The Life of John Sterling

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The advance of the dark weather sent him adrift again; to Torquay, for
this winter: there, in his old Falmouth climate, he hoped to do
well;--and did, so far as well-doing was readily possible, in that sad
wandering way of life. However, be where he may, he tries to work
"two or three hours in the morning," were it even "with a lamp," in
bed, before the fires are lit; and so makes something of it. From
abundant Letters of his now before me, I glean these two or three
small glimpses; sufficient for our purpose at present. The general
date is "Tor, near Torquay:"--

_To Mrs. Charles Fox, Falmouth_.

_Tor, November 30th_, 1840.--I reached this place on Thursday; having,
after much hesitation, resolved to come here, at least for the next
three weeks,--with some obscure purpose of embarking, at the New Year,
from Falmouth for Malta, and so reaching Naples, which I have not
seen. There was also a doubt whether I should not, after Christmas,
bring my family here for the first four months of the year. All this,
however, is still doubtful. But for certain inhabitants of Falmouth
and its neighborhood, this place would be far more attractive than it.
But I have here also friends, whose kindness, like much that I met
with last winter, perpetually makes me wonder at the stock of
benignity in human nature. A brother of my friend Julius Hare, Marcus
by name, a Naval man, and though not a man of letters, full of sense
and knowledge, lives here in a beautiful place, with a most agreeable
and excellent wife, a daughter of Lord Stanley of Alderley. I had
hardly seen them before; but they are fraternizing with me, in a much
better than the Jacobin fashion; and one only feels ashamed at the
enormity of some people's good-nature. I am in a little rural sort of
lodging; and as comfortable as a solitary oyster can expect to be."--

_To C. Barton_.

"_December 5th_.--This place is extremely small, much more so than
Falmouth even; but pretty, cheerful, and very mild in climate. There
are a great many villas in and about the little Town, having three or
four reception-rooms, eight or ten bedrooms; and costing about fifteen
hundred or two thousand pounds each, and occupied by persons spending
a thousand or more pounds a year. If the Country would acknowledge my
merits by the gift of one of these, I could prevail on myself to come
and live here; which would be the best move for my health I could make
in England; but, in the absence of any such expression of public
feeling, it would come rather dear."--

_To Mrs. Fox again_.

"_December 22d_.--By the way, did you ever read a Novel? If you ever
mean to do so hereafter, let it be Miss Martineau's _Deerbrook_. It
is really very striking; and parts of it are very true and very
beautiful. It is not so true, or so thoroughly clear and harmonious,
among delineations of English middle-class gentility, as Miss Austen's
books, especially as _Pride and Prejudice_, which I think exquisite;
but it is worth reading. _The hour and the Man_ is eloquent, but an
absurd exaggeration.--I hold out so valorously against this
Scandinavian weather, that I deserve to be ranked with Odin and Thor;
and fancy I may go to live at Clifton or Drontheim. Have you had the
same icy desolation as prevails here?"

_To W. Coningham, Esq_.

"_December 28th_.--Looking back to him [a deceased Uncle, father of
his correspondent], as I now very often do, I feel strongly, what the
loss of other friends has also impressed on me, how much Death deepens
our affection; and sharpens our regret for whatever has been even
slightly amiss in our conduct towards those who are gone. What
trifles then swell into painful importance; how we believe that, could
the past be recalled, life would present no worthier, happier task,
than that of so bearing ourselves towards those we love, that we might
ever after find nothing but melodious tranquillity breathing about
their graves! Yet, too often, I feel the difficulty of always
practicing such mild wisdom towards those who are still left me.--You
will wonder less at my rambling off in this way, when I tell you that
my little lodging is close to a picturesque old Church and Churchyard,
where, every day, I brush past a tombstone, recording that an Italian,
of Manferrato, has buried there a girl of sixteen, his only daughter:
_'L' unica speranza di mia vita_.'--No doubt, as you say, our
Mechanical Age is necessary as a passage to something better; but, at
least, do not let us go back."--

At the New-year time, feeling unusually well, he returns to Clifton.
His plans, of course, were ever fluctuating; his movements were swift
and uncertain. Alas, his whole life, especially his winter-life, had
to be built as if on wavering drift-sand; nothing certain in it,
except if possible the "two or three hours of work" snatched from the
general whirlpool of the dubious four-and-twenty!

_To Dr. Carlyle_.

