‘Could a rule be given from without, poetry would cease to be poetry, and sink into a mechanical art. It would be μóρφωσις, not ποίησις. The rules of the IMAGINATION are themselves the very powers of growth and production. The words to which they are reducible, present only the outlines and external appearance of the fruit. A deceptive counterfeit of the superficial form and colours may be elaborated; but the marble peach feels cold and heavy, and children only put it to their mouths.’ [Coleridge, Biographia ch. 18]

‘ποίησις’ (poiēsis) means ‘a making, a creation, a production’ and is used of poetry in Aristotle and Plato. ‘μóρφωσις’ (morphōsis) in essence means the same thing: ‘a shaping, a bringing into shape.’ But Coleridge has in mind the New Testament use of the word as ‘semblance’ or ‘outward appearance’, which the KJV translates as ‘form’: ‘An instructor of the foolish, a teacher of babes, which hast the form [μóρφωσις] of knowledge and of the truth in the law’ [Romans 2:20]; ‘Having a form [μóρφωσις] of godliness, but denying the power thereof: from such turn away’ [2 Timothy 3:5]. I trust that's clear.

There is much more on Coleridge at my other, Coleridgean blog.

Sunday 29 December 2013

Hum poem

The wind leaps up and the downwind drones,
Cracks like the snap of your own green bones.
Heart beats a rhythm of years, weeks, days.
Taut skin a hum drum no man plays.

Duty and pleasure

I found the following written in one of my notebooks. I've no idea whether I wrote it, or if I found it somewhere and copied it out. I could google it, I suppose; but that would be a tiresomely literal minded way of going about things.
Duty has this advantage over pleasure: that whilst doing one's duty is often a pleasure in its own right, that moment when indulging in one's favourite pleasure becomes a duty is the moment the pleasure dies.

Lizard poem

The lizard’s Elizabethan ruff;
His bootlace tongue;
The way he throws his legs

From front-left/back-right
To front-right/back-left,
That stationary trot

As the starved sand
Made insane by the sun
Bites the soles of his feet.

All that tongue work, and nothing to say
Lizard? All that supple dancing
And no mate to impress?

You and I, lizard. You and I.

Tuesday 24 December 2013

Seasons poem

Summer, when the skies are white:
and brevity defines the night.

Autumn, as the trees disrobe:
a shadow in your lung's left lobe.

Winter's potatoes going green:
it's unclear what this may mean.

Spring: the leaves come back around.
The egg is buried underground.

The Ancient Malleter

David Mallet’s The Excursion (1728) was one of those early 18th-century epic poems, enormously popular in its day, entirely unknown now. Its first half ranges around terrestrial locations; but in the second Mallet leaps into space as his ‘excursive traveller’ moves from planets to stars. The verse is mostly humdrum, although sometimes it lifts itself. And, in particular, I found myself wondering about this description of the polar ice-cap:
Now beneath the North,
Alone with Winter in his Frost-bound Realm!
Where, a white Waste of Ice, the Polar Sea
Casts cold a cheerless Light: where Hills of Snow,
Pil’d up from eldest Ages, Hill on Hill,
In blue, bleak Precipices rise to Heaven.
Yet here, even here in this unjoyous World,
Adventrous Mortals, urg’d by Thirst of Gain,
Thro’ floating Isles of Ice and fighting Storms,
Roam the wild Waves, in Search of doubtful Shores,
By West or East, a Path yet unexplor’d. [28]
Could Coleridge have read this, rather vivid polar poetry, and (consciously or subconsciously) have transferred the north to south, the blue ice to green, and given the Adventrous Mortal the identity of his Ancient Mariner? Hard to prove. Suggestive, though.

Friday 13 December 2013

Modus Non Ponendo Ponens

I daresay actual Philosophers have a name for what I'm about to say in this blogpost, but I can't seem to find it on Wikipedia. I should probably stop relying on Wikipedia for my philosophical education. Here, though, on formal fallacy:
As modus ponens, the following argument contains no formal fallacies.

1.If P then Q
3.Therefore Q

A logical fallacy associated with this format of argument is referred to as affirming the consequent, which would look like this:

1.If P then Q
3.therefore P

This is a fallacy because it does not take into account other possibilities. To illustrate this more clearly, substitute the letters with premises.

1.If it rains, the street will be wet
2.The street is wet.
3.Therefore it rained.

Although it is possible that this conclusion is true, it does not necessarily mean it MUST be true. The street could be wet for a variety of other reasons that this argument does not take into account. However, if we look at the valid form of the argument, we can see that the conclusion must be true.

1.If it rains, the street will be wet.
2.It rained.
3.Therefore, the streets are wet.

This statement is both valid and sound.
No it's not, though. Maybe the Council have erected a giant awning over the street. Maybe it was a localised shower, and the wind blew the rain out of the way. Maybe it rained an hour ago and the street has subsequently dried. You take my point.

Do you, though? It is more than just to nitpick with that particular example. It is to say: there is no situation in the world which cannot be so nitcked. Thuswise nitpicken. 'Therefore it rained' does not follow in the third example, above, because, you know: maybe the streets are wet because a fire hydrant burst. But the same thing applies the other way around. Or more specifically, the attempt to rephrase the final example to exclude all the things that might falsify it -- as it might be, '(Assuming the council haven't erected a giant awning over the street, or that it was a localised shower, and the wind blew the rain out of the way, or that it rained so long ago that the street has subsequently dried etc ...) If it rains, the street will be wet' -- includes within it an 'etc' that potentially goes on forever. To quote the wiki again: 'This is a fallacy because it does not take into account other possibilities.' Ah, but there are always and inevitably other possibilities, no matter which way round you frame your argument.

Thursday 5 December 2013

Lillies that feſter, ſmell far worſe then weeds.

I was chatting to my colleague Roy Booth about this famous line from Sonnet 94 (he was telling me that the very same line appears in the play Edward III, now attributed in part at least to Shakespeare). I said it had always struck me as, well, mendacious. Either it means 'Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds do when they fester', which is surely not true -- you'd think that festering vegetation reeks pretty much on a par; or it means 'Lilies that fester smell far worse than normal, healthy, growing weeds', which is a 'well, durr' sort of observation. Roy countered with his belief that Shakespeare is actually thinking of carnations, which look and smell pretty for a short while and then go egregiously stinky as they rot in the vase, far worse than other flowers. I didn't know that; learned something today.

Saturday 30 November 2013

Femme Cyborg

This is from a 1962 French satirical publication, Dictionnaire Canard (I found a bunch of scans from early 1960s issues of these at the Multiglom blog, here). It's Marianne, the French national emblem, reimagined for the nuclear age ('Force de Frappe', 'Strike Force', was De Gaulle's plan for French military forces to be organised to include nuclear weapons, part of his 'Force de dissuasion' rationale of strategic deterrence). You can see the Robot Marianne's head is full of a saucily posing De Gaulle, in sexy sweater and tie combo. But what a splendid piece of robot art this is! Click to embiggen.

Wednesday 27 November 2013


It only just occurred to me this morning: in 'Sgt Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band', when Paul sings 'you're such a lovely audience we'd like to take you home with us, we'd love to take you home' ... he's talking about groupies, isn't he? I'm such an innocent.

Sunday 24 November 2013

Nor are the titles any help.

Phyllis McGinley’s brilliant little poem about a Chagall canvas, ‘On the Far Wall, Marc Chagall’:
One eye without a head to wear it,
Sits on the pathway, and a chicken,
Pursued perhaps by astral ferret,
Flees, while the plot begins to thicken.
Two lovers kiss. Their hair is kelp.
Nor are the titles any help.

