The Contributors' Club

SOME ten years ago I chanced to be spending Christmas with a friend in an out-of-the-way village in Cornwall, England. The tourist in England very rarely includes this extremity of the kingdom in his rambles, and, indeed, to the majority of the English people Cornwall is still very much a terra incognita.

Cornwall was the last section of England to be invaded by the iron horse. The railway runs quite through the county, from Penzance to Plymouth, in Devonshire, where it connects with the Great Western broad gauge to the metropolis. Though comparatively few tourists deem " the fag-end of England ” worth visiting, many artists, to their credit be it said, are wont to go thither for inspiration. And indeed the coast scenery of Cornwall is a blending of the awe-inspiring and the beautiful: it is a country of bold promontories and beetling cliffs, but these are covered with verdure, and not unfrequently the plough of the husbandman passes within a few feet of the brow of precipitous cliffs, a hundred feet below which the ocean heaves its foamy crests, or when in genial mood gently ripples in its ebb and flow.

It may be because of their comparative isolation that the Cornish people are so interesting. Physically, they are a splendid race, and far superior to the natives of other counties of England. The men are in general tall and finely moulded, with none of the slouchy, cart-horse inertness so characteristic of the Midlands and East Anglia. The women, when young, are remarkable for their graceful carriage and delicate complexions, but they are said to “ grow old ” at a comparatively early period. Both sexes are especially noted for their love of personal adornment, and nowhere else in all Europe is there so marked an absence of class distinctions in dress.

The main industries of the Cornish are tin-mining and sea-fishing. From the fishermen of the west Great Britain largely recruits her navy, and a Cornish youngster seems almost instinctively to find his way to the sea. The miners, however, are the most interesting to the stranger, because they are the least influenced by the world outside, and because their language, manners, and customs differ so materially from those of the laboring class elsewhere in England. Their dialect would sorely puzzle a philologer, and I cannot pretend to explain, much less account for, its peculiarities. The original tongue of the country exists, I believe, only in glossaries ; but it could scarcely have been much more foreign to “English as she is spoke ” than is the present vernacular of the mining districts.

The village where I was, at the time referred to, spending the Christmas vacation, was situated near the town of Redruth. On Christmas Eve the “ waits,” or minstrels, went from house to house with clarionets and flutes, rendering various carols and a sort of oratorio of their own composing, the words being derived from the prophet Isaiah. These people are born musicians. I never thought to discover in such a corner of the world a country so emphatically deserving to be called the land of song. Patti has made a similar observation respecting the Welsh, among whom she has made her home; and here, again, Mr. Galton, the hereditist, may perchance recognize traces of a racefaculty extending into the misty past, and connecting Cornish minstrels and Welsh hymnists with the bards of ancient Britain. So far as I could observe, the only special religious observance of the following day was held in the parish church, although there were at least three chapels, or “ meetinghouses,” of Nonconformists in the village. Since Wesley’s time, the Dissenters have been numerically in the ascendant in this county, but here, as elsewhere throughout England, even Nonconformists are wont at certain times to put in a sort of tacit claim to membership in the church of their forefathers. On this occasion almost everybody went to church on Christmas morning, — possibly because there was no other service which they could attend, — and in the afternoon it was publicly announced by the town-crier that “ the Christmas Players ” would perform in “ the big room of The Fountain Inn at six o’clock precisely : admission two pence, children one penny.” This announcement was made directly in front of the house of the schoolmaster, with whom I was staying, himself a true born Cornubian and a Trewartha.

“ Oh Yes ! Oh Yes ! Oh Yes ! ” preceded by the ringing of a bell, was the way in which the town-herald attracted the popular attention. The voice was husky and cavernous, for William Brown Rowter had served many years in " the Queen’s Navee,” and the rude winds of the Bay of Biscay had blown too often down his throat to qualify him for proclaiming his corrupted form of the old Norman “ Oyez ! ” with the silvern tone of an ancient herald. Besides being the crier, Rowter was also the village jester, his wit being of the dry, caustic, and not always agreeable kind. His peculiar name was ofttimes a trouble to him, arising from the fact that the only “ mountains ” in Cornwall are two in number, the one being Brown Willy, the other Rowter. On his first voyage, the senior lieutenant of the ship was a Mr. Mule. This officer was accustomed, at times, to descend somewhat from the pedestal of his dignity in his communications with inferiors, — always a risky thing to do, as it is not at all times so easy to remount. On one occasion he facetiously asked the rough Cornish lad to tell him “ the difference between William Brown Rowter and Rowter Brown Willy.” “ The same difference as there is ‘twixt a mule and an ass, sir,” was the ready reply, and not even the discipline of the service could restrain the audible smile it provoked.