"_Clifton, January 10th_, 1841.--I stood the sharp frost at Torquay
with such entire impunity, that at last I took courage, and resolved
to return home. I have been here a week, in extreme cold; and have
suffered not at all; so that I hope, with care I may prosper in spite
of medical prognostics,--if you permit such profane language. I am
even able to work a good deal; and write for some hours every morning,
by dint of getting up early, which an Arnott stove in my study enables
me to do."--But at Clifton he cannot continue. Again, before long,
the rude weather has driven him Southward; the spring finds him in his
former haunts; doubtful as ever what to decide upon for the future;
but tending evidently towards a new change of residence for household
and self:--

_To W. Coningham, Esq_.

"_Penzance, April 19th_, 1841.--My little Boy and I have been
wandering about between Torquay and this place; and latterly have had
my Father for a few days with us,--he left us yesterday. In all
probability I shall endeavor to settle either at Torquay, at Falmouth,
or here; as it is pretty clear that I cannot stand the sharp air of
Clifton, and still less the London east-winds. Penzance is, on the
whole, a pleasant-looking, cheerful place; with a delightful mildness
of air, and a great appearance of comfort among the people: the view
of Mount's Bay is certainly a very noble one. Torquay would suit the
health of my Wife and Children better; or else I should be glad to
live here always, London and its neighborhood being
impracticable."--Such was his second wandering winter; enough to
render the prospect of a third at Clifton very uninviting.

With the Falmouth friends, young and old, his intercourse had
meanwhile continued cordial and frequent. The omens were pointing
towards that region at his next place of abode. Accordingly, in few
weeks hence, in the June of this Summer, 1841, his dubitations and
inquirings are again ended for a time; he has fixed upon a house in
Falmouth, and removed thither; bidding Clifton, and the regretful
Clifton friends, a kind farewell. This was the _fifth_ change of
place for his family since Bayswater; the fifth, and to one chief
member of it the last. Mrs. Sterling had brought him a new child in
October last; and went hopefully to Falmouth, dreading _other_ than
what befell there.

CHAPTER III.
FALMOUTH: POEMS.

At Falmouth, as usual, he was soon at home in his new environment;
resumed his labors; had his new small circle of acquaintance, the
ready and constant centre of which was the Fox family, with whom he
lived on an altogether intimate, honored and beloved footing;
realizing his best anticipations in that respect, which doubtless were
among his first inducements to settle in this new place. Open cheery
heights, rather bare of wood: fresh southwestern breezes; a brisk
laughing sea, swept by industrious sails, and the nets of a most
stalwart, wholesome, frank and interesting population: the clean
little fishing, trading and packet Town; hanging on its slope towards
the Eastern sun, close on the waters of its basin and intricate
bay,--with the miniature Pendennis Castle seaward on the right, the
miniature St. Mawes landward to left, and the mining world and the
farming world open boundlessly to the rear:--all this made a pleasant
outlook and environment. And in all this, as in the other new
elements of his position, Sterling, open beyond most men to the worth
of things about him, took his frank share. From the first, he had
liked the general aspect of the population, and their healthy, lively
ways; not to speak of the special friendships he had formed there,
which shed a charm over them all. "Men of strong character, clear
heads and genuine goodness," writes he, "are by no means wanting."
And long after: "The common people here dress better than in most
parts of England; and on Sundays, if the weather be at all fine, their
appearance is very pleasant. One sees them all round the Town,
especially towards Pendennis Castle, streaming in a succession of
little groups, and seeming for the most part really and quietly
happy." On the whole he reckoned himself lucky; and, so far as
locality went, found this a handsome shelter for the next two years of
his life. Two years, and not without an interruption; that was all.
Here we have no continuing city; he less than any of us! One other
flight for shelter; and then it is ended, and he has found an
inexpugnable refuge. Let us trace his remote footsteps, as we have
opportunity:--

_To Dr. Symonds, Clifton_.

"_Falmouth, June 28th_, 1841.--Newman writes to me that he is gone to
the Rhine. I wish I were! And yet the only 'wish' at the bottom of
my heart, is to be able to work vigorously in my own way anywhere,
were it in some Circle of Dante's Inferno. This, however, is the
secret of my soul, which I disclose only to a few."

_To his Mother_.