Thursday 21 November 2013

The White Goddess

In Graves and the Goddess (a book I bought in hardback when it was published, actually; but which I thought rather disappointing) Ian Firla and Grevel Lindop write:
Neglected by most academic scholars of modern poetry, alternately celebrated and reviled by feminists, banished from the syllabus in departments of classics, Celtic studies, and anthropology, The White Goddess has nonetheless exercised a persistent influence in these and many other fields for more than half a century, and has continued, above all, to be a central source of inspiration for poets, the more potent for remaining hidden.
There's something in this. The White Goddess is one of my holy books; I read it as a teenager and was alternately baffled and thrilled by it -- often both at the same time, for some of its most incomprehensible passages were the ground of much of its most overwhelming poetic effectiveness, or so I thought. I have re-read it several times. I still read it. I also, now, have studied the Classics to degree and PhD level, and can see why so many Classicists dismiss Graves' idiosyncratic, largely autodidact and spotty classical 'scholarship'. But that is to miss an important point. To condemn the book because it does not approach the standards expected in modern-day departments of classics, Celtic studies, and anthropology makes about as much sense as condemning Yeats's A Vision because it has nothing practical to say about ophthalmology.

Friday 1 November 2013

Psychic Death Klaxon

The justification of secular art is the responsibility it bears for the enrichment of human awareness. The cult of the child in certain authors at the end of the nineteenth century is a denial of this responsibility. Their awareness of childhood is no longer an interest in growth and integration, such as we found in The Prelude, but a means of detachment and retreat from the adult world. One feels their morbid withdrawal towards psychic death. The misery on the face of Carroll and Barrie was there because their response towards life had been subtly but irrevocably negated. Their photographs seem to look out at us from the nostalgic prisons they had created for themselves in the cult of Alice Liddell and Peter Pan. [Peter Coveney, The Image of Childhood: the Individual and Society: a Study of the Theme in English Literature (1957; 2nd ed 1967), 241]

Hmm. Where to start with this ...

Monday 21 October 2013

Farrar's Horcrux: "Eric, or Little by Little" (1858)

= 1 =

Having taught Victorian literature for, ooh (I tremble to think) decades now, I’m struck by the easy condescension modern students so often feel towards the period. We look down, smilingly or derisively, upon them; and the reason for our sense of superiority is—sex. If our grandparents and great-grandparents had hang-ups in that area, they were (in Larkin’s words)
fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.
The received wisdom is: the Victorians were repressed about sex. We, who are (apparently) not ‘repressed’ about sex, feel a natural superiority to the poor suckers—veiling the legs of their pianos, filling their kids ears with sermons on the inherently sinful nature of their privates, and so on. This is a caricature, of course, and (of course) a misleading one; but we need to work through it if we want to understand a novel like Farrar’s Eric, or Little by Little (1858); because there is something very strange hidden in plain view at the heart of this novel; and that strange thing is sexual.

A few obvious things, first. One is that, as a Victorianist, my perspective on ‘sexuality’ in this period has been shaped in part by reading Foucault’s Histoire de la sexualité, especially vol 1, la volonté de savoir (1976; English translation The Will to Knowledge 1978) as an impressionable young PhD student. Here Foucault poignards the so-called ‘repressive hypothesis’, demonstrating that rather than suppressing sexuality from the 17th to the mid-20th century, western society opened itself to discourses of sex in a wealth of new ways, from scientific and pseudo-scientific ‘classification’ approaches to more confessional and personal accounts, right through to a mushrooming cultural subterraneana of porn. Foucault argues that ‘modernity’ is in part characterised by a restless urge to discover the ‘truth’ of sex. According to Foucault modern-day individuals are ‘other Victorians’; the inheritors of an epoch in which people's identities became increasingly tied to their sexuality.

It is true, of course, that the parameters of what is acceptable in terms of the public presentation of sex and sexual matters have shifted, post-Chatterley; but it's also true (I think) that this shift is less huge and prodigious than is sometimes claimed.  Accordingly I’m going to try and discuss Eric in this broader Foucauldian way. All this preamble is needful, I think, because it is so easy to read Eric, and its hysterical ‘masturbation kills schoolboys!’ agenda, with a sneer of modern-day superiority. This strikes me as by far the least interesting way of taking the novel; but more than that, it seems to me to miss a very important point. We congratulate ourselves that we are less hung-up on matters of sexual guilt and shame than were the Victorians; but we have our own deep-rooted hang-ups. Death is the most obvious one. We are much more embarrassed by death than the Victorians ever were by sex—death seems to us, somehow, an affront to our ever-young-and-beautiful celebrity-lead pop cultural world. We hide our dying away in hospitals and hospices, so we don’t have to deal with them. We delegate all the ‘death’ stuff to a caste of discrete professionals, not the least part of whose tact is that they won’t force us to confront the messy business of Actual Human Dying. The thought of a 21st-century citizen (for instance) washing the corpse of a loved one, dressing it and placing it in a coffin fills us with a kind of horror—although this was how most of humanity handled the reality of death for most of its history. It’s not just the practicalities. The emotions of death scare us, with an almost superstitious terror. When we meet someone who is bereaved we find ourselves actively embarrassed by the news, because we don’t know how to act. When we are bereaved ourselves the experience is not only of emotional suffering (of course that) but also of being blindsided, or being smacked in the face with something for which we have not been prepared. Even an expected death will shock us with the force of its grief. It’s like an ignorant Victorian girl suddenly discovering, without entirely understanding how or why, that she is pregnant.

I don’t want to labour the point, except to say: Eric is at least as much about death and the pain of bereavement as it is about sex and the dangers of masturbation. In this, it is the heir to a long tradition of mournful (or if you prefer: morbid) stories of child death that characterise 18th and 19th-century writing for and about children. The Victorians faced death more straightforwardly than we do today, I think; they were less embarrassed by it, and better equipped with social protocols for handling it.

This isn’t to say that I’m going to pretend Eric is a forgotten masterpiece. It is, it seems to me, quite a bad novel—but bad in an interesting, and symptomatic way. I'm teaching a course on Children's Literature this term, and I put it on the syllabus because a major strand of the 20-week course is school literature, up to and including Harry Potter, bears its mark. Certainly Eric was staggeringly influential and popular in its day; it’s one reason the name ‘Eric’ came into 20th-century vogue. But, let’s make no bony bones about it, it's not a good novel. Here’s Jeffrey Richards, in Happiest Days: The Public Schools in English Fiction (Manchester University Press 1988), summarising reactions:
Few best-sellers can have been so reviled and excoriated over the years as Dean Farrar’s Eric, or Little by Little. It has consistently earned such critical judgments as ‘mawkishly false’ (Vivian Ogilve), ‘a preposterous book’ (John Rowe Townshend), ‘the sort of story Dr Arnold would have written if he’d taken to drink’ (Hugh Kingsmill), ‘terrible warnings, soaked in nauseously cloying piety’ (Roger Lancelyn Green), ‘the only book I ever wanted to lose’ (Eric Ambler), ‘the nightmare emanation of some morbid, introverted brain’ (Edward C. Mack), ‘one of the most idiotic books of the nineteenth-century’ (Benny Green). The undoubted immortality of Eric is, then, as one historian has put it, ‘an immorality of derision.’ [70]
That’s posterity. What about the book’s contemporaries?
The criticism began as soon as the book was published. Writing in Blackwood’s Magazine in 1861, W Lucas Collins said of the book, ‘A more utter failure can hardly be conceived. Seldom has a book been written with such an excellent intention, by a scholar and a gentleman, which is so painful to read.’ He admitted its popularity, which he attributed to the general interest in school stories, the authority of the author as a Harrow master, and the sensationalism and ‘painful and repulsive details of the story’, which ‘confirmed all that anxious mothers had always feared and half-believed of the enormities of large schools.’ But he deprecated the sensationalism (‘granting the facts, we can see no sufficient motive for dragging such a miserable history into the daylight’) and the excessive emotionalism. … The Saturday Review complained ‘we can scarcely imagine a less healthy book to put into a boy's hand’, pointing to the dangers of inculcating priggishness, self-importance and a morbid self-consciousness. It also poured scorn on the excess emotionalism:
Its general tone is uniformly sad and this sadness is heightened artificially. To say nothing of three more or less violent deaths, two of which involve angelic deathbeds, everything is served up with tear sauce. The boys quote hymns, and to the infinite indignation of all English readers, occasionally kiss each other.
Experts on children’s literature were soon expressing doubts similar to those of the critics. In 1869 Charlotte Yonge described Eric as that morbid dismal tale, which we hope no mother or boy ever reads, since it can answer no purpose but to make them unhappy and suspicious, besides that it enforces by numerous telling examples that the sure reward for virtue is a fatal accident. [70-72]
That Saturday Review piece is rather glorious in its mockery. Yet there’s clearly something in the novel. It touched a nerve; it entertained several generations; it worked its way into the DNA of school fiction more generally. It was vastly and enduringly popular, reprinted twenty times before the century ended. Why?

