装,换上节日盛装,到他们庇护人的殿堂来参加圣仪。我约略认为,班姆菲尔德·摩尔·卡鲁 [2] 的现任继承人会在这种场合担当俗人委员一类的角色,坐在一个高高的挂着红帘子的厢席里。

时值春季,我这些稚嫩的念头随着季节抽出了新枝,搞得我的父母和保护人都头疼不已。于是,某某主动提出带我去看看圣吉尔斯教堂的外景。(我如今猜测)他们认为,那样很可能就会熄灭我的幻想之火,让我的头脑清醒过来。早饭之后,我俩出发了。我至今记得,某某那天的打扮很醒目:下穿质地良好、乳白色的条绒马裤,打着高帮斜纹布绑腿;上穿缀着闪亮纽扣的绿色外套,戴着条蓝色围巾,露着一圈极大的衬衫领子。我现在认为,那时他肯定(跟我一样)刚从肯特郡的蛇麻草地上走出来不久。但当时我将他奉为时尚之典范、礼仪之楷模——简直就是现世的哈姆雷特,只不过没有后者那棘手的家务事罢了。

我俩边走边聊,满意地观赏了圣吉尔斯教堂的外貌。尖塔上那面飘扬的旗子尤其让人激动不已。现在推想,我们随后就沿着河岸大道 [3] 走向了诺桑伯兰府 [4] ,去欣赏府门顶上那尊闻名遐迩的狮像。我记得很清楚,总之,就在我满怀敬畏和赞羡地仰望那头大名鼎鼎的动物时,某某不见了。

我迷路了!惶恐倏地攫取了我幼小的心灵。今日回想,那骤然惊惧仍历历如昨。我敢肯定,即便我那时发觉自己是在北极迷了路,而不是迷失在那条雄狮傲视之下的狭窄、拥挤、令人不安的街道上,心中惊悸也不过如此。然而,我边哭边沿街奔跑了几个来回,就将乍现的恐惧抛在了脑后。随后,我怀着一种凄凉的自尊感走进了一个庭院,在台阶上坐下,开始考虑如何度过一生。

我相信,我幼小的脑子里根本没有想到要问路回家。或许那时的我还很喜欢迷路后那种凄凉的自尊感呢。但是,我如今切实地相信,当我为未来规划宏大蓝图时,根本就没有注意到那最简短、最显见的人生道路。我猜,我当时只有八到九岁大,还非常幼稚。

我兜里有一先令零四便士,小指上戴着一枚白镴戒指,戒指上镶着一小块红玻璃。这件首饰是我的爱恋对象在我生日那天送给我的。我俩发誓要结婚,但也预料到双方家庭将会阻碍我们的结合。她(当时六岁)属于卫斯理宗,我则虔信英国国教 [5] 。就在我生日那天,我的教父——他是个既懂得自己职责所在又能履行职责的人——送给了我半克朗 [6] ,我花得还剩下这一先令零四便士。

有这些宝贝在身,我决定去碰碰运气。我想,我一旦发了迹,就驾着六匹马拉的大车回家去娶我的新娘子。想着这幅胜利的图景,我又哭了几声。可很快我就擦干眼泪,出了庭院,按计划踏上了征途。我的计划是:首先(作为某种仪式)前往市政大厅看看那对巨人像 [7] ,从他们身上汲取力量,相信自己的冒险可能会一帆风顺。如果这一招落空,就转而到金融城里转转看能否寻到威廷顿 [8] 式的发财机会。如果这一招也失利,就去参军当鼓手。

于是,我开始一路打听着去往市政厅。我当时莫名其妙地认为,“市政厅”就是“石造的”厅,或“有巨石的”厅。我非常精明地觉得,如果我打听通往巨人像之路,会被人笑话,所以就不能提巨人像的事。我至今记得,只剩我孤身一人时,街道显得多么宽阔无边!房屋显得多么高大!一切都多么威严而神秘!到了圣殿关石门 [9] 前,我目不转睛地盯着它看了半个小时,但还是没看完就继续前进了。我在书上读到过,圣殿门顶上放着许多示众的人头。因此,这个石门虽然是件威严的建筑杰作和实用典范,但似乎也是个凶恶的古老地方。我最终离开那里之后,呀!一下就看到了圣邓斯坦教堂上的巨人像 [10] !那些亲切的怪物敲钟的情形,谁看到后还能走得开呢?在他们几次敲响一刻钟的当儿,我到那家玩具店看了看——在我写下这篇文字的此刻,这家玩具店还在那儿,只是已面貌一新了——一个多小时之后,我从那个迷人的地方脱身,来到了高高耸立的圣保罗大教堂 [11] 前。我怎么能错过它那伟岸的穹顶呢?怎么才能将目光从它的金色十字架上移开呢?去市政厅看巨人像的路途真是遥远啊,而且行进速度很缓慢。

