The Life of John Sterling

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Sterling's gainsaying had given way on many points; but on others it
continued stiff as ever, as may be seen in that article; indeed he
fought Parthian-like in such cases, holding out his last position as
doggedly as the first: and to some of my notions he seemed to grow in
stubbornness of opposition, with the growing inevitability, and never
would surrender. Especially that doctrine of the "greatness and
fruitfulness of Silence," remained afflictive and incomprehensible:
"Silence?" he would say: "Yes, truly; if they give you leave to
proclaim silence by cannon-salvos! My Harpocrates-Stentor!" In like
manner, "Intellect and Virtue," how they are proportional, or are
indeed one gift in us, the same great summary of gifts; and again,
"Might and Right," the identity of these two, if a man will understand
this God's-Universe, and that only he who conforms to the law of it
can in the long-run have any "might:" all this, at the first blush,
often awakened Sterling's musketry upon me, and many volleys I have
had to stand,--the thing not being decidable by that kind of weapon or
strategy.

In such cases your one method was to leave our friend in peace. By
small-arms practice no mortal could dislodge him: but if you were in
the right, the silent hours would work continually for you; and
Sterling, more certainly than any man, would and must at length swear
fealty to the right, and passionately adopt it, burying all
hostilities under foot. A more candid soul, once let the stormful
velocities of it expend themselves, was nowhere to be met with. A son
of light, if I have ever seen one; recognizing the truth, if truth
there were; hurling overboard his vanities, petulances, big and small
interests, in ready loyalty to truth: very beautiful; at once a loyal
child, as I said, and a gifted man!--Here is a very pertinent passage
from one of his Letters, which, though the name continues blank, I
will insert:--

_To his Father_.

"_October 15th_, 1839.--As to my 'over-estimate of ----,' your
expressions rather puzzle me. I suppose there may be, at the outside,
a hundred persons in England whose opinions on such a matter are worth
as much as mine. If by 'the public' you and my Mother mean the other
ninety-nine, I submit. I have no doubt that, on any matter not
relating peculiarly to myself, the judgment of the ninety-nine most
philosophical heads in the country, if unanimous, would be right, and
mine, if opposed to them, wrong. But then I am at a loss to make out,
How the decision of the very few really competent persons has been
ascertained to be thus in contradiction to me? And on the other hand,
I conceive myself, from my opportunities, knowledge and attention to
the subject, to be alone quite entitled to outvote tens of thousands
of gentlemen, however much my superiors as men of business, men of the
world, or men of merely dry or merely frivolous literature.

"I do not remember ever before to have heard the saying, whether of
Talleyrand or of any one else, That _all_ the world is a wiser man
than any man in the world. Had it been said even by the Devil, it
would nevertheless be false. I have often indeed heard the saying,
_On peut etre plus FIN qu'un autre, mais pas plus FIN que tous les
autres_. But observe that '_fin_' means _cunning_, not _wise_. The
difference between this assertion and the one you refer to is curious
and worth examining. It is quite certain, there is always some one
man in the world wiser than all the rest; as Socrates was declared by
the oracle to be; and as, I suppose, Bacon was in his day, and perhaps
Burke in his. There is also some one, whose opinion would be probably
true, if opposed to that of all around him; and it is always
indubitable that the wise men are the scores, and the unwise the
millions. The millions indeed come round, in the course of a
generation or two, to the opinions of the wise; but by that time a new
race of wise men have again shot ahead of their contemporaries: so it
has always been, and so, in the nature of things, it always must be.
But with cunning, the matter is quite different. Cunning is not
_dishonest wisdom_, which would be a contradiction in terms; it is
_dishonest prudence_, acuteness in practice, not in thought: and
though there must always be some one the most cunning in the world, as
well as some one the most wise, these two superlatives will fare very
differently in the world. In the case of cunning, the shrewdness of a
whole people, of a whole generation, may doubtless be combined against
that of the one, and so triumph over it; which was pretty much the
case with Napoleon. But although a man of the greatest cunning can
hardly conceal his designs and true character from millions of
unfriendly eyes, it is quite impossible thus to club the eyes of the
mind, and to constitute by the union of ten thousand follies an
equivalent for a single wisdom. A hundred school-boys can easily
unite and thrash their one master; but a hundred thousand school-boys
would not be nearer than a score to knowing as much Greek among them
as Bentley or Scaliger. To all which, I believe, you will assent as
readily as I;--and I have written it down only because I have nothing
more important to say."--