The story in Eric, or, Little by Little is of the gradual, incremental moral decline of the titular schoolboy protagonist, Eric Williams at the fictional public school of ‘Rosslyn’. Eric is not a wicked boy—there are such boys in the tale, Barker the Bully most prominently. Barker
hated Eric at first sight, simply because his feeble mind could only realise one idea about him, and that was the new boy’s striking contrast with his own imperfections. Hence he left no means untried to vent on Eric his low and mean jealousy. He showed undisguised pleasure when he fell in form, and signs of disgust when he rose; he fomented every little source of disapproval or quarrelling which happened to arise against him; he never looked at him without a frown or a sneer; he waited for him to kick and annoy him as he came out of, or went in to, the schoolroom. In fact, he did his very best to make the boy’s life miserable, and the occupation of hating him seemed in some measure to fill up the vacuity of an ill-conditioned and degraded mind. [E, 1:3]
Eric, by contrast, is a Roussean pure soul (he grew up, we’re told, in Nature, the ‘wisest, gentlest, holiest of teachers’). Nonetheless he falls, Farrar makes plain he falls because he trots blithely down the primrose path, succumbing to the trivial temptations of schoolboy popularity, skipping homework and larking about, from thence to more serious infractions such as cheating and drinking, and the unnameable activity that is the real core of the book's moral sermon. His best friend, the ridiculously virtuous Edwin Russell, dies as a result of a seashore accident. Then Eric’s kid brother Vernon dies, falling off a cliff (this is Eric's fault, we're told). Eric is moved and promises to repent his ways, but he always slides back. Eventually he runs away to sea, is beaten and whipped, returning abashed to his own home. Here he discovers that his own mother has already died of that affliction uniquely fatal to mothers, shame. Eric himself expires, repenting with his last breaths.

So one problem is: if Eric is fundamentally innocent and noble, how does he fall? Mr. Rose, Eric's mentor at Roslyn, writes a letter explaining the danger:
The innocence of mere ignorance is a poor thing; it cannot, under any circumstances, be permanent, nor is it at all valuable as a foundation of character. The true preparation for life, the true basis of a manly character, is not to have been ignorant of evil, but to have known it and avoided it; not to have been sheltered from temptation, but to have passed through it and overcome it by God's help. [1:15]
Death seems a heavy price to pay for a touch of childish high-spirits; but the notorious core of the boyish sinfulness is not skipping homework, or even drinking and running away to the navy. It is something Farrar’s novel insists is far worse. In an early scene, the previously sheltered Eric overhears the other boys in his dorm engaging in indecent talk. He does not join in, but neither does he speak out and condemn it, and this is enough:
Now, Eric, now or never! Life and death, ruin and salvation, corruption and purity, are perhaps in the balance together, and the scale of your destiny may hang on a single word of yours. Speak out, boy! Tell these fellows that unseemly words wound your conscience; tell them that they are ruinous, sinful, damnable; speak out and save yourself and the rest. Virtue is strong and beautiful, Eric, and vice is downcast in her awful presence. Lose your purity of heart, Eric, and you have lost a jewel which the whole world, if it were "one entire and perfect chrysolite," cannot replace. [1:9]
The Othello reference is interesting, I think; it is a way of talking about sexual purity (of course), but it also carries with it an implied correlative, that the sexual sin being carefully unexpressed here is connected in some way with envy. What sin is it, anyway?
Oh, young boys, if your eyes ever read these pages, pause and beware. The knowledge of evil is ruin, and the continuance in it is moral death. That little matter—that beginning of evil—it will be like the snowflake detached by the breath of air from the mountain-top, which, as it rushes down, gains size and strength and impetus, till it has swollen to the mighty and irresistible avalanche that overwhelms garden and field and village in a chaos of undistinguishable death.

Kibroth-Hattaavah! Many and many a young Englishman has perished there! Many and many a happy English boy, the jewel of his mother’s heart—brave and beautiful and strong—lies buried there. Very pale their shadows rise before us—the shadows of our young brothers who have sinned and suffered. From the sea and the sod, from foreign graves and English churchyards, they start up and throng around us in the paleness of their fall. May every schoolboy who reads this page be warned by the waving of their wasted hands, from that burning marle of passion where they found nothing but shame and ruin, polluted affections, and an early grave.
Blimey. That's us told, at any rate.

So what's going on, here? Eric was published in 1858, one year after William Acton’s The Functions and Disorders of the Reproductive Organs in Childhood, Youth, Adult Age, and Advanced Life: Considered in Their Physiological, Social, and Moral Relations (1857). Now when I was a young Victorianist, Acton tended to be invoked in the scholarship only to be mocked -- the very epitome of the attitude I talked about in the opening few paragraphs. And however influential he was (and he was influential) he remains eminently mock-worthy. It was Acton who insisted that ‘the majority of women (happily for them) are not very much troubled with sexual feeling of any kind. … As a general rule, a modest woman seldom desires any sexual gratification for herself. She submits to her husband's embraces, but principally to gratify him; and, were it not for the desire of maternity, would far rather be relieved from his attentions.’ Victorianists earnestly debated how representative Acton’s views were, and the consensus used to be: not very. Certainly it’s hard to see how such a belief could stand up in the real world, where real women, I am assured, do indeed—under the right circumstances—experience sexual desire. Nonetheless Acton’s Functions and Disorders book went through many editions, and was widely read. And the section that really hit home was about masturbation. ‘Chiromania’ was Acton’s term for it, and he thought it a desperately dangerous practice. This in turn lead to a genuine-and-actual moral panic in Victorian Britain through into the 1860s, the echoes of which lasted much longer, and the nub of which was: how can we stamp out this pernicious practice?
CHAPT. II.—MASTURBATION IN CHILDHOOD. On the whole, I am disposed to hope that in most public schools, the feeling is strongly against these vile practices. Still, every now and then, facts leak out, which show, that, even into these establishments, evil influences sometimes find their way, and the destructive habit may take root and become common. In private schools, however, which are to a great extent free from the control of that healthy public opinion that, even among boys, has so salutary an effect, there is too much reason to fear that this scourge of our youth prevails to an alarming extent.

I cannot venture to print the accounts patients have given me of what they have seen or even been drawn into at schools. I would fain hope that such abominations are things of the past, and cannot be now repeated under more perfect supervision, and wider knowledge of what is at least possible.Acton believed (erroneously, I should stress) that masturbation has terribly deleterious effects on health.