终于,我来到了他们面前,满怀恐惧和崇敬地注视着他们。他们看上去比我预想的要和蔼些,总体说来脸色比较灿烂,可是非常高大。我估计他们的底座大约有四十英尺 [12] 高,要是他们下来走在石板路上,会是两个庞然大物。我思考着这些,对着两个巨人出神(我估计,孩童们见到他们大抵都会如此的)。尽管知道这些雕像并非血肉之躯,我仍旧认为他们有生物特征——例如,他们知道我在那儿,并在偷偷地注意我。我累极了,就钻到马高格下面的角落里,躲过了他的视野,睡起了觉。

一个大觉之后,我突然惊醒了,感觉那两个巨人好像在咆哮,却转而发现原来是金融城的喧闹声。周围一切如故,与我睡前一模一样:豆茎啦、仙女啦、公主啦、龙啦,统统都没有,也没见任何新的人生转机。我饿了,就想去买些食物回这儿来吃掉,然后继续按计划寻找威廷顿式的发财机会。

我坦然自若地在面包店买了一便士的面包卷,可在好几家美食店前探头探脑地徘徊了一番,却未能鼓足勇气进门。最后,我在一家美食店的橱窗里看到一堆熟香肠,旁边的标签上写着:“日耳曼小鬼,一便士”。这下,我知道想买什么了,就勇敢地走进去说:“请问你们能不能卖给我一个日耳曼小鬼?”他们卖给了我。我兜里揣着那根包着纸的香肠回到了市政厅。

两个巨人仍然待在那儿,偷偷地假装没有注意我。于是,我就在另一个角落里坐下来,眼前只有一条竖着耳朵的狗。是条黑狗,一只眼上面有一撮白毛,脚爪上有一块块白色和褐色的杂毛。它想和我玩耍:它围着我蹦来跳去、在我身上蹭鼻子、从我身旁窜过、摇头晃脑地假装倒着跑,显得友善而滑稽,仿佛它根本不计较个人形象、只为逗我开心似的。那时,我看着这条狗,想到了威廷顿,感到机会就要来了。我不断地说“嘿,小狗!”、“可怜的家伙!”、“好狗狗!”,逗引着它。我满意地认为,此后它就永远成为我的狗了,并会帮我谋求发财之道。

这让我感到了宽慰(迷路后我不时地会哭一鼻子),就将那个日耳曼小鬼香肠从口袋里掏出来,准备吃午餐。我先咬下一小口扔给狗,它向那侧一扑就吞吃掉了,就像吞药片似的。我咬第二口的时候,它紧盯着我的脸,等着我再扔给它一块;而我这时在考虑该给它起个什么名字。我觉得,在此情此景之下,“美妙运气”这个名字不错,含义很丰富。如今回想,我那时正为想出了这么个好名字而得意非凡,可“美妙运气”却开始极其凶狠地朝我狂吠起来。

我奇怪地想:它怎能这么没羞没耻?可它才不管这一套呢,反而吼叫得更凶了。它嘴里淌着口水,眼睛闪着红光,鼻子湿漉漉的,脑袋使劲地歪向一边,一边冲我吠叫,一边围着我在石铺地面上鬼鬼祟祟而充满恐吓地转悠,最后突然嗖地一下咬住那个日耳曼小鬼,从我手里扯出去,叼着它跑掉了。它再也没有回来帮我谋求发财之道。我现在已经四十岁了,从那一刻至今,再也没有见过我忠诚的“美妙运气”。