Besides his prose labors, Sterling had by this time written,
publishing chiefly in _Blackwood_, a large assortment of verses,
_Sexton's Daughter_, _Hymns of a Hermit_, and I know not what other
extensive stock of pieces; concerning which he was now somewhat at a
loss as to his true course. He could write verses with astonishing
facility, in any given form of metre; and to various readers they
seemed excellent, and high judges had freely called them so, but he
himself had grave misgivings on that latter essential point. In fact
here once more was a parting of the ways, "Write in Poetry; write in
Prose?" upon which, before all else, it much concerned him to come to
a settlement.

My own advice was, as it had always been, steady against Poetry; and
we had colloquies upon it, which must have tried his patience, for in
him there was a strong leaning the other way. But, as I remarked and
urged: Had he not already gained superior excellence in delivering,
by way of _speech_ or prose, what thoughts were in him, which is the
grand and only intrinsic function of a writing man, call him by what
title you will? Cultivate that superior excellence till it become a
perfect and superlative one. Why _sing_ your bits of thoughts, if you
_can_ contrive to speak them? By your thought, not by your mode of
delivering it, you must live or die.--Besides I had to observe there
was in Sterling intrinsically no depth of _tune_; which surely is the
real test of a Poet or Singer, as distinguished from a Speaker? In
music proper he had not the slightest ear; all music was mere
impertinent noise to him, nothing in it perceptible but the mere march
or time. Nor in his way of conception and utterance, in the verses he
wrote, was there any contradiction, but a constant confirmation to me,
of that fatal prognostic;--as indeed the whole man, in ear and heart
and tongue, is one; and he whose soul does not sing, need not try to
do it with his throat. Sterling's verses had a monotonous rub-a-dub,
instead of tune; no trace of music deeper than that of a well-beaten
drum; to which limited range of excellence the substance also
corresponded; being intrinsically always a rhymed and slightly
rhythmical _speech_, not a _song_.

In short, all seemed to me to say, in his case: "You can speak with
supreme excellence; sing with considerable excellence you never can.
And the Age itself, does it not, beyond most ages, demand and require
clear speech; an Age incapable of being sung to, in any but a trivial
manner, till these convulsive agonies and wild revolutionary
overturnings readjust themselves? Intelligible word of command, not
musical psalmody and fiddling, is possible in this fell storm of
battle. Beyond all ages, our Age admonishes whatsoever thinking or
writing man it has: Oh, speak to me some wise intelligible speech;
your wise meaning in the shortest and clearest way; behold I am dying
for want of wise meaning, and insight into the devouring fact: speak,
if you have any wisdom! As to song so called, and your fiddling
talent,--even if you have one, much more if you have none,--we will
talk of that a couple of centuries hence, when things are calmer
again. Homer shall be thrice welcome; but only when Troy is _taken_:
alas, while the siege lasts, and battle's fury rages everywhere, what
can I do with the Homer? I want Achilleus and Odysseus, and am
enraged to see them trying to be Homers!"--

Sterling, who respected my sincerity, and always was amenable enough
to counsel, was doubtless much confused by such contradictory
diagnosis of his case. The question, Poetry or Prose? became more
and more pressing, more and more insoluble. He decided, at last, to
appeal to the public upon it;--got ready, in the late autumn, a small
select Volume of his verses; and was now busy pushing it through the
press. Unfortunately, in the mean while, a grave illness, of the old
pulmonary sort, overtook him, which at one time threatened to be
dangerous. This is a glance again into his interior household in
these circumstances:--

_To his Mother_.

"_December 21st_, 1839.--The Tin box came quite safe, with all its
miscellaneous contents. I suppose we are to thank you for the _Comic
Almanac_, which, as usual, is very amusing; and for the Book on
_Watt_, which disappointed me. The scientific part is no doubt very
good, and particularly clear and simple; but there is nothing
remarkable in the account of Watt's character; and it is an absurd
piece of French impertinence in Arago to say, that England has not yet
learnt to appreciate men like Watt, because he was not made a peer;
which, were our peerage an institution like that of France, would have
been very proper.