The Symptoms which mark the commencement of the practice are too clear for an experienced eye to be deceived. As Lallemand remarks: "However young the children may be, they get thin, pale, and irritable, and their features become haggard. We notice the sunken eye, the long, cadaverous-looking countenance, the downcast look which seems to arise from a consciousness that their habits are suspected, and, at a later period, that their virility is lost. It may depend upon timidity acquired or inherited. I wish by no means to assert that every boy unable to look another in the face is or has been a masturbator, but I believe this vice is a very frequent cause of timidity. Such boys have a dank, moist, cold hand, very characteristic of great vital exhaustion; their sleep is short, and most complete marasmus comes on; they may die if their evil passion is not got the better of; nervous symptoms set in, such as spasmodic contraction, or partial or entire convulsive movements, together with epilepsy, eclampsy, and a species of paralysis accompanied with contractions of the limbs."
He goes on, in a passage that directly influenced Farrar:
A vigorous healthy boy is not likely to have any tendency to debase himself, and it is a question with many if it is wise (on his going to school) to caution him against the vile habit of masturbation and its consequences. My own impression long was, that it would be a pity to poison the mind of a high-spirited lad with any cautions about vile practices; but the confessions of many, who, in ignorance of the results, have, by the example of others, been led to practice masturbation, have very much altered my opinion. I believe that in many cases a parent should at least hint to his son that he may very possibly have to witness unclean practices, and conjure him at once manfully to resist and oppose them, pointing out at the same time the consequences to which they tend. Of course there is the risk of tainting an ingenuous mind by broaching such a subject, and unfolding before it this distressing page in the book of knowledge of good and evil. But when it is needful, a father should in my opinion accept the grave responsibility; for, knowing what I know, and seeing what I see, I would not face the greater unknown ill of dismissing my child to the probability of contamination, without an attempt to save him. I esteem it false delicacy and a wrong, that a parent should hesitate to warn his boy, when he can, at the most, anticipate by a few days or weeks the offices of a schoolmaster in vice, as ignorant of consequences as the pupil, and unable to administer the antidote with the poison.
To revert to my point at the beginning, this is the kind of thing that gives Victorians a bad name. How can we read it and not snort derisively? Not only that Acton wrote it, but that it was so widely believed. But let’s put derision to one side for a moment. A number of things are worth exploring further. One is the matter of the unspeakability of the ‘sin’. Acton’s pinching dilemma, in that last quotation, is that boys must be warned again masturbation, and yet that warning them will actually bring masturbation to their attention. This is a curious double-bind: to balance moral prophylaxis against tact, to speak the unspeakable since not speaking it will leave boys open to sin, although speaking it may have exactly the same consequences.

Farrar’s solution is fascinating. He puts masturbation front and centre, as it were; and yet does not name it. Instead we get the baffling reference to Kibroth-Hattaavah. Many, indeed, must have been the young 19th-century readers of this novel who came across this passage only to cry out, internally, ‘but what is this terrible sin? Kibroth-Hattaavah—what does that even mean? If I don't know what it is, how can I ever avoid it?’ Hakuna Matata this is not.

It is, of course, an Old Testament Biblical reference. But what’s odd about it is that it isn’t the usual OT Biblical reference to the evils of masturbation—that is Onan, from Genesis 38, who ‘spilled his seed on the ground’. Kibroth-Hattaavah is a much more obscure reference. It is, in fact, a place mentioned in Numbers 11:34-35. Kibroth-hattaavah (קִבְרוֹת הַתַּאֲוָה‎) is one of the sites through which the Israelites passed during their Exodus trek. The Hebreww means ‘graves of lust’ (Farrar was an expert in Hebrew, Greek and Latin, and wrote a influential Life of Christ); and in that sense we can see how it applies to Eric’s temptations. Lust leads to the grave! But to open the relevant bit of the Book of Numbers is to confuse matters: because the lust mentioned there is not sexual but food-y. The Israelites loudly complained about constantly eating only manna, and yearned for the fish, vegetables, fruit, and meat they had eaten in Egyptian captivity. Moses prays to God, who replies that the complainers will eat meat solidly for a month ‘until it come out at your nostrils, and it be loathsome unto you: because that ye have despised the Lord which is among you, and have wept before him, saying, Why came we forth out of Egypt?’ God sends great flocks of quail to the Israelites: ‘And while the flesh was yet between their teeth, ere it was chewed, the wrath of the Lord was kindled against the people, and the Lord smote the people with a very great plague. And he called the name of that place Kibrothhattaavah: because there they buried the people that lusted.’ The graveyard of those who lusted! Lusted after food, though; not lusted after Madame Palm and her five comely daughters.

Now this connects (in a slightly oblique way) with one of the strands of the course I’ve been teaching: that children’s literature consistently mediate appetite and desire via food, because for kids, and especially pre-pubescent kids, food is the main sensual pleasures available to them. And the ambiguity is an interesting textual function of the novel. What it means, I think, is that we can take the signifying structure of Eric, scoop out the specifics of the moral alarmism (masturbation, say) and interpretively-speaking replace it with whatever is at the top of the presentday list of 'Oh Won't Somebody Please Think Of The Children?' flapdoodles.

My point is that, although the moral panic of the late 1850s and 1860s concerned masturbation, moral panics themselves are nothing new. Read E S Turner’s elderly but still brilliant account of 19th and early 20th century moral panics, Roads To Ruin, The Shocking History of Social Reform (1950)—Turner’s examples include: should daylight savings time be abolished? Should the ban on marrying your dead wife’s sister be lifted? Should spring guns be banned? Should children be forbidden to buy gin (for their parents, not themselves) in pubs? The main problem Eric as a novel faces today is the E S Turner effect: what was once genuinely believed to be a matter of spiritual and perhaps literal Life And Death looks, now, so bizarrely trivial a matter to get worked up about. This in turn leads to the sorts of dismissive, derisively-laughing readings of Farrar’s novel. I’d like to propose a more sympathetic reading. Not that I think masturbation, or same-sex desire, will lead to certain decadence and death (of course not!); but rather because I think two things—one, that the structure of the sort of school story Farrar tells here has directly influenced the way school stories are written right up to the present day (that they still are built around some transgression or danger that is explicitly or implicitly unnameable); and two because it seems to me we are today exactly as in thrall to crazy moral panics as the mid-Victorians were, especially where children are concerned. Those panics are no longer about whether a man ought to be able to marry his dead wife’s sister, but they are no less virulent. Arguably they are more so. The ones dominant at the moment have to do with paedophilia, homosexuality (especially same-sex marriage and same-sex couples rearing kids), transgender identities, internet porn, the internet itself. Go back a little further and we come to: violent video games; comic books; pop music (especially swear-word laden rap music); obesity epidemics; anorexia epidemics and so on.

Now the second of these two things strikes me as general and societal—and as something with interesting implications. But the former is the one more specifically relevant to what I’m talking about here, so I’ll dilate upon it a little. My example would be: Harry Potter, as school story, has the same structure as Eric; or to be more precise, if we reconfigure Harry Potter in our minds as a story about Tom Riddle, then it becomes pretty much Eric, Retold. Like Eric, young Tom is a pupil of manifold, exceptional talents; and like Eric he is seduced by something centrally dark and unnameable to—eventually—his death. Farrar calls his moral structural principle ‘Kibroth-Hattaavah’; Rowling calls hers ‘The Horcrux’, a secret ‘something’ so malign that the invocation of it requires one to commit the supreme act of evil, a murder; something that actually ‘rips the soul apart’. The unnameable nature of this central transgression is transferred onto the character himself, who loses his deictic ‘riddling’ name and becomes precisely ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’. In other words, not in terms of the internal logic of the text, but in terms of the representational or formal (or structural) semantic function of the thing, Rowling’s Horcrux is Farrar’s Wanking. Kibroth-Hataavah is a variant of the Avada-Kedavra. Ask yourself: why does Voldemort lack a nose? Tall, pale Voldemort, with the dank, moist, cold hands, characteristic of great vital exhaustion, and his various scowling, twitching nervous symptoms. Why the lack of nose? Is it because of his intrinsic snakiness? Or is the reference to the symptoms of physical decline associated with, say, tertiary syphilis? You decide.