我非常孤独。与其说那是由于我失掉了好吃的日耳曼小鬼香肠(当时我还没听说过有加了大量胡椒粉的马肉这种美食),不如说是因为“美妙运气”那么残忍地令我失望。我曾相信,它除了不会说话,会做出一切友好的举动;没准它甚至也能学会说话呢。我又哭了一会儿,心想:如果我的爱恋对象跟我一块儿迷路该多好,她能和我做伴儿呀。不过,我马上就想到,她可不能参军当鼓手,于是就擦干眼泪,吃掉了面包。从市政厅出来后,我遇到了一个卖牛奶的妇女,就从她那儿买了一便士的牛奶喝掉了。吃喝之后,我的精神头又来了,就开始在金融城漫游,寻找威廷顿式的发财之道。

如今我每次进金融城,都悲哀地感到自己真是个有文化的可怜人。可那时,我只是个迷路的孩子,在那里游逛的时候,想到大英商界和金融城市长,心中满是崇敬。如今在那里游逛的时候,我会嘲笑那些庄重的礼服,并愤慨地认为,金融城市政府是当今世上最严重的恶作剧之一。孩提时的我哪里会懂得今日金融城里那总是遭遇失望的无数大众?他们总是希望在那里遇到个伙伴、得到些钱,却总是希望落空。孩提时的我哪里听说过那个大好人、金融城里的朋友?他要为那么多的人做那么多的事;他要让这个人担任国内的某个职务,让那个人担任国外的某个职务;他要搞定这个人的债权人,为那个人的儿子谋个生计,并确保另一个人拿到酬金;他要“投身于”这家伟大的股份制企业中去,要进入那家人寿保险公司的董事会;然而,他从来不做这些预报了的事情。孩提时的我哪里会了解那个号称是绅士、摩西宗阿拉伯人 [13] 和其他人的朋友的人?他通常出现在各种赛场上,主要居住在红狮广场一带;他无法减少纸币的总量,身边却恰巧放着一桶醒目的上等雪利酒、一只梳妆盒和一幅提香 [14] 的《维纳斯》,难道拥有这些物品的他乐意补足差额?孩提时的我哪里会听说那个人呢?在那个单纯的时代,他向那些一脸严肃的秃顶人士吐露机密(这机密从未碰巧证明有丝毫的正确性),后者又神秘兮兮地在饭桌边把这秘密透露给了屏息以待的听众。没有。我是否已懂得他是个可怕的贪婪的家伙、不值一提的骗子、一个纯属虚构的名人?没有。我是否听说过他与金融市场上的资金紧绌有关、与统一公债的沉闷状况有关、与黄金出口有关、与众人面前的拦路石——小麦的度量单位蒲式耳 [15] ——有关?没有。我对下面这些名词的意思可有丝毫概念?——假公济私、操纵市场、伪造账目、虚构红利、美化事物等。丝毫都没有。我难道没有发现,哈德逊先生本人不正明摆着是头瞪着眼的死金牛犊吗?无从发现。在我眼里,金融城就是一个巨大的商场,遍地都是宝石、贵金属、大酒桶、大捆包,充满了荣誉、慷慨、进口水果、进口香料。每位商人兼银行家都是菲茨沃伦先生 [16] 和水手辛巴德 [17] 的复合体。每当风向适合航往巴巴里,而且船长也在家,史密斯、佩恩和史密斯 [18] 就会将家仆们(包括那名坏脾气的厨师)召集起来,让他们备好自己的船上用品。格林和哈利法克斯 [19] 二人曾在钻石之谷中经历了巨大困难。霸菱兄弟 [20] 见识过了大鹏鸟蛋 [21] ,并随沙漠商队旅行过。罗思柴尔德 [22] 曾坐在巴格达的市场上售卖各式各样的货物;一位戴着面纱、骑着驴子的女士爱上了他,她来自苏丹 [23] 的后宫。

我就这样在城里漫游,就像一个梦境中的孩童。我盯着那些英国商人,坚定地相信一切都那么神奇,心中溢满激昂之情。我走近府第,又远离府第——走进庭院和小广场,又走出庭院和小广场。我隔着缝隙窥视一下账房外的走廊,然后跑掉。我那羞怯的脚步声单调地回荡在南海公司总部的庭院里。我接着逛到了奥斯丁修会中,好奇地想,过去那些修道士怎么会喜欢这个地方呢?我就这样一直在游逛,不停地凝视着那些英国商人,不厌其烦地浏览着那些商号。为了说清各个地方,我编造了这些故事,并虔诚地相信它们,正如我虔诚地相信金融城本身。我至今尤为清楚地记得,当我发现自己来到了皇家交易所 [24] ,看到那些坐在船只海报下面衣着破烂的人时,我内心认定:他们是财迷精,将全部家产都投到了船上,去买金砂或类似的东西,此时正等着各自的船长回来告诉他们将要起航了。我观察到,他们都在大声嚼着脆饼干。我觉得他们那么做是为了预防晕船。