"I have now finished correcting the proofs of my little Volume of
Poems. It has been a great plague to me, and one that I would not
have incurred, had I expected to be laid up as I have been; but the
matter was begun before I had any notion of being disabled by such an
illness,--the severest I have suffered since I went to the West
Indies. The Book will, after all, be a botched business in many
respects; and I much doubt whether it will pay its expenses: but I
try to consider it as out of my hands, and not to fret myself about
it. I shall be very curious to see Carlyle's Tractate on _Chartism_;
which"--But we need not enter upon that.

Sterling's little Book was printed at his own expense;[23] published by
Moxon in the very end of this year. It carries an appropriate and
pretty Epigraph:--

"Feeling, Thought, and Fancy be
Gentle sister Graces three:
If these prove averse to me,
They will punish,--pardon Ye!"

He had dedicated the little Volume to Mr. Hare;--and he submitted very
patiently to the discouraging neglect with which it was received by
the world; for indeed the "Ye" said nothing audible, in the way of
pardon or other doom; so that whether the "sister Graces" were averse
or not, remained as doubtful as ever.

CHAPTER II.
TWO WINTERS.

As we said above, it had been hoped by Sterling's friends, not very
confidently by himself, that in the gentler air of Clifton his health
might so far recover as to enable him to dispense with autumnal
voyages, and to spend the year all round in a house of his own. These
hopes, favorable while the warm season lasted, broke down when winter
came. In November of this same year, while his little Volume was
passing through the press, bad and worse symptoms, spitting of blood
to crown the sad list, reappeared; and Sterling had to equip himself
again, at this late season, for a new flight to Madeira; wherein the
good Calvert, himself suffering, and ready on all grounds for such an
adventure, offered to accompany him. Sterling went by land to
Falmouth, meaning there to wait for Calvert, who was to come by the
Madeira Packet, and there take him on board.

Calvert and the Packet did arrive, in stormy January weather; which
continued wildly blowing for weeks; forbidding all egress Westward,
especially for invalids. These elemental tumults, and blustering wars
of sea and sky, with nothing but the misty solitude of Madeira in the
distance, formed a very discouraging outlook. In the mean while
Falmouth itself had offered so many resources, and seemed so tolerable
in climate and otherwise, while this wintry ocean looked so
inhospitable for invalids, it was resolved our voyagers should stay
where they were till spring returned. Which accordingly was done;
with good effect for that season, and also with results for the coming
seasons. Here again, from Letters to Knightsbridge, are some glimpses
of his winter-life:--

"_Falmouth, February 5th_, 1840.--I have been to-day to see a new
tin-mine, two or three miles off, which is expected to turn into a
copper-mine by and by, so they will have the two constituents of
bronze close together. This, by the way, was the 'brass' of Homer and
the Ancients generally, who do not seem to have known our brass made
of copper and zinc. Achilles in his armor must have looked like a
bronze statue.--I took Sheridan's advice, and did not go down the
mine."

"_February 15th_.--To some iron-works the other day; where I saw half
the beam of a great steam-engine, a piece of iron forty feet long and
seven broad, cast in about five minutes. It was a very striking
spectacle. I hope to go to Penzance before I leave this country, and
will not fail to tell you about it." He did make trial of Penzance,
among other places, next year; but only of Falmouth this.

"_February 20th_.--I am going on _asy_ here, in spite of a great
change of weather. The East-winds are come at last, bringing with
them snow, which has been driving about for the last twenty-four
hours; not falling heavily, nor lying long when fallen. Neither is it
as yet very cold, but I suppose there will be some six weeks of
unpleasant temperature. The marine climate of this part of England
will, no doubt, modify and mollify the air into a happier sort of
substance than that you breathe in London.

"The large vessels that had been lying here for weeks, waiting for a
wind, have now sailed; two of them for the East Indies, and having
three hundred soldiers on board. It is a curious thing that the
long-continued westerly winds had so prevented the coasters arriving,
that the Town was almost on the point of a famine as to bread. The
change has brought in abundance of flour.--The people in general seem
extremely comfortable; their houses are excellent, almost all of
stone. Their habits are very little agricultural, but mining and
fishing seem to prosper with them. There are hardly any gentry here;
I have not seen more than two gentlemen's carriages in the Town;
indeed I think the nearest one comes from five miles off....