"_Falmouth, July 6th_, 1841.--I have at last my own study made
comfortable; the carpet being now laid down, and most of my
appurtenances in tolerable order. By and by I shall, unless stopped
by illness, get myself together, and begin living an orderly life and
doing my daily task. I have swung a cot in my dressing-room; partly
as a convenience for myself, partly as a sort of memorial of my poor
Uncle, in whose cot in his dressing-room at Lisworney I remember to
have slept when a child. I have put a good large bookcase in my
drawing-room, and all the rest of my books fit very well into the
study."

_To Mr. Carlyle_.

"_July 6th_.--No books have come in my way but Emerson's, which I
value full as much as you, though as yet I have read only some corners
of it. We have had an Election here, of the usual stamp; to me a
droll 'realized Ideal,' after my late metrical adventures in that
line. But the oddest sign of the Times I know, is a cheap Translation
of Strauss's _Leben Jesu_, now publishing in numbers, and said to be
circulating far and wide. What does--or rather, what does not--this
portend?"--

With the Poem called _The Election_, here alluded to, which had been
more than once revised and reconsidered, he was still under some
hesitations; but at last had well-nigh resolved, as from the first it
was clear he would do, on publishing it. This occupied some
occasional portion of his thoughts. But his grand private affair, I
believe, was now _Strafford_; to which, or to its adjuncts, all
working hours were devoted. Sterling's notions of Tragedy are high
enough. This is what he writes once, in reference to his own task in
these weeks: "Few, I fancy, know how much harder it is to write a
Tragedy than to realize or be one. Every man has in his heart and
lot, if he pleases, and too many whether they please or no, all the
woes of OEdipus and Antigone. But it takes the One, the Sophocles of
a thousand years, to utter these in the full depth and harmony of
creative song. Curious, by the way, how that Dramatic Form of the old
Greek, with only some superficial changes, remains a law not only for
the stage, but for the thoughts of all Poets; and what a charm it has
even for the reader who never saw a theatre. The Greek Plays and
Shakspeare have interested a hundred as books, for one who has seen
their writings acted. How lightly does the mere clown, the idle
school-girl, build a private theatre in the fancy, and laugh or weep
with Falstaff and Macbeth: with how entire an oblivion of the
artificial nature of the whole contrivance, which thus compels them to
be their own architects, machinists, scene-painters, and actors! In
fact, the artifice succeeds,--becomes grounded in the substance of the
soul: and every one loves to feel how he is thus brought face to face
with the brave, the fair, the woful and the great of all past ages;
looks into their eyes, and feels the beatings of their hearts; and
reads, over the shoulder, the secret written tablets of the busiest
and the largest brains; while the Juggler, by whose cunning the whole
strange beautiful absurdity is set in motion, keeps himself hidden;
sings loud with a mouth unmoving as that of a statue, and makes the
human race cheat itself unanimously and delightfully by the illusion
that he preordains; while as an obscure Fate, he sits invisible, and
hardly lets his being be divined by those who cannot flee him. The
Lyric Art is childish, and the Epic barbarous, compared to this. But
of the true and perfect Drama it may be said, as of even higher
mysteries, Who is sufficient for these things?"--On this _Tragedy of
Strafford_, writing it and again writing it, studying for it, and
bending himself with his whole strength to do his best on it, he
expended many strenuous months,--"above a year of his life," he
computes, in all.

For the rest, what Falmouth has to give him he is willing to take, and
mingles freely in it. In Hare's Collection there is given a _Lecture_
which he read in Autumn, 1841 (Mr. Hare says "1842," by mistake), to a
certain Public Institution in the place,--of which more anon;--a piece
interesting in this, if not much in any other respect. Doubtless his
friends the Foxes were at the heart of that lecturing enterprise, and
had urged and solicited him. Something like proficiency in certain
branches of science, as I have understood, characterized one or more
of this estimable family; love of knowledge, taste for art, wish to
consort with wisdom and wise men, were the tendencies of all; to
opulent means superadd the Quaker beneficence, Quaker purity and
reverence, there is a circle in which wise men also may love to be.
Sterling made acquaintance here with whatever of notable in worthy
persons or things might be afoot in those parts; and was led thereby,
now and then, into pleasant reunions, in new circles of activity,
which might otherwise have continued foreign to him. The good
Calvert, too, was now here; and intended to remain;--which he mostly
did henceforth, lodging in Sterling's neighborhood, so long as lodging
in this world was permitted him. Still good and clear and cheerful;
still a lively comrade, within doors or without,--a diligent rider
always,--though now wearing visibly weaker, and less able to exert
himself.