到处游逛是件开心事,但却仍旧没有产生威廷顿式的结果。市长官邸里正在准备午餐,我隔着一个装有窗栅的厨房窗子偷偷朝里望去,看到了那些戴着白帽子正在忙碌的男厨师。我的心开始咚咚跳起来,盼望着市长大人,或者市长夫人,或者他们的某个女儿、年轻的市长千金,会从楼上的某个房间朝外看,并命人把我带进去。可是,什么都没发生。我这样窥视了一段时间之后,一名厨师朝我喊道(窗子开着):“小子,走开!”我吓了一跳,看到他长着黑黑的络腮胡子,我立刻就乖乖地走开了。

随后,我来到了东印度大楼,问一个小孩那是什么地方。他不作回答,只是做鬼脸,并拉扯我的头发,整番举动毫不文雅、毫无礼貌。我对东印度大楼十分崇敬,这可能让詹姆斯·霍格爵士 [25] 本人非常满意。我毫不怀疑地认为,它是地球表面上最卓越、最高尚、最清廉,事实上最公正无私、在各方面都最惊人的机构。我那时已懂得誓言的内涵,差点发誓说东印度公司就是一整块完美无瑕的贵橄榄石。

那些去印度的男孩子们,一到印度就开始抽起形如翻卷的拉铃绳的烟斗来,而毫不感到难受。他们的结局就是脚上头下地栽进某个雕花玻璃糖罐里。一路想着这些,我来到了那些赴印装备店。在那里,我读到了奔赴印度的年轻人必备物品的各类清单。我看到“一对手枪”这一条时,想到:能够踏上赴印征程是一桩多大的幸事!但这里仍然看不到哪个英国商人有将我带回他家的意思。只有一个烟囱清洁工例外——他打量着我,好像认为我很适合他那一行,可我赶紧跑开了。

一整天我都深受男孩子们的折磨。现在想来,尽管我当时并没有冒犯他们,但他们不是追着我转过街角,就是把我逼进门口的死角,非常野蛮地对待我。有个男孩子兜里装着半截黑铅笔,就在我白帽子的帽顶上写上了他母亲的名字和(他声称的)地址:“布劳斯夫人 沃平区烟草塞街木腿道”。那字迹我怎么也擦不掉。

我记得,在遭受这般迫害之后,我在一个小小的教堂墓地里休息了一会儿。我考虑了整个事件,觉得如果我和我的爱恋对象能够立刻被埋葬在那儿,就会让我得到解脱。可是,在打了个盹、喝了点水、吃了个小面包,特别是看了一幅画之后,我又精神抖擞了。

如今想来,我那时肯定是游荡到了古德曼菲尔德剧院或者邻近的什么地方。那幅画上画的是某出戏里的一幕场景,附近的某家剧院正在上演这出戏。不过,那家剧院现在已经没了。那幅画使我想去那家剧院看看那出戏。威廷顿计划显然无法实现了,我于是决定:看完戏后,一路打听找到军营,敲开营房的大门,告诉他们我知道他们想招鼓手,而我就是去当鼓手的。我想那时肯定是曾听人说过,而我自己也相信,每个军营大门后面都有个兜里装着1先令 [26] 的哨兵在日夜值守。我还相信,要是哪个男孩被人以任何方式成功劝诱而同意参军,立即就会当上鼓手,除非他的父亲交纳400英镑的赔偿金。

我找到了那家剧院。它的外貌我记不清了,只记得剧院的正面用土黄色草草地涂着两个显示忠诚的词首字母“G.R.”。我跟一大群人一起在楼座门外等着开门。那群人中大部分都是水手,他们和身边的其他观众一样,都来自社会底层。他们的言谈不堪入耳,但我对其糟粕不甚了了,所以也没有产生令我堕落的恶劣影响。我至今都在怀疑,与这类群体过从多久就能带坏一个受过我这样教育、像我这般纯洁的孩子?