"I have been obliged to try to occupy myself with Natural Science, in
order to give some interest to my walks; and have begun to feel my way
in Geology. I have now learnt to recognize three or four of the
common kinds of stone about here, when I see them; but I find it
stupid work compared with Poetry and Philosophy. In the mornings,
however, for an hour or so before I get up, I generally light my
candle, and try to write some verses; and since I have been here, I
have put together short poems, almost enough for another small volume.
In the evenings I have gone on translating some of Goethe. But six or
seven hours spent on my legs, in the open air, do not leave my brain
much energy for thinking. Thus my life is a dull and unprofitable
one, but still better than it would have been in Madeira or on board
ship. I hear from Susan every day, and write to her by return of
post."

At Falmouth Sterling had been warmly welcomed by the well-known Quaker
family of the Foxes, principal people in that place, persons of
cultivated opulent habits, and joining to the fine purities and
pieties of their sect a reverence for human intelligence in all kinds;
to whom such a visitor as Sterling was naturally a welcome windfall.
The family had grave elders, bright cheery younger branches, men and
women; truly amiable all, after their sort: they made a pleasant
image of home for Sterling in his winter exile. "Most worthy,
respectable and highly cultivated people, with a great deal of money
among them," writes Sterling in the end of February; "who make the
place pleasant to me. They are connected with all the large Quaker
circle, the Gurneys, Frys, &c., and also with Buxton the Abolitionist.
It is droll to hear them talking of all the common topics of science,
literature, and life, and in the midst of it: 'Does thou know
Wordsworth?' or, 'Did thou see the Coronation?' or 'Will thou take
some refreshment?' They are very kind and pleasant people to know."

"Calvert," continues our Diarist, "is better than he lately was,
though he has not been at all laid up. He shoots little birds, and
dissects and stuffs them; while I carry a hammer, and break flints and
slates, to look for diamonds and rubies inside; and admire my success
in the evening, when I empty my great-coat pocket of its specimens.
On the whole, I doubt whether my physical proceedings will set the
Thames on fire. Give my love to Anthony's Charlotte; also remember me
affectionately to the Carlyles."--

At this time, too, John Mill, probably encouraged by Sterling, arrived
in Falmouth, seeking refuge of climate for a sickly younger Brother,
to whom also, while he continued there, and to his poor patient, the
doors and hearts of this kind family were thrown wide open. Falmouth,
during these winter weeks, especially while Mill continued, was an
unexpectedly engaging place to Sterling; and he left it in spring, for
Clifton, with a very kindly image of it in his thoughts. So ended,
better than it might have done, his first year's flight from the
Clifton winter.

In April, 1840, he was at his own hearth again; cheerily pursuing his
old labors,--struggling to redeem, as he did with a gallant constancy,
the available months and days, out of the wreck of so many that were
unavailable, for the business allotted him in this world. His swift,
decisive energy of character; the valiant rally he made again and ever
again, starting up fresh from amid the wounded, and cheerily storming
in anew, was admirable, and showed a noble fund of natural health amid
such an element of disease. Somehow one could never rightly fancy
that he was diseased; that those fatal ever-recurring downbreaks were
not almost rather the penalties paid for exuberance of health, and of
faculty for living and working; criminal forfeitures, incurred by
excess of self-exertion and such irrepressible over-rapidity of
movement: and the vague hope was habitual with us, that increase of
years, as it deadened this over-energy, would first make the man
secure of life, and a sober prosperous worker among his fellows. It
was always as if with a kind of blame that one heard of his being ill
again! Poor Sterling;--no man knows another's burden: these things
were not, and were not to be, in the way we had fancied them!

Summer went along in its usual quiet tenor at Clifton; health good, as
usual while the warm weather lasted, and activity abundant; the scene
as still as the busiest could wish. "You metropolitan signors,"
writes Sterling to his Father, "cannot conceive the dulness and
scantiness of our provincial chronicle." Here is a little excursion
to the seaside; the lady of the family being again,--for good
reasons,--in a weakly state:--

"_To Edward Sterling, Esq., Knightsbridge, London_.
"PORTSHEAD, BRISTOL, 1st Sept., 1840.