Because, yes, of course it has to do with death—Voldmort’s death-stained name could hardly be more explicit on that front (see also: Darth Vader). And lots of children die in both Harry Potter and Eric. For Garrett Stewart [Death Sentences: Styles of Dying in British Fiction (Harvard Univ, Press 1984)] death in Victorian fiction is what Beckett’s later novel on that topic calls ‘the Unnamable’; it exists ‘only as inexistence, is not a topic so much as a voiding event, has no vocabulary and would leave us mute before its impenetrable fact.’ [4] ‘Death,’ he says (quoting Empson) is ‘the trigger of the writer’s biggest gun’ [5]; ‘the ultimate form of closure plotted within the closure of form’ [6]. In writing deathbed scenes, Garrett argues, Victorians put death into style (‘write their death senteces’, how very 1980s lit-critical it all is) and ‘thus, at the circumscribed level of the stylistic microcosm, compact and so dramatize the very premises of representation that permit and condition it.’ [7]

In all this Garrett is egregiously of his time (‘Is my death possible? Can we understand this question?’ Derrida asks in Aporias; a doubly baffling query given Derrida’s insistence that there is no politics without ‘a topolitology of the sepulcher’ [61]). But he’s also, patently, wrong—at least as far as Eric is concerned … and, actually, as far as the broader dynamic of Victorian deathbed scenes go too. Deathbed scenes do not begin with Dickens (‘a mainstay of the novel from Dickens onwards …’). On the contrary, Dickens is closer to the end of a much longer tradition of (specifically) child death in literature. Garrett confuses death as an ontological terminus with bereavement as a human constant—for literature is always concerned with the latter, or more precisely is only ever concerned with the former as it is refracted through the latter—and he does not know his Massively Morbid Eighteenth- and Nineteenth-century Literary Context well enough. It is not death that is the Unnameable in Eric: it is ‘Kibroth-Hattaavah’.

Now, we might counter that this is a kind of death—the graves of lust. And that is a relevant consideration. But one point of difference is the way actual death has only temporary consequences for the characters—Eric grieves, promises to reform himself, but always slides back into his wicked ways. Kibroth-Hattaavah is different: though centrally nameless, its influence is always spreading out. Robert Douglas-Fairhurst [in Victorian Afterlives: The Shaping of Influence in Nineteenth-century Literature (2002), 163] has interesting things to say about ’ripples’ in the novel. These, he argue, both epitomise ‘how he sees boys going bad’; but hey also characterised how Farrar himself ‘unfolds the plot of their undoing’. Douglas-Fairhurst draws attention to the chapter ‘Ripples’ (2:5), with its Tennysonian epigraph: ‘Our echoes roll from soul to soul,/And live for ever and for ever.’ The ‘prophetically named’ (as Douglas-Fairhurst puts it) Brigson has been expelled for using his ‘pernicious influence’ to lure Eric into vice. Expulsion doesn’t stem the problem, though. Owen and Montagu, two sixth formers, mediate on this:
“Well, I think there’s another chance for him now that—that—what name is bad enough for that Brigson?—is gone.”

“I hope so. But,”—he added after a pause—“his works do follow him. Look there!” He took a large stone and threw it into the Silverburn stream; there was a great splash, and the ever-widening circles of blue ripple broke the surface of the water, dying away one by one in the sedges on the bank. “There,” he said, “see how long those ripples last, and how numerous they are.”

Owen understood him. “Poor Eric! What a gleam of new hope there was in him after Russell’s death!”

“Yes, for a time,” said Montagu; “heigh ho! I fear we shall never be warm friends again. We can’t be while he goes on as he is doing. And yet I love him.”

A sudden turn of the stream brought them to the place called Riverbend.

“If you want a practical comment on what we’ve been talking about, you’ll see it there,” said Montagu.

He pointed to a party of boys, four or five, all lying on a pleasant grass bank, smoking pipes. Prominent among them was Eric, stretched at ease, and looking up at the clouds, towards which curled the puffed fumes of his meerschaum, a gift of Wildney’s. That worthy was beside him similarly employed.

The two sixth-form boys hoped to pass by unobserved, as they did not wish for a rencontre with our hero under such circumstances. But they saw Wildney pointing to them, and, from the fits of laughter which followed his remarks, they had little doubt that they were the subject of the young gentleman’s wit. This is never a pleasant sensation; but they observed that Eric made a point of not looking their way, and went on in silence.

“How very sad!” said Montagu.

“How very contemptible!” said Owen. “Harfagher among his subjects!”

“Did you observe what they were doing?”


“Worse than that a good deal. They were doing something which, if Eric doesn’t take care, will one day be his ruin.”


“I saw them drinking. I have little doubt it was brandy.”

“Good heavens!”

“It is getting a common practice with some fellows. One of the ripples, you see, of Brigson’s influence.”
The ripple motif reoccurs in 2:9 where Vernon falls from the cliff to his death.
Gradually, gently [the tide] crept up to the place where Vernon lay; and the little ripples fell over him wonderingly, with the low murmur of their musical laughter, and blurred and dimmed the vivid splashes and crimson streaks upon the white stone on which his head had fallen…[2:9]
Douglas-Fairhurst notes: ‘Farrar’s ripple is a refrain which invests the physical world with the enduring effects of an absent body, material with moral influence, and its regular reappearance means that the lines of his novel spin a moral web which is designed to clung to the reader as another form of refrain: the solemn injunction, “no more” [163]

What interests me the most here is the way ‘masturbation’ is styled as a mode of outward-spreading malignancy, where the ‘wickedness’ of masturbation resides in the way it excludes others, and draws the individual wanker antisocially inward. Adam Phillips [Side Effects (2006)] quotes Leo Bersani to the effect that ‘the reason most people feel guilty about masturbation is because they fear that masturbation is the truth about sex; that the truth about sex is that we would rather do it on our own, or that, indeed, we are doing it on our own even when we seem to all intents and purposes to be doing it with other people..’ Phillips goes on, via Lacan, to consider desire as a particular kind of absence, a ‘lack, disclosed by our longings [that] sends a depth charge into our histories’ [59]. He also, elsewhere, describes masturbation as ‘not only safe sex; it’s safe incest’—by way, I think, of intimating its weird mix of the absolutely hermetically mundane and its taboo frisson. I’m not sure about this. But I am interested in the way Eric simultaneously figures masturbation as an antisocial cutting-oneself-off from the healthful influence of your fellows, and at the same time a mode of interacting with your fellows. The emission of semen is life and death at the same time. Like a horcrux, it entails the tearing-apart of one's soul, but does so in order to disseminate that soul more widely and so evade death.

Seminate. Huh.

I'll finish with a different modern-day analogue to Eric: the huge vogue for misery memoirs, or trauma memoirs: accounts of the way the abject depths of childhood transgression and suffering lead into adult life. Here's a quotation from the estimable Roger Luckhurst on trauma:
In 1993, Anne Hunsaker Hawkins published Reconstructing Illness, a study of memoirs about the experience of disease, dysfunction or death for which she coined a new term: pathography. In a move familiar from the brief flowering of the ‘personal criticism’ movement in the late 1980s, Hawkins confessed that her academic interest had been motivated by her own father’s death: the critical work thus shared the very impulse it sought to analyse. In Reconstructing Illness, Hawkins noted a striking fact: before 1950, she had discovered only a handful of published pathographies. After 1950, the genre had haltingly emerged but then accelerated, particularly in the 1980s, with hundreds of texts published. But even more strikingly, the number of pathographies doubled again in just the six years between 1993 and 1999, when the second edition of Hawkins’ book appeared.