无论在楼座门外还是在剧院之中,每当我发觉有人注意我的样貌,就假装在寻找某个带着我来却跟我分开了的大人,并对那个想象中的人物点头微笑。这个办法很有效。我手里攥着枚六便士的硬币,准备交费。门开了,门闩吱嘎乱响,人群中的妇女一阵尖叫,我像一根稻草那样,跟着人流前进。我那枚六便士硬币被收费处那鸽巢似的洞口飞快地吞了进去。在我眼里,那洞口就像个嘴巴。我爬上了观众较少的上层楼梯,(像所有别人那样)一路狂奔,要占个好位置。我到达楼座后端时,那里还没几个人。那些座位看上去高得可怕,活像是一组跳台,要将我头朝下抛入楼下的正厅里去。在极度惊恐之中,我紧紧抓住了一个座位。然而,有位带着个年轻女伴的和善面包师向我伸出了手。于是我们三人一起翻过座位,来到了第一排的角落里。面包师很喜欢他的女伴,整晚看戏期间都不停地亲吻她。

我刚刚坐好,突然有件事重重地压在了我的心上,极其可怕地折磨着我的心灵。我得把它讲清楚。那晚是一场义演——那位喜剧演员的义演。他又矮又胖,长着一张非常宽大的脸,戴着一顶(我那时觉得)有史以来最小最可笑的帽子。为了让他的朋友们和观众满意,这位喜剧演员宣布,他先骑着一头驴子唱支幽默的歌曲,然后再把这头非凡的驴子作为奖品,颁发给抽中大奖者。所有获准入场的池座观众和楼座观众都有机会参加这次抽奖。我交那枚六便士硬币的时候,得到了一个号码——47号。如果这个号码被抽中,我就会赢得那头驴子,那到底该怎么办呢?!我一想到这儿,就冒出了恐惧的冷汗。

想着我可能出现的好运气,我浑身战栗。万一47号被抽中,我将根本无法隐瞒该号码属于我这一事实,因为我让面包师看了这个号码,更何况我的困窘也会立即表明被抽中的是我。然后,我想象着自己被叫上舞台,领取那头驴子。我想象着,当全场的人看到大奖落到了我这样一个小家伙的头上,会发出怎样的一阵尖叫!我该怎么把驴子牵出剧院呢?——他肯定不愿意走。要是他大声叫唤起来,我该怎么办?要是他尥蹶子乱踢,我会落个什么下场?要是他驮着我倒退到舞台门里去,赖着不出来呢?我感到,如果我赢得了这头驴,那位喜剧演员一俟我走近就会把我放到驴背上去。然后,要是我把他带出了剧院,该对他做什么呢?我该怎么喂养他?把他拴在哪儿?我一个人迷路已经够糟的了,而带着一头驴迷路就是一场天大的灾难,大到超出了我的想象。

第一段戏演完了,可我的脑海里忧惧盘旋,根本无法安心赏戏。海船上场了——海报上将它称作一艘真正的战舰——庞大的船体在巨浪滔天的大海上剧烈颠簸着。即便这么恐怖的风暴场面也不能令我忘掉那头驴。水手们拿着望远镜和喊话喇叭在船上东倒西歪地到处乱跑(他们在那艘战舰上显得非常高大),看上去真是一幅可怕的画面。同样可怕的是,舵手很可能已经无可避免地背叛了船员们,因为他一边喊着“我们迷路了!快上救生艇!快上救生艇!雷电击中了主桅!”,一边在我眼皮子底下将主桅从插槽里拔出来,扔下船去。然而,在那头驴子引发的恐惧面前,就连这些震撼人心的情节都显得苍白无色。后来,那个(极好的)好水手得到了好运,那个(极坏的)坏水手从一块形状奇特、貌似折梯之类东西的岩石上跳入了海中。甚至在这时,我仍在泪眼婆娑中看到了那头驴子的可怖身影。

终于,那一刻到来了。小提琴手们开始演奏那首幽默曲子,那头令我无限畏惧的动物咔嗒咔嗒地出现在舞台上,背上驮着那位喜剧演员。我根据驴蹄发出的声响推断,他新钉了掌。他身披彩带(我指的是驴子),坚持要将尾巴对着观众。喜剧演员就从他背上跳下,转过身来,倒骑在驴背上,在雷鸣般的掌声中连唱了那首歌曲三遍。在此期间,我一直害怕得焦躁不安。池座中有两个面色苍白、身上溅满街中泥污的观众受邀起身,到舞台上去监督抽签过程,其他观众对他们报以一阵哄笑。这时,我本可乞求他们、恳求他们对我大发慈悲,不要抽到47号。