Among those accidental Falmouth reunions, perhaps the notablest for
Sterling occurred in this his first season. There is in Falmouth an
Association called the _Cornwall Polytechnic Society_, established
about twenty years ago, and supported by the wealthy people of the
Town and neighborhood, for the encouragement of the arts in that
region; it has its Library, its Museum, some kind of Annual Exhibition
withal; gives prizes, publishes reports: the main patrons, I believe,
are Sir Charles Lemon, a well-known country gentleman of those parts,
and the Messrs. Fox. To this, so far as he liked to go in it,
Sterling was sure to be introduced and solicited. The Polytechnic
meeting of 1841 was unusually distinguished; and Sterling's part in it
formed one of the pleasant occurrences for him in Falmouth. It was
here that, among other profitable as well as pleasant things, he made
acquaintance with Professor Owen (an event of which I too had my
benefit in due time, and still have): the bigger assemblage called
_British Association_, which met at Plymouth this year, having now
just finished its affairs there, Owen and other distinguished persons
had taken Falmouth in their route from it. Sterling's account of this
Polytechnic gala still remains,--in three Letters to his Father,
which, omitting the extraneous portions, I will give in one,--as a
piece worth reading among those still-life pictures:--

"To Edward Sterling, Esq., Knightsbridge, London_.
"FALMOUTH, 10th August, 1841.

"MY DEAR FATHER,--I was not well for a day or two after you went; and
since, I have been busy about an annual show of the Polytechnic
Society here, in which my friends take much interest, and for which I
have been acting as one of the judges in the department of the Fine
Arts, and have written a little Report for them. As I have not said
that Falmouth is as eminent as Athens or Florence, perhaps the
Committee will not adopt my statement. But if they do, it will be of
some use; for I have hinted, as delicately as possible, that people
should not paint historical pictures before they have the power of
drawing a decent outline of a pig or a cabbage. I saw Sir Charles
Lemon yesterday, who was kind as well as civil in his manner; and
promises to be a pleasant neighbor. There are several of the British
Association heroes here; but not Whewell, or any one whom I know."

"_August 17th_.--At the Polytechnic Meeting here we had several very
eminent men; among others, Professor Owen, said to be the first of
comparative anatomists, and Conybeare the geologist. Both of these
gave evening Lectures; and after Conybeare's, at which I happened to
be present, I said I would, if they chose, make some remarks on the
Busts which happened to be standing there, intended for prizes in the
department of the Fine Arts. They agreed gladly. The heads were
Homer, Pericles, Augustus, Dante and Michael Angelo. I got into the
box-like platform, with these on a shelf before me; and began a talk
which must have lasted some three quarters of an hour; describing
partly the characters and circumstances of the men, illustrated by
anecdotes and compared with their physiognomies, and partly the
several styles of sculpture exhibited in the Casts, referring these to
what I considered the true principles of the Art. The subject was one
that interests me, and I got on in famous style; and had both pit and
galleries all applauding, in a way that had had no precedent during
any other part of the meeting. Conybeare paid me high compliments;
Owen looked much pleased,--an honor well purchased by a year's hard
work;--and everybody, in short, seemed delighted. Susan was not
there, and I had nothing to make me nervous; so that I worked away
freely, and got vigorously over the ground. After so many years'
disuse of rhetoric, it was a pleasant surprise to myself to find that
I could still handle the old weapons without awkwardness. More by
good luck than good guidance, it has done my health no harm. I have
been at Sir Charles Lemon's, though only to pay a morning visit,
having declined to stay there or dine, the hours not suiting me. They
were very civil. The person I saw most of was his sister, Lady
Dunstanville; a pleasant, well-informed and well-bred woman. He seems
a most amiable, kindly man, of fair good sense and cultivated
tastes.--I had a letter to-day from my Mother [in Scotland]; who says
she sent you one which you were to forward me; which I hope soon to
have."

"_August 29th_.--I returned yesterday from Carclew, Sir C. Lemon's
fine place about five miles off; where I had been staying a couple of
days, with apparently the heartiest welcome. Susan was asked; but
wanting a Governess, could not leave home.