This spike in production placed pathography at the heart of the contemporary boom in the trauma memoir. In the 1990s, life writing was partially re-oriented to pivot around the intrusive traumatic event that, at a stroke, shattered narrative coherence. The sociologist Arthur Frank saw illness as ‘narrative wreckage’ and pathography as a literal narrative salve: ‘Stories have to repair the damage that illness has done’. This formulation owed much to the philosopher Paul Ricoeur, who regarded narrative as an act of con-figuration which ‘“grasps together” and integrates into one whole and complete story multiple and scattered events’. Trauma is a dis-figuration of that narrative possibility, but what the narrative memoir promises is a redemptive account of how the post-traumatic self might be re-configured around its woundedness.

The trauma memoir is one of the cultural symptoms that follows from the securing of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder as a recognised psychiatric illness in official diagnostics in 1980, after a long campaign of psychiatric advocacy in the 1970s by a coalition of activists. It has been my contention that many forms of culture have played a significant role in articulating how PTSD seems to affect the narrative possibilities of selfhood after 1980. The memoir boom is now a vast and complicated delta region with major channels but also curious back-waters, and is treacherous to map. However, it is important to distinguish the tributaries rather than subsume everything into an undifferentiated trauma discourse. For the record, we might distinguish five elements that converge to produce the memoir boom since the 1990s: 1) the feminist revaluation of the autobiographical utterance, at the level of therapeutic practice, life writing, and in critical theory; 2) a politicisation of the illness memoir by people with AIDS, producing a large body of testimony designed both to commemorate the dead and to denounce medical or governmental ignorance; 3) an expanding terrain of pathographies that began with cancer memoirs but soon moved into subsets including depression, exotic or bizarre disorders and parental illness or death; 4) the related rise of thanatography, or death writing, which might include memoirs by carers for the terminally ill, suicide in the family, or accounts of the mourning process; and 5) the re-programming of the celebrity exposé to be organised around the revelation of the traumatic secret (a boom begun in England with the phenomenal success of the autobiography of the glamour model, Katie Price, Being Jordan). These elements run the gamut from honourable and political interventions to the plain tiresome and narcissistic.
Luckhurst goes on to argue that 'in sum, we might regard the trauma memoir as the exemplary form of what Ross Chambers has termed ‘aftermath cultures,’ defined by a testimonial impulse that is nevertheless marked by ‘a strange nexus of denial and acknowledgement’. These memoirs at once allure with the promise of transgressive experiences but are abjected for precisely those revelations in an irresolvable tension of attraction and repulsion that accounts for the compulsion to publish so many similar confessions.' We can go further: this abjection is eroticised. The 'secret' at the heart of the paradigmatic celebrity trauma memoir is almost always sexual in nature. This in turn relates to a broader culture in which (post 1960s) sex must be simultaneously hidden as a shameful secret and be subject to public display at all times. The conceptual slippage from the first and second of Luckhurst's five gift things like Jordan's memoirs (or Billy Connolly's, or Ulrika Rice's) the glamour of heroic honesty, as if some pubic good is being performed. The individual who might want to object to these books must run the risk of being labelled a prude; of having 'something to hide.' Of course, everybody has 'something to hide'. For all his flaws and errors, Freud's great contribution to knowledge is his articulation of the enormous truth that human subjectivity is predicated precisely upon 'something to hide'. What happens with something like Being Jordan is interesting: what Jordan, in this text, has to hide is precisely the truth that she has something to hide. She pretends a kind of panoptic ideal openness. It's not the case; but it's the heart of her appeal.

But here's another suggestion: part of the vast success of Eric has to do not with the simple prophylactic ambition of Farrar (in a nutshell: to stop boys wanking) so much as with the way it reinscribed schooldays a forming character not via a Tom Brown-esque manliness, sport and honour, but precisely via a kind of unnameable wound or trauma.

Monday 14 October 2013

A question of nomenclature

'Achilles is brave as a lion' is a simile. So far, so elementary. But what do we call this simile?--
He's a poor man, as empty as a pocket
As empty as a pocket, with nothing to lose.
Ah say tanana ... tanana-nah etc. etc.
It's a particular kind of simile: because in the round a pocket might be empty or full, and yet we somehow know what kind of pocket is being alluded to (we might say: a particular lion may be brave or cowardly, but in the round -- in the world of the simile -- lions are always brave). The point is that this a kind self-reflexive simile. This Simonesque poor man is empty as an empty pocket; but the simile doesn't need to specify the kind of pocket being mentioned, because the assumption is that it is the poor man's pocket which by definition will be empty. There's something neatly folded together, semantically, about this I think. Should we name it?

Morality Is A Bivalve

I've had one of those realisations that, after you have them, makes you feel slow-witted and belated and a bit dim. Surely everybody understands this! Or, rather, surely everybody realised this long ago, and it only strikes me with the force of revelation. Other will shrug their shoulders at this post. What can I tell you? I'm exceptionally slow, mentally.

It's to do with ethics. For Kant, there is both philosophical and practical merit in drawing a sharp distinction between good and bad, and insisting that we live according to the strictures of the former and eschew the latter, without regard to any of that ends-justify-the-means bollocks. Some people I have read say we should take Kant literally on this; others have suggested that, though it is the sort of strict ethos to which actual sublunary human beings are going to find hard to stick, it is nevertheless an ideal worth upholding on the grounds that a man's reach should exceed his grasp for what's a etc. etc.

Having kids has changed my view on this. Because sometimes my 5-year old is delinquent in one way or another, and we (his parents) tell him off as Kantians: that was wrong, you must never do that, we never want to catch you doing that again, and all that. But sometimes he is delinquent in other ways, where we register the delinquency with him in a manner that makes it plain we don't really mind. And he registers this distinction too, in an untutored manner: when he receives the first sort of telling-off he will look sad or abashed. During the second he will grin. The first kind of infraction is 'bad'; the second is 'cheeky' ('you cheeky monkey!'). And the distinction matters because we feel, without having to think to hard about it, that whilst we want our kid to understand the difference between right and wrong, and whilst there are certain forms of behaviour that we really do want to stamp out, at the same time we don't want our son to grow up as some kind of automaton.

So far, so obvious. My realisation, I think, has to do with the way this parental approach scales-up, socially and culturally. Because this medial category, the 'cheeky' or the 'naughty' (especially in such formulations as 'a little bit naughty', or 'naughty but nice'; see also 'guilty pleasures') is a large component of the social-ethical landscape. Example recreational drug use is 'against the law'. Rape, murder and theft are also 'against the law'. This is the same quantity, this 'law'. Yet people smoking a little weed do not consider themselves to be partaking of the same kind of thing as is encompassed in the latter three crimes. This does not mean that they have necessarily renegotiated their individual relationship to the law. Or, to be more precise: there are (of course) people who have renegotiated their individual relationship to this particular law, who smoke weed from the position of 'what I am doing is not wrong, it is the law that is wrong on this count, and the law should be changed.' But that's a Kantian position: change the law, and then the pothead can exist comfortably within it, as s/he feels to be right. I'm not interested in that sort of person. I'm interested in the larger constituency, who don't think the drug laws should be relaxed, yet who still break those laws (weed, speed, e whatever). This is not symptomatic of incoherence on their part, I think. On the contrary, it is a desire to maintain the ethical category of 'cheeky' or 'naughty' on a social scale, because such a category is a necessary part of the proper functioning of the non-robot, non-devil human being.