不过,我的痛苦很快就解脱了。一位坐在我身后的先生的号码被抽中了,就下楼去领奖。他穿着法兰绒短上衣,戴着条黄色围巾,在风暴刮起之前就吃掉了两条炸鳎鱼和所有衣袋里的坚果。这位先生似乎很熟悉那头驴,在他出场之前就认识他,而且对他的一系列活动都兴趣盎然。用一个好理解的词儿来描述他吧——他几乎是凑在我的耳边,自言自语地“赶”着那头驴。每当驴出了什么差错,他就说:“过雷(来),小驴宝贝儿。过雷(来)!”他试图骑上驴背,可被摔在了地上,逗得观众们(包括我本人)开怀大笑。不过,等他再站起来,却娴熟地骑着驴子下台了,而且不久就十分平静地回到了自己的座位上。盘桓已久的沉重忧惧涣然冰释,我平静了下来,踏踏实实地欣赏了其余的表演。我记得,那出戏里面有不少舞蹈场面,有带着镣铐跳的,有在玫瑰丛里跳的。有一场舞蹈中,舞者旁边有一个美若天仙的小姑娘,跟她一比,我的爱恋对象黯然失色、平凡无奇。在最后的一场戏中,她又出现了,这次扮作一个男孩(戴盔穿甲),数次被剧中其他人物所保护。我如今在一定程度上认为,当时的剧情是:一个男爵想把她淹死,但数次被那位喜剧演员、一个鬼魂、一只纽芬兰犬和一口教堂大钟阻止。此外,我如今只记得,我当时很纳闷那个男爵打算去哪里;还有,他在一阵火星儿中到了那儿。火星儿熄灭的同时,灯也全熄了。这让我感到,整出戏——船啦、驴啦、男男女女啦、美若天仙的小姑娘啦,一切一切——都是一个引爆了的奇妙烟花,爆炸过后,只余尘灰与黑暗。

我出了剧院来到大街上时,天色已经很晚。天上没有月亮,也没有星星,大雨倾盆。人群四散之后,我一个人孤单地走着,记忆中那个鬼魂和那个男爵的面目非常丑陋。我感到难以名状的孤寂。此时,我的小床和那些亲爱的、熟悉的面容才第一次浮现在眼前。白天里,我从未想到过家人会多么悲痛,从未想到过我的母亲,从未想到过任何别的事情。我只是在自我调整,以适应所处的境遇,并到处寻找发财机会。

我意识到,如果一个男孩只会哭泣、只会到处乱跑,嘴里嚷着“哎呀,我迷路了!”,那么他根本不可能想去当兵。我放弃了一路打听去兵营的念头——或者说,那个念头离我而去——开始到处乱跑,最后发现了一个在岗哨上值班的巡夜人。如今回想,我很惊诧,他当时竟然还醒着。我倾向于认为,他是身体太虚弱,无力喝醉酒了。

这位可敬的人士将我带到了最近的哨所——说是他带着我,实际是我带着他。因为回想起我们二人那时在雨中穿行的情景,肯定形成了一幅画面,恰如一幅幼儿牵着老人的小插图。他吓人地咳嗽着,每走近一面墙时,都要靠上去歇一会儿。我俩终于到达了哨所——一个寂静慵懒的温暖地方,四壁上挂着几件大衣和拨浪鼓状的物件。他们派一个患有麻痹病的人去寻找我的家人,我随后就靠在炉火边睡着了,好大的一觉!等我醒过来,映入眼帘的是我父亲的脸。这就是我那次迷路的全部经过。我小时候,他们常常说我是个与众不同的孩子。现在想来,他们说的没错。或许我还是个与众不同的大人。

记忆中的某某啊,原谅我带给了你忧虑吧!即便是现在,每当我站在那尊雄狮的下面,都会看到你仓皇地沿着大街奔来跑去,听不进去别人的安慰。从那时至今,我曾多次迷路,而且游逛得越来越远。但愿我那些次迷路带给别人的烦恼,少于我这次迷路带给你的烦恼!