Mr. Rowter’s announcement interested me, and I asked ray friend Trewartha to enlighten me on the subject of Christmas Players. The information I received induced me to beg that we might be present at the entertainment, — a request that Trewartha somewhat reluctantly granted. At six o’clock, we made our way into the “ big room ” of the Fountain, which we found fairly well crowded with villagers, and not so fairly lighted by candles of the “dip” variety, stuck in tin sconces on the whitewashed walls. The only stage was a clear space at the farther end of the room, the scenery being such as the imagination might succeed in conjuring out of bare walls and the floor. The first player to appear wore a huge wig of hemp, a fur coat, and a coronet of holly. In his hand he wielded a staff, to which a large blown bladder was attached. He at once proceeded to introduce himself : —

That his memory still remained green was evidenced by the shout of hearty gratulation raised by the more youthful among the audience, while the seniors laughed merrily and nodded their approbation. The venerable father was of a merry, not to say boisterous humor, as his next proceeding was to advance among the plauditors and bestow various hearty thwacks of the bladder with admirable impartiality and much vigor for one so aged as his name proclaimed him to be. He was apparently intent that no error should prevail with regard to the purpose of his visit, as he assumed quite a portentous frown while declaring, —

Following this invitation there entered a being gorgeous in spangles and silver lace, having a gilded helmet, in which portions of a shattered mirror reflected the light afforded by the candles. In his right hand he bore a lofty lance, whose blade or point was cunningly fashioned of Cornish tin ; from his side there hung suspended a ferocious cutlass. As he strode forward the cutlass swung between his red-stockinged nether limbs, which caused him to come into violent contact with Father Christmas, who promptly restored the stranger’s equilibrium, and with a resounding blow from the bladder admonished him to be more wary of walking. Recovering his dignity, the new comer, said,—

In response to this challenge, St. George came on the scene. He was armed like the knight, but his raiment was far more gorgeous. He wore a suit of chain mail, covered with scales of glistening tin, and in person he was tall and of a commanding presence. Passing by with indifference the mocking gesture of Father Christmas, — who seemed most unchristian-like to take the side of the Paynim, — St. George confronted his adversary. For an instant the two champions examined each other. St. George’s countenance seemed illuminated by a lofty enthusiasm ; his opponent had evidently been studying the art of smiling with sardonic scorn. The champion of Christendom announced his title, country, and deeds of renown : —

To this the arrogant Turk replied, —

The champion of England thereupon drew his sword with a flourish, and cried, —

The combat that followed was terrific. Both champions seemed unaware of the fact that their swords were pointed. During the fray Father Christmas capered about the combatants in great glee, ever and anon, however, most unfairly aiding and abetting the Paynim by striking St. George with the bladder. At last, after many vicissitudes, the victory lay with the English champion. The Turk was prostrated, and when dying he besought St. George to forgive him, which the hero graciously did. Before his decease he was most unsympathetically upbraided by Father Christmas for his want of success, and when dead his remains were spurned and even kicked by the indignant old worthy. Indeed, so angry was the latter that he went so far as to himself challenge St. George, avowing his own ability to knock off the Englishman’s head with his bladder. Finding St. George impervious to abuse, the old fellow assumed a new rôle, that of a doctor. Taking a vial of what he termed cure-all from his pocket, he poured a few drops of the liquid into the mouth of the Turk, saying,—

The medicine must have been potent; at all events, it resuscitated the Turk. Then ensued another combat with St. George, which, however, this time terminated in the Paynim being killed without hope of redemption. “ And serve him right,” added Father Christmas, who now began to atone for his former treatment of the renowned champion. When the dragon — possibly not the same beast which St. George had assured us he had previously slain — rushed forth, it was difficult to determine whether the saint or Father Christmas did most of the killing. Like Falstaff with Hotspur’s body, however, the father assumed the whole credit of the achievement.