"Sir Charles is a widower (his Wife was sister to Lord Ilchester)
without children; but had a niece staying with him, and his sister
Lady Dunstanville, a pleasant and very civil woman. There were also
Mr. Bunbury, eldest son of Sir Henry Bunbury, a man of much
cultivation and strong talents; Mr. Fox Talbot, son, I think, of
another Ilchester lady, and brother of _the_ Talbot of Wales, but
himself a man of large fortune, and known for photogenic and other
scientific plans of extracting sunbeams from cucumbers. He also is a
man of known ability, but chiefly employed in that peculiar
department. _Item_ Professors Lloyd and Owen: the former, of Dublin,
son of the late Provost, I had seen before and knew; a great
mathematician and optician, and a discoverer in those matters; with a
clever little Wife, who has a great deal of knowledge, quite free from
pretension. Owen is a first-rate comparative anatomist, they say the
greatest since Cuvier; lives in London, and lectures there. On the
whole, he interested me more than any of them,--by an apparent force
and downrightness of mind, combined with much simplicity and
frankness.

"Nothing could be pleasanter and easier than the habits of life, with
what to me was a very unusual degree of luxury, though probably
nothing but what is common among people of large fortune. The library
and pictures are nothing extraordinary. The general tone of good
nature, good sense and quiet freedom, was what struck me most; and I
think besides this there was a disposition to be cordially courteous
towards me....

"I took Edward a ride of two hours yesterday on Calvert's pony, and he
is improving fast in horsemanship. The school appears to answer very
well. We shall have the Governess in a day or two, which will be a
great satisfaction. Will you send my Mother this scribble with my
love; and believe me,

"Your affectionate son,
"JOHN STERLING."

One other little event dwells with me, out of those Falmouth times,
exact date now forgotten; a pleasant little matter, in which Sterling,
and principally the Misses Fox, bright cheery young creatures, were
concerned; which, for the sake of its human interest, is worth
mention. In a certain Cornish mine, said the Newspapers duly
specifying it, two miners deep down in the shaft were engaged putting
in a shot for blasting: they had completed their affair, and were
about to give the signal for being hoisted up,--one at a time was all
their coadjutor at the top could manage, and the second was to kindle
the match, and then mount with all speed. Now it chanced while they
were both still below, one of them thought the match too long; tried
to break it shorter, took a couple of stones, a flat and a sharp, to
cut it shorter; did cut it of the due length, but, horrible to relate,
kindled it at the same time, and both were still below! Both shouted
vehemently to the coadjutor at the windlass, both sprang at the
basket; the windlass man could not move it with them both. Here was a
moment for poor miner Jack and miner Will! Instant horrible death
hangs over both,--when Will generously resigns himself: "Go aloft,
Jack," and sits down; "away; in one minute I shall be in Heaven!"
Jack bounds aloft, the explosion instantly follows, bruises his face
as he looks over; he is safe above ground: and poor Will? Descending
eagerly they find Will too, as if by miracle, buried under rocks which
had arched themselves over him, and little injured: he too is brought
up safe, and all ends joyfully, say the Newspapers.

Such a piece of manful promptitude, and salutary human heroism, was
worth investigating. It was investigated; found to be accurate to the
letter,--with this addition and explanation, that Will, an honest,
ignorant good man, entirely given up to Methodism, had been perfect in
the "faith of assurance," certain that _he_ should get to Heaven if he
died, certain that Jack would not, which had been the ground of his
decision in that great moment;--for the rest, that he much wished to
learn reading and writing, and find some way of life above ground
instead of below. By aid of the Misses Fox and the rest of that
family, a subscription (modest _Anti_-Hudson testimonial) was raised
to this Methodist hero: he emerged into daylight with fifty pounds in
his pocket; did strenuously try, for certain months, to learn reading
and writing; found he could not learn those arts or either of them;
took his money and bought cows with it, wedding at the same time some
religious likely milkmaid; and is, last time I heard of him, a
prosperous modest dairyman, thankful for the upper light and safety
from the wrath to come. Sterling had some hand in this affair: but,
as I said, it was the two young ladies of the family that mainly did
it.

In the end of 1841, after many hesitations and revisals, _The
Election_ came out; a tiny Duodecimo without name attached;[24] again
inquiring of the public what its suffrage was; again to little
purpose. My vote had never been loud for this step, but neither was
it quite adverse; and now, in reading the poor little Poem over again,
after ten years' space, I find it, with a touching mixture of pleasure
and repentance, considerably better than it then seemed to me. My
encouragement, if not to print this poem, yet to proceed with Poetry,
since there was such a resolution for it, might have been a little
more decided!

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