(牛云平 译)

[1]  圣吉尔斯(Saint Giles,约650—约710)是希腊基督教隐士,据传生于雅典,后在今法国南部隐居,被认为是穷人、残疾人、精神病人、铁匠、动物和森林等事物的保护者。——译者注

[2]  班姆菲尔德-摩尔-卡鲁(Bamfylde Moore Carew,1693—约1758),英国有名的流氓、浪子,擅长伪装,自称是乞丐之王。——译者注

[3]  该道路英文为Strand,又译斯特兰德街,街上有许多著名的旅馆和剧院。——译者注

[4]  诺桑伯兰府位于河岸大道上,是诺桑伯兰公爵的府第,建于十七世纪早期,1874年拆除,在原址上修成了诺桑伯兰大道。——译者注

[5]  16世纪,英国王权在与罗马教廷的斗争中实施了宗教改革,建立了本国的民族教会,一般译为英国国教,又译英格兰圣公会。卫斯理宗原为英国国教中的一派,形成于十八世纪三四十年代,主张因信称义,倡导严格遵照圣经过道德的宗教生活,因此又称“循道宗”或“监理宗”。——译者注

[6]  克朗为英国旧币制单位硬币,1克朗=5先令=60便士,半克朗=2先令6便士。——译者注

[7]  伦敦市政厅门前的两个木雕巨像。巨人名为高格(Gog)和马高格(Magog),被认为是伦敦金融城的守护神。——译者注

[8]  指英国民间故事《迪克·威廷顿和猫》中的主人公迪克·威廷顿。迪克是个孤儿,听说伦敦金融城里连街道都铺满了黄金,就去那里谋求发财之道。他失望地发现,实际情况并非如此。他又冷又饿地蜷缩在一位富商菲茨沃伦先生的府第前睡着了。仁慈的菲茨沃伦先生发现了他,还雇他当了洗碗工。迪克因为住处经常有老鼠出没,就挣钱买了一只猫来驱鼠。一天,菲茨沃伦先生要远航到某个港口去做黄金生意,就问他的家仆们是否愿意送给他些什么东西带上船。迪克极不情愿地把自己的猫送给了他。菲茨沃伦先生一直待迪克很好,但他家的厨师却非常凶暴,迪克忍无可忍,决定逃跑。可他要逃离金融城的时候,却听到城里圣玛丽勒博教堂的钟声敲响了,似乎在说:“威廷顿你不要慌,三次当上大市长”。于是,迪克返了回去,发现菲茨沃伦先生的船已经返航了。北非巴巴里国王的王宫里老鼠猖獗,迪克那只擅长捕鼠的猫就被高价卖给了巴巴里国王,迪克从此成了有钱人。他开始与菲茨沃伦先生合伙做生意,后来又娶了菲茨沃伦先生的女儿爱丽丝,而且最终像钟声预言的那样,三次成为金融城的市长。

这个民间故事的原型是理查·威廷顿(Richard Whittington,约1354—1423),—位中世纪英国商人、政治家。少年时,威廷顿作为幼子,因无权继承父亲财产,被送往金融城学做绸布生意,很快成长为一名成功巨商,并与英国王室来往密切。他数次被任命或选举为金融城市长,并成为国会议员和伦敦地区司法长官。同时,威廷顿热心公益,生前、身后都大笔捐助了医疗、卫生、监狱、图书馆、教堂等事业。——译者注

[9]  圣殿关是伦敦金融城的西部边界,向东在金融城内的路段是河湾街(Fleet Street,又音译为弗利特街,也有人错译为舰队街),向西是通往威斯敏斯特市的河岸大道。这里的石门自1670年前后建成后,门顶上经常陈列着叛国者的首级示众。——译者注

[10]  这座教堂上有一组报时钟表,表的上方有两个手拿长棍的巨人雕像,据称是高格和马高格。每到整点和每隔一刻钟,巨人像就会用木棍敲击面前悬挂的两口钟,同时转动头部。——译者注

[11]  圣保罗大教堂是英国国教伦敦教区的主教座堂,坐落于伦敦金融城中最高处的卢德门山上。现存巴洛克风格的建筑始建于1675年,于1697年年底投入使用,以其壮观的圆形屋顶而驰名于世,是伦敦最著名的标志性建筑之一。——译者注