The remainder of the play consisted of a combat between St. George and the King of France. The latter, being sorely wounded, had his life spared him on condition that he at once consented to a union between his daughter and his vanquisher. To this proposal the monarch gladly consented, and the play concluded with the espousals; the fair young bride having prepared herself for the altar by shaving a few days prior to the ceremony, as the blue tinge on her cheeks plainly indicated. During the betrothal of the happy couple Father Christmas was in high feather. His behavior at this part of the entertainment was unpardonably rude, and indicated a low tone of morality in the class to which the players belonged. Subsequently I found that these were all miners. My inquiries as to the origin of the play itself elicited no other information than that it “ was before their time,” and I do not question that Trewartha is correct in his impression that the Christmas Plays of Cornwall — now more and more rarely performed — are real relics of mediæval England, in all probability of the England of the Crusades. — The Inquisition so impresses the imagination by its pitiless severity in the suppression of heresy that we are apt to think of it only in connection with the dungeon and the stake, and to lose sight of its activity in other directions. Yet it had a large field of operations through methods which, if less dramatic, were more widely diffused, and its services to its masters were by no means limited to retarding the development of the human mind. A little episode of Florentine history in the fourteenth century, hitherto, I believe, unpublished, will serve to illustrate one of these less conspicuous phases of its utility.¹

When the Inquisition was first organized the fines and confiscations imposed on heretics were abandoned to the secular potentates, to stimulate their zeal in persecution ; but before long the Holy See claimed a third of the spoils in those Italian states which it could control. In 1343 the Apostolic Chamber became aware that it was cheated of these dues by some members of the Holy Office, and on August 5th of that year Clement VI. sent a commission to Pietro di Vitale, Primicerio of Lucca, authorizing him to prosecute and punish the inquisitors of Lucca and Florence, and force them to disgorge the sums which they had wrongfully withheld. Pietro placed the Florentine Abbot Nicolo of S. Maria in charge of the matter in that city, and the investigation speedily led to a vacancy in the Holy Office. By March, 1344, the Signoria of Florence had occasion to thank the general of the Franciscan Order for filling the vacancy with Frà Pietro d’Aquila. Frà Pietro was a man of some mark. His command of the scholastic theology of the day was shown by his Commentaries on the Master of Sentences, which were well thought of in the schools, and only two months earlier he had received the appointment of chaplain to Queen Joanna of Naples. Had the Florentines, however, foreseen what was in store for them, they scarcely would have welcomed him so gratefully.

A fearful financial crisis was impending over Florence. The republic was impoverished with the drain of the Lombard war, while the immense sums advanced by the Florentine bankers to Edward III. of England and Robert of Naples could not be collected. Money grew scarce, credit vanished, and when the storm broke it brought ruin to the whole community. The great banking and commercial companies, the Bardi, the Peruzzi, the Acciajuoli, closed their doors ; the merchant princes were bankrupts, and the paralysis of all industry plunged the people into the severest suffering. Yet there was one creditor who was resolved to have his money.

The Cardinal of S. Sabina, in wandering as papal legate through several of the European kingdoms, had found it Convenient to deposit his surplus collections, amounting to nearly seven thousand gold florins, with the agents of the company of the Acciajuoli; taking receipts under which its members were bound, jointly and severally, to repay the sums at the papal court in Avignon, and were subjected to the jurisdiction of the auditors of the papal chamber. When payment was claimed the funds were not forthcoming, and judgment was of course rendered against the bankers. The real creditor was doubtless the Pope, who lost no time in taking energetic steps to collect the debt. On October 9, 1343, he wrote to the republic, stating the claim, and ordering the Signoria to enforce its payment. In the financial distress of the time, this was impossible. Seven thousand florins was a large sum at a period when the whole annual revenue of Florence amounted to only three hundred thousand florins, and Florence was reckoned the richest state of Europe, except France.