"MY DEAR FATHER,--This place is a southern headland at the mouth of
the Avon. Susan, and the Children too, were all suffering from
languor; and as she is quite unfit to travel in a carriage, we were
obliged to move, if at all, to some place accessible by water; and
this is the nearest where we could get the fresher air of the Bristol
Channel. We sent to take a house, for a week; and came down here in a
steamer yesterday morning. It seems likely to do every one good. We
have a comfortable house, with eight rather small bedrooms, for which
we pay four guineas and a half for the week. We have brought three of
our own maids, and leave one to take care of the house at Clifton.

"A week ago my horse fell with me, but did not hurt seriously either
himself or me: it was, however, rather hard that, as there were six
legs to be damaged, the one that did scratch itself should belong to
the part of the machine possessing only two, instead of the
quadrupedal portion. I grazed about the size of a halfpenny on my
left knee; and for a couple of days walked about as if nothing had
happened. I found, however, that the skin was not returning
correctly; and so sent for a doctor: he treated the thing as quite
insignificant, but said I must keep my leg quiet for a few days. It
is still not quite healed; and I lie all day on a sofa, much to my
discomposure; but the thing is now rapidly disappearing; and I hope,
in a day or two more, I shall be free again. I find I can do no work,
while thus crippled in my leg. The man in Horace who made verses
_stans pede in uno_ had the advantage of me.

"The Great Western came in last night about eleven, and has just been
making a flourish past our windows; looking very grand, with four
streamers of bunting, and one of smoke. Of course I do not yet know
whether I have Letters by her, as if so they will have gone to Clifton
first. This place is quiet, green and pleasant; and will suit us very
well, if we have good weather, of which there seems every appearance.

"Milnes spent last Sunday with me at Clifton; and was very amusing and
cordial. It is impossible for those who know him well not to like
him.--I send this to Knightsbridge, not knowing where else to hit you.
Love to my Mother.

"Your affectionate,
"JOHN STERLING."

The expected "Letters by the Great Western" are from Anthony, now in
Canada, doing military duties there. The "Milnes" is our excellent
Richard, whom all men know, and truly whom none can know well without
even doing as Sterling says.--In a week the family had returned to
Clifton; and Sterling was at his poetizings and equitations again.
His grand business was now Poetry; all effort, outlook and aim
exclusively directed thither, this good while.

Of the published Volume Moxon gave the worst tidings; no man had
hailed it with welcome; unsold it lay, under the leaden seal of
general neglect; the public when asked what it thought, had answered
hitherto by a lazy stare. It shall answer otherwise, thought
Sterling; by no means taking that as the final response. It was in
this same September that he announced to me and other friends, under
seal of secrecy as usual, the completion, or complete first-draught,
of "a new Poem reaching to two thousand verses." By working "three
hours every morning" he had brought it so far. This Piece, entitled
_The Election_, of which in due time we obtained perusal, and had to
give some judgment, proved to be in a new vein,--what might be called
the mock-heroic, or sentimental Hudibrastic, reminding one a little,
too, of Wieland's _Oberon_;--it had touches of true drollery combined
not ill with grave clear insight; showed spirit everywhere, and a
plainly improved power of execution. Our stingy verdict was to the
effect, "Better, but still not good enough:--why follow that sad
'metrical' course, climbing the loose sandhills, when you have a firm
path along the plain?" To Sterling himself it remained dubious
whether so slight a strain, new though it were, would suffice to
awaken the sleeping public; and the Piece was thrown away and taken up
again, at intervals; and the question, Publish or not publish? lay
many months undecided.

Meanwhile his own feeling was now set more and more towards Poetry;
and in spite of symptoms and dissuasions, and perverse prognostics of
outward wind and weather, he was rallying all his force for a
downright struggle with it; resolute to see which _was_ the stronger.
It must be owned, he takes his failures in the kindliest manner; and
goes along, bating no jot of heart or hope. Perhaps I should have
more admired this than I did! My dissuasions, in that case, might
have been fainter. But then my sincerity, which was all the use of my
poor counsel in assent or dissent, would have been less. He was now
furthermore busy with a _Tragedy of Strafford_, the theme of many
failures in Tragedy; planning it industriously in his head; eagerly
reading in _Whitlocke, Rushworth_ and the Puritan Books, to attain a
vesture and local habitation for it. Faithful assiduous studies I do
believe;--of which, knowing my stubborn realism, and savage humor
towards singing by the Thespian or other methods, he told me little,
during his visits that summer.

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