[12]  1英尺约合0.3048米;40英尺约合12.2米。——译者注

[13]  摩西宗阿拉伯人(Mosaic Arabs)是英国政治家、小说家本雅明·迪斯累利(Benjamin Disraeli,1804—1881)发明的对犹太人的称呼。迪斯累利出身于犹太家庭,但少时受洗成为英国国教徒,在维多利亚女王统治下曾于1868年和1874—1880年间两度出任英国首相,大力推行对外侵略和殖民扩张政策,建立了强大的殖民帝国。他也是迄今唯一一个具有犹太血统的英国首相。他借其小说《恩底弥翁》(Endymion)中的人物希德尼娅之口,不无骄傲地称犹太人为摩西宗阿拉伯人,宣扬种族主义思想。——译者注

[14]  提香·韦切利奥(Tiziano Vecellio,1490—1576)是文艺复兴时期最重要的威尼斯派画家,其作品充满生机和理想色彩,富于热情,享有“西方油画之父”的美誉,在西方艺术史上有着伟大而深远的影响。——译者注

[15]  蒲式耳是英国粮食度量单位,其度量工具在不同地区和不同时期都存在大小不一致的复杂情况。——译者注

[16]  菲茨沃伦是《迪克·威廷顿和猫》故事中的人物,详见前文“威廷顿”条注释。——译者注

[17]  水手辛巴德的故事讲的是,在中世纪的巴士拉地区,生活着一个叫辛巴德的虚构人物。他通过在东非和南亚沿海地区的7次航海发了大财。——译者注

[18]  史密斯-佩恩-史密斯于19世纪合伙成立了一家英国私人合资银号。该银号为早期银行业巨头,资财无数,影响巨大。——译者注

[19]  格林和哈利法克斯于18世纪合伙成立了一家英国私人合资银号。该银号为早期银行业巨头,财富丰厚,一度岁入90000英镑。——译者注

[20]  霸菱兄弟于1762年创建了伦敦第一家商业银行,为银行业中的名门。但1995年,这家有着233年悠久历史的银行因其雇员李森的巨额投机投资而破产。——译者注

[21]  阿拉伯神话中,传说有一种食肉的白色大鹏鸟,它下的蛋也硕大无朋。在《马可•波罗游记》、《天方夜谭》、《水手辛巴德》等东方故事中都提到了这种巨鸟。欧洲人过去曾认为这种鸟确实存在,后来则称“大鹏鸟蛋”为虚幻之物。——译者注

[22]  日耳曼-犹太血统的罗思柴尔德家族是著名欧洲银行世家,于17世纪晚期进入银行业和金融业,其财富在18世纪达到巅峰。据信,当时该家族拥有的私人财富为世界有史以来的第一位、近现代历史上的第一位,至今无人超越。——译者注

[23]  苏丹是伊斯兰国家最高统治者的称号。——译者注

[24]  伦敦金融城的皇家交易所(Royal Exchange)位于康喜尔街(Cornhill Street)和针线街(Threadneedle Street)交会于银行交叉点(Bank junction)的一段,平面图呈梯形。交易所始建于1565年,后经两次大火烧毁和两次重建,现有建筑于1844年第三次建成,使用至今。1939年,这里完成了作为交易所的使命。如今的皇家交易所乃是一个奢侈品购物中心。——译者注

[25]  詹姆斯·霍格爵士(Sir James Hogg,1790—1876)是英国律师、国会议员,曾两度担任东印度公司董事长。——译者注

[26]  有许多年,英国军队的日饷都是1先令,所以成语“接受国王的1先令”意为同意参军。18和19世纪,英国陆军和皇家海军在招募期间,都会付给新兵1先令作为定金。当时的征兵员运用各种诡计,特别是通过请喝烈酒的方式,将1先令定金强塞给毫无戒心的人。由于工作条件艰苦而危险,皇家海军还雇用了抓丁队,通过偷袭、威胁、抓打等各种残暴手段,在大街上强征各种年龄段的水手、平民入伍。抓来的壮丁统统被塞给1先令定金。拿了定金的人要当着太平绅士的面宣誓入伍,然后才能正式成为新兵。如果他在宣誓前不再想当兵,就得交纳一定数额的“解除兵役赔偿金”。到19世纪40年代,赔偿金的金额已高达1英镑(合20先令),绝大多数新兵都交不起。——译者注