As time passed on, and the Florentine bankers became yet more hopelessly involved, Clement resolved on sharper measures. The new inquisitor, Frà Pietro, was commissioned to collect the debt, with power to invoke the aid of the secular arm and to lay an interdict on the whole city, if necessary, to force the Acciajuoli to meet their obligations. Monstrous as this perversion of the power of the keys may seem to us, it was too common in those times to arouse remonstrance ; and when, November 23, 1345, Frà Pietro summoned the Gonfalonier and the Priors of the Arts, under pain of excommunication, to arrest the debtors and hold them in prison until payment, the officials humbly promised to do so, out of reverence, as they said, for the Pope and respect for the inquisitor, and to oblige the cardinal. Yet the sum of seven thousand florins was not to be raised even by this stringent process; and it is quite possible that the political influence of the Acciajuoli, which was great, sufficed to deter the Signoria from employing the harshest methods. Be this as it may, in due time all the magistrates of Florence were excommunicated, and the city was laid under interdict by the inquisitor, who thus managed, in spite of a solemn protest and appeal to the Pope, on March 16, 1346, to render the whole republic responsible for the debt of a few of its citizens. It is true that the interdict was not observed in the city, even by the Bishop of Florence, for which he and his clergy were duly prosecuted; but, nevertheless, though its spiritual terrors were disregarded, its temporal penalties were sufficient speedily to humble the spirit of the Florentines. A commercial community, however little devout, could not afford to endure the derangement of trade consequent on being outlawed by the church and cut off from intercourse with the rest of Christendom. The tremendous nature of these penalties was illustrated in 1376, when, in a quarrel between the papacy and Florence, Gregory XI. excommunicated the Florentines, and abandoned their persons and property to the first comer; and though they wholly denied the accusations alleged by Gregory in justification of his action, they were forced to submit on learning that in England Edward III., as a devout son of the church, had confiscated all the wealth of their factories, and had reduced their merchants to slavery. Similar submission was inevitable in the present case. By June 14, 1346, the Signoria succumbed, and gave to Nicolo Geri Soderini and Nicolo Bindi Ferucci a procuration authorizing them to pledge the faith of the republic for the payment within eight months of the claim, not exceeding seven thousand florins, of the Cardinal of S. Sabina on the company of the Acciajuoli ; but a clause was added that this was done, not because the state was justly liable for the money, but in order to save its citizens from vexations, and to enable them to trade unmolested throughout the world. The Curia graciously accepted the submission, though, with customary procrastination, it was not till February 28, 1347, that Clement VI. removed the excommunication and interdict, conditioned on the payment, within the term agreed, of sixty-six hundred florins, the balance of the debt. As failure to meet the engagement revived the censures, ipso facto, and as we do not hear of their renewal, we may assume that the cardinal collected his claim from the bankrupt community.

Frà Pietro’s successful energy in thus using the awful powers entrusted to him for such a purpose met its appropriate reward. Undeterred by the fate of his predecessor, which had created the vacancy for him, he had scarce been installed in office when he had fallen into the same evil courses, and worse. In less than two years he was a fugitive from justice. Abbot Nicolo of S. Maria had continued the investigation into the affairs of the Holy Office, and had found Frà Pietro guilty, not only of withholding the sums due to the Apostolic Chamber, but of innumerable acts of the foulest extortion (estorsioni nefande) on individuals. The limitless opportunity which the inquisitorial procedures afforded for these abuses was such that only the most rigid integrity could resist the temptation ; and even when the inquisitor himself was above suspicion, the creatures around his tribunal, his spies and familiars, had an ample field for villainous gain by working on the fears of any one whom they might threaten with arrest. Mere suspicion of heresy inflicted an indelible stain, to avert which the miser would willingly sacrifice a por, tion of his wealth. The whole community was thus at the mercy of the Holy Office, and it would be expecting too much of human nature not to believe that remorseless use was frequently made of this irresponsible power.