Saturday 12 October 2013

Little Willy (1850)

Stop sniggering! This is a brief chapbook, published in the US in the very middle of the 19th-century, and aimed at the moral improvement of the child reader. Morbid? Yes, I think we can say it's a little morbid.

There were loads and loads of these sorts of stories, throughout the 18th and 19th centuries. Why, did you really think that all those Little Nells and Paul Dombeys sprang full-armed from the head of Sentimental Dickens? By no means: he comes rather at the end of a much longer tradition.

Tuesday 1 October 2013

Rousseau, Émile, ou De l’éducation (1762)

I knew of Rousseau's Émile for a long time before I ever actually sat down to read it. I knew of its influence; its huge and enduring impact on Romantic and post-Romantic attitudes to the child; the way it persuaded many to see in childhood a holy innocence rather than a knot of original sin; the way its earnestly expressed contumely for wet-nursing and swaddling babies (mothers should suckle their own children! Swaddling stifles nature!) produced a shift in attitudes to those things across Europe that prevails to this day. The way the book championed Nature as the proper environment for man, and argued that all the wickedness in the world proceeded from forcing people to live in cities ('les villes sont le gouffre de l'espèce humaine'). The way Rousseau insisted, radically, on the value of childhood as childhood, rather than as a preparation for adulthood.
What is to be thought, therefore, of that cruel education which sacrifices the present to an uncertain future, that burdens a child with all sorts of restrictions and begins by making him miserable, in order to prepare him for some far-off happiness which he may never enjoy? Even if I considered that education wise in its aims, how could I view without indignation those poor wretches subjected to an intolerable slavery and condemned like galley-slaves to endless toil, with no certainty that they will gain anything by it? The age of harmless mirth is spent in tears, punishments, threats, and slavery. You torment the poor thing for his good; you fail to see that you are calling Death to snatch him from these gloomy surroundings. ... Men, be kind to your fellow-men; this is your first duty, kind to every age and station, kind to all that is not foreign to humanity. What wisdom can you find that is greater than kindness? Love childhood, indulge its sports, its pleasures, its delightful instincts.'
Bravo to that! And Rousseau was massively and importantly right about the wrongness of 'original sin'. 'Tout est bien sortant des mains de l'Auteur des choses,' as the book's opening sentence rather splendidly puts it. 'Tout dégénère entre les mains de l'homme.' God makes all things good; man meddles with them and they become evil.

Ah But! The first but is: but now the time has come where I must actually to read the bugger. You see, I'd set it as one of the texts with which my 3rd-years needed to 'familiarise themselves' (I figured getting them to read every word of all five weary parts would be cruel and unusual of me; 'familiarise themselves' is close enough for government work). These are the students on the 'Children's Literature' course; and knowing something about Rousseau is clearly going to be needful for them. And I can hardly make them do that, and skive off myself. So in I plunged. My immediate critical reaction was: phew, that's hard work. Also: quite fascist, this book.

It's hard work because it's a long, dense and unrelenting series of instructions as to how to bring a child up properly. And by 'properly' I mean, well, 'Hitlerly'. The first four books are concerned with the education of a notional male called Émile, from birth and earliest years (in book 1: '0/2 ans : Le nourrisson'); through to what we would now call primary school, though R. thinks kids should concentrate on nature rather than books (book 2, '2/12 ans : L'âge de la nature'); to later teenage years and the need to decide a trade (book 3, '12/15 ans : L'âge de la force') and finally ('Livre IV – 15/20 ans : La puberté'; which weirdly implies Swiss kids go through puberty rather later than British ones) to the education of feeling and religion, closely allied again to Nature. The fifth part rehearses all four parts a second time, but for a women: Sophie, intended as Émile's bride. She doesn't need so much by way of l’éducation, because Rousseau's attitudes to females was extremely sexist, even by eighteenth-century standards: stay home; nurture children; cook and clean. In a piece of watertight reasoning, he proves that looking after children is women's work. 'If the author of nature had meant to assign it to men he would have given them breasts.' That's his argument, yes. He'd obviously never seen this Seinfeld episode. I mean 'obviously', in the 'he died 250 years before that show even aired' sense of obviously. Here's a good English translation of Émile by Barbara Foxley, on Project Gutenberg. See for yourself.

In other words, Émile is a deeply disconcerting mixture of the progressive and the reactionary. The term 'fascist' gets bandied about a lot, usually inaccurately; and obviously it would be extremely anachronistic to try and apply it to a book published in 1762. Still: FASCIST!

Fascist in the sense that Rousseau believes the individual must be trained-up to devote his life to the needs of the Volk. Rousseau doesn't say 'Volk', of course. He's too busy watching Seinfeld re-runs to learn any German. But that's what he means. Not the brotherhood of humanity; just your own kind.
Every patriot hates foreigners; they are only men, and nothing to him. This defect is inevitable, but of little importance. The great thing is to be kind to our neighbours. Among strangers the Spartan was selfish, grasping, and unjust, but unselfishness, justice, and harmony ruled his home life.
So we should ... what? Be as grasping and unjust abroad as we like, so long as harmony obtains at home?
Distrust those cosmopolitans who search out remote duties in their books and neglect those that lie nearest. Such philosophers will love the Tartars to avoid loving their neighbour.
OK then. What of these Spartans, presented to us a role-models?
Une femme de Sparte avoit cinq fils à l’armée, & attendoit des nouvelles de la bataille. Un ilote arrive; elle lui en demande en tremblant. Vos cinq fils ont été tués. Vil esclave, t’ai-je demandé cela ? -- Nous avons gagné la victoire ! La mère court au temple, & rend grâces aux dieux. Voilà la citoyenne.