By March 16, 1346, the Signoria is seen asking the appointment of a Florentine, Frà Michele di Lapo, to fill the vacancy caused by Frà Pietro’s flight, alleging the frightful abuses to which the city had been subjected from foreign inquisitors; and on April 11th it addressed a request to Don Pietro, the Luechese papal commissioner, for the arrest of Frà Pietro, and for enlarged powers for the Abbot of S. Maria. The trial of Frà Pietro dragged on. He was formally cited and offered a safe-conduct if he would appear, but he prudently held aloof. After due delay, testimony was taken in his absence, when, among a number of witnesses, a single one swore to no less than sixty-six cases of extortion committed by him. During his two years of office he had evidently been active, and his industry had been profitable, for a list of a few of the victims has been preserved, with the sums obtained from them, ranging from twentyfive to seventeen hundred gold florins. In view of the financial distress of the time, these extortions represent to us an amount of misery inflicted on the plundered which is not easily computable.

As Frà Pietro persistently refused to appear, he was finally declared contumacious, and in due course he was excommunicated for contumacy. The notice of excommunication was sent to all the churches and religious houses, to be published on Sundays and feast days, and the priests and superiors duly reported their compliance with the mandate. All this was done under direct papal authority, the Abbot of S. Maria being the delegate and representative of the Pope; and henceforth Frà Pietro was an accursed thing, to be shunned of all men, until he should win absolution by contrition and satisfaction rendered to those whom he had wronged.

Solemn as were these proceedings, yet were they none the less a comedy played for the amusement of the good Florentines. Frà Pietro understood the papal Curia far too well to waste in useless restitutions the treasures he had gathered, and he could rely on its gratitude for his activity in collecting the debt due to the cardinal. While the Abbot of S. Maria was citing him as a contumacious fugitive, Clement VI. was expressing his approbation by making him, February 12, 1347, Bishop of Sanfrangeli de’ Lombardi. The excommunication which followed soon after in no way affected the favor in which he was held, for in June, 1348, he procured his translation to another, and presumably a better, bishopric, — that of Trevinto, — where he appears to have quietly enjoyed the fruits of his labors. Nothing was left to the Florentines but to digest their wrongs as best they might, and to petition again that in future inquisitors might be selected from among their own citizens, over whom they apparently imagined that they could exercise some moral restraint.

— The espièglerie of our fancy during a single day, if faithfully reported, would perhaps go far to impeach our sanity, in the opinion of an auditor, — unless that auditor were advised from within that he himself was subject to a like infirmity. Yet, how certain ideas naturally unrelated, or even mutually opposed, come to be associated in our minds is not, it seems to me, more singular than that they should remain thus associated long after our judgment has recognized the absurdity of the combination. The fantastic assemblages which childhood gets together have a fashion of lingering in our presence, though they have been repeatedly dismissed with our benediction. It is not easy wholly to dispossess ourselves of certain early impressions regarding physical nature : for instance, if in your tender juvenility you imagined that the bright new moon seen just above the place of the sun’s disappearance was sent to reign in his stead, your momentary impression when you see the silver crescent may still be that the moon rises in the west.

I remember how after a first hearing of Hail, Columbia, in my childhood, I tried to reproduce its music and words. The first and second verses were readily recalled, but memory halted at the third ; I was certain only that it had something to do with fighting and bleeding and Freedom. With these heroic elements I constructed a new line, and the song, in my version, ran thus : —

The leonine rhyme did wonderfully tickle my ear, and my imagination did not wince at the truculent circumstance. However, suspecting that my version might not tally precisely with that of older people, I always took care to render pianissimo the doubtful line. To this day, when the hymn is sung in my hearing, I have a vision of the " heavenborn band,” gashed and gory, yet triumphant, marching away in undisputed possession of Freedom’s head.”

Does anybody know what the Long Gospel is (if there be a Long Gospel) ? Until my tenth year I never questioned the canonicity of this evangel, which I supposed the preachers knew all about, as also about the corresponding Short Gospel, — though they never mentioned that, never (I thought it a pity !) discoursed therefrom, of an endless Sunday morning. It is, perhaps, not strange that I should have come to have extreme reverence for the Long Gospel. As conversationally employed by a shrewd, sententious relative of mine, the expression was, I felt, perilously near to profanity. How could the acts and words of one person, how could that person himself, be Long Gospel to another, as this relative was given to asserting? The reader has probably surmised that what was actually said was “ law and gospel,” which slackly enunciated becomes “ law ’n gospel,” whence, easily, “ Long Gospel ” !

I recall my first draught of mythology, drawn from an old-fashioned work on astronomy, The Geography of the Heavens with a Celestial Atlas. In the one I read the story of Jason and his expedition to Colchis ; on the other I traced the ship which conveyed him thither. I have since been informed that the gallant commander had great difficulty in passing by certain treacherous rocks called the Symplegades, but I have never believed the tale: for me, Argo Navis sails the heavens (as in the Celestial Atlas), and the argonauts in effect remain aeronauts.

In a copy of Milton which I possess the printer’s substitution of a small letter for a capital, in a certain passage in Il Penseroso, still, as when I first read the passage, colors the meaning extraordinarily : —

Naturally, the “ attic boy ” lived in an attic (I have since imagined that he belonged to the genus irritabile ratum), and most likely the rickety stairs gave out loud creaks under his joyous steps, as he bounded down to join the Morning, who had so kindly (" civil-suited,” indeed!) invited him to go hunting.

Lately, reading Chapman’s version of the sufferings of Venus wounded by Diomed, — how

instantly there came into my mind, not the image of the repining goddess, but that of the curious little wood plant monotropa, or Indian pipe. It too has an “ ivory body,” and stem and flowers after a time grow dark. I shall never see this plant again without wondering if it has been wounded by Diomed, never read this passage in Homer without a vision of monotropa starting delicately through the leaf-mould in the middle of the rich woods.

— The very pleasant and taking essay in which Mr. Henry James has lately expressed some of his opinions on the art of fiction — writing, as he says, to “ edge in a few words under cover of the attention which Mr. Besant is sure to have excited ” — is as pretty a piece of controversial writing as one need care to read. So agreeable a debater almost invites any one who differs from him to rise and explain.

Now it may be true that, as Mr. James says, art lives upon discussion, and also that questions of art are (in the widest sense) questions of execution; but may there not be danger of too much formulation, too much discussion and comparison of standpoints, concerning any art ? A little of Carlyle’s horror of formulæ, of his suspicion that much of the talk about art is, after all, a species of cant, may come to be very wholesome, even in fiction, if we insist too much on laying down rules and setting up artificial standards. Humanity is so broad and the questions affecting it are so infinite, that it seems petty to attempt limitation of any sort in the art which has humanity for its field. For whatever it may be in a novel — whether incident or analysis, charm of style or absorbing plot — that lends it interest, it is always the power of touching the human heart that gives it real worth at last. It is because we are interested in ourselves, in our fellow-beings’ relations to each other, and curious to know how these relations are modified by acts and circumstances, that wo demand reality in a novel, and that fiction has so boundless a scope. The questions of the “ art,” if they are in any sense questions of execution, must be forever secondary to this human element of sympathy ; and though we hear of one sitting for hours with his head in his hands, in an agony of search for the “right word,” and see rules and precepts on this side and on that for writing fiction, we may yet learn to believe that one’s best qualification for a novelist is, after all, perhaps, not the ability to write exquisitely, nor to take notes, but rather to “ fear himself and love all humankind,” even as the poet does.

Then it is hard to see, too, what the real good is of these comparisons of fiction to painting and to other arts. Schlegel says that perhaps the Greek painters were too much sculptors and the sculptors too much painters, while a character who had probably read Vivian Gray thinks the novelists of his time were too much historians and the historians too much novelists. It would be easy to go on in this way and make many epigrammatic combinations, such as “ Some poets are too much novelists,” or “ Some novelists are too much painters ; ” but when all the various arrangements which this plan would afford were exhausted, nothing would have been gained. It is dangerous and misleading to reason from analogies ; and fiction, if it is to be taken for an art at all, had best stand without props,— without aid or support from any of the sister arts. That Fiction is abundantly able to do this, that her purposes are high and broad enough, that her meaning and material are of depth and worth enough to do this, there are already many who are willing to believe; even though they make no clamor for her admittance into the sisterhood of arts, nor attempt to bind her in formulas simply that they may hold her up before an unthinking but admiring world, and say, “ See ! she is an art even as the other arts are; clothed, and with form and substance! ”