A Spartan mother had five sons in the army. A Helot arrived; trembling she asked his news. "Your five sons are slain." "Vile slave, was that what I asked thee?" "We have won the victory." She hastened to the temple to render thanks to the gods. That was a citizen.
'Citizen' is one word for what that is. 'Nutjob-monster' is another. But throughout Rousseau's book there's a real proto-Maoist emphasis on the need to subsume individuality in the needs of the State. 'A father has done but a third of his task when he begets children and provides a living for them. He owes men to humanity, citizens to the state.' State here does not mean the actually existing Swiss or French state, mind you. They're rotten to the core. Take, for examples, public universities and colleges. 'L’institution publique n’existe plus, & ne peut plus exister'.
I do not consider our ridiculous colleges as public institutes, nor do I include under this head a fashionable education, for this education facing two ways at once achieves nothing. It is only fit to turn out hypocrites, always professing to live for others, while thinking of themselves alone.
I happen to work for one of what Rousseau rather fetchingly calls 'ces risibles établissements', and can vouch for the correctness of this assessment.
Fix your eyes on nature, follow the path traced by her. She keeps children at work, she hardens them by all kinds of difficulties, she soon teaches them the meaning of pain and grief. They cut their teeth and are feverish, sharp colics bring on convulsions, they are choked by fits of coughing and tormented by worms, evil humours corrupt the blood, germs of various kinds ferment in it, causing dangerous eruptions. Sickness and danger play the chief part in infancy. One half of the children who are born die before their eighth year. The child who has overcome hardships has gained strength, and as soon as he can use his life he holds it more securely. This is nature's law; why contradict it?
Nature? THIS! IS! SPARTA! But, wait, Jean-Jacques: I'm not sure your tone here is quite Hitlerian enough, yet.
If you take the care of a sickly, unhealthy child, you are a sick nurse, not a tutor. To preserve a useless life you are wasting the time which should be spent in increasing its value, you risk the sight of a despairing mother reproaching you for the death of her child, who ought to have died long ago. I would not undertake the care of a feeble, sickly child. If I vainly lavish my care upon him, what can I do but double the loss to society by robbing it of two men, instead of one? ... A feeble body makes a feeble mind. ... The body must be strong enough to obey the mind; a good servant must be strong.
Yes! That's the proper Hitleran tone.
For these reasons I decline to take any but a strong and healthy pupil, and these are my principles for keeping him in health. I will not stop to prove at length the value of manual labour and bodily exercise for strengthening the health and constitution; no one denies it. Nearly all the instances of long life are to be found among the men who have taken most exercise, who have endured fatigue and labour. I cannot help quoting the following passage from an English newspaper, as it throws much light on my opinions: "A certain Patrick O'Neil, born in 1647, has just married his seventh wife in 1760. In the seventeenth year of Charles II he served in the dragoons and in other regiments up to 1740, when he took his discharge. He served in all the campaigns of William III. and Marlborough. This man has never drunk anything but small beer; he has always lived on vegetables, and has never eaten meat except on few occasions when he made a feast for his relations. He has always been accustomed to rise with the sun and go to bed at sunset unless prevented by his military duties. He is now in his 113th year; he is healthy, his hearing is good, and he walks with the help of a stick. In spite of his great age he is never idle, and every Sunday he goes to his parish church accompanied by his children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren."
Support Action T-4 and you too can be shagging a young wife at the age of 113! (Here, incidentally, is the original newspaper article that Rousseau read: the Annual Register for 1760).
Fresh air affects children's constitutions, particularly in early years. It enters every pore of a soft and tender skin, it has a powerful effect on their young bodies. Its effects can never be destroyed.
Hmm. Jean-Jacques; I'm not sure I trust your grasp of human physiology.
Huddled together like sheep, men would very soon die. Man's breath is fatal to his fellows. This is literally as well as figuratively true.
But only if they've been eating garlic. Or, wait: is that vampires?
The new-born infant is first bathed in warm water to which a little wine is usually added. I think the wine might be dispensed with. As nature does not produce fermented liquors, it is not likely that they are of much value to her creatures.
Yes: no need to sterilise anything to do with babies at all YOU BLINKING IDIOT.
All children are afraid of masks. I begin by showing Emile a mask with a pleasant face, then some one puts this mask before his face; I begin to laugh, they all laugh too, and the child with them. By degrees I accustom him to less pleasing masks, and at last hideous ones. If I have arranged my stages skilfully, far from being afraid of the last mask, he will laugh at it as he did at the first. After that I am not afraid of people frightening him with masks.
This is just getting weird, now.

And that's just book 1. I'm going to stop now, because I really need to go for a little lie-down.

Saturday 28 September 2013

Infant Mortality: then and now

Let's start with then:
Average life expectancy at birth for English people in the late 16th and early 17th centuries was just under 40 – 39.7 years. However, this low figure was mostly due to the high rate of infant and child mortality; over 12% of all children born would die in their first year. A man or woman who reached the age of 30 could expect to live to 59. Life expectancy in New England was much higher, where the average man lived to his mid-sixties and women lived on average to 62.

Demographers estimate that approximately 2% of all live births in England at this time would die in the first day of life. By the end of the first week, a cumulative total of 5% would die. Another 3 or 4% would die within the month. A total of 12 or 13% would die within their first year. With the hazards of infancy behind them, the death rate for children slowed but continued to occur. A cumulative total of 36% of children died before the age of six, and another 24% between the ages of seven and sixteen. In all, of 100 live births, 60 would die before the age of 16.

Family Size. An English woman who married at the average age of 23 ½ could expect a reproductive span of about 20 years. In New England, where women typically married at 20 or 21, the potential years for giving birth increased by those two or three years. The typical English woman would give birth six or seven times. [Plimoth Plantation Faculty, 'Raising Children in the Early 17th Century: Demographics' (pdf)]
The first thing to note about this is its very high 'oh my GOD!' quotient. That's astonishing. In the 16th and 17th centuries, 60 out of 100 children died before they reached adulthood. There's nowhere in the world today that has anything like that -- not Somalia, not Afghanistan (the current world-leader in infant mortality rates, with 121 deaths per 1000 live births) (compare the UK's 4.5), nowhere. It was a holocaust.

What about subsequently? Well rates stayed stubbornly high until the end of the nineteenth-century:
Toward the end of the 19th century, before the wide-spread recognition that bacteria was a major cause of illness, rates of infant mortality throughout the world were much higher than they are today. It was common for 20% or more of all infants in many populations to die before they reached their first birthday, and often mortality rates were even higher for children between the ages of one and five. In the last years of the 19th century, large areas of Russia had an infant mortality rate of nearly 28%. In 1901, the infant mortality rate in England, birthplace of the industrial revolution and capital of a global empire, was 16%. By 1930 the number of infant deaths had declined dramatically in many countries as the causes of infection came to be understood. Most progress up to this point was due to precautions such as hand washing and sterilization of milk rather than to actual medical advances, since antibiotics and sulfa drugs—the first medications that were really effective in fighting infection—were not developed until the late 1930s and 1940s. Although data on infant mortality in the developing nations is much less complete than the figures for the developed world, it is clear that the world's poorer countries have made dramatic progress in lowering infant mortality in the 20th century, due in large part to public health programs, especially those that have combated malaria through mosquito control. Availability of medication and immunization have also played a major role in improving infant health in developing nations.

In 1993 the infant mortality rate worldwide was 69 deaths per 1,000 live births, according to figures released by the United Nations Population Fund (the U.S. Census Bureau figures are slightly lower). The U.N. also reported an average infant mortality rate for the world's industrialized nations of 12 deaths per 1,000 live births. According to the U.S. Census Bureau's World Population Profile, the highest ratio of infant deaths (177 per 1,000 live births) was found in the Western Sahara and the lowest (four per 1,000) in Japan. The 1993 infant mortality rate in the United States was 8.4 per 1,000, ranking it twenty-second among the world's developed nations (a rank it maintained over the following two years, according to preliminary data for 1994 and 1995). The relatively high rate of infant deaths in the U.S. compared to Japan and Western Europe is largely accounted for by high infant mortality rates among low-income minority populations. [Thomson Gale, 'Infant Mortality' (1998)]

Tuesday 24 September 2013

Speaking as a parent, I'd say this is good advice.

'[Victorian] children's literature becomes extremely moralistic, associating violent punishment with even minor misbehaviour: obey your parents, or you'll become an orphan, do not play with matches or you will burn the whole house down.' [Anne Lundin, '"Victorian Horizons: the Reception of Children's Books in England and America', The Library Quarterly 64:1, 34]

Monday 16 September 2013

Elizabethan Peers

Well, this is interesting:
In the first fourteen years of her reign, Queen Elizabeth created seven English peers (Lord Hunsdon, Lord St John of Bletsoe, Viscount Bindon, the Earl of Leicester, Lord Buckhurst, Lord Burghley and Lord Norris of Rycote). She also restored the attainted Marquis of Northampton and the heirs of two other attainted peers (the Earls of Hertford and Warwick) and promoted two peers within the peerage (the Earls of Essex and Lincoln). Thereafter (it was after the aristocratic conspiracies of I569-72) her parsimony of peerages was heroic. Except for two members of the Howard family, both honoured in 1597 (Lord Thomas Howard, created Lord Howard de Walden, and Lord Howard of Effingham, promoted to the earldom of Nottingham), she neither created nor promoted, in a space of thirty-one years, a single peer. In these years abeyance, extinction and attainder absolutely diminished the peerage. [H. R. Trevor-Roper, 'The Elizabethan Aristocracy: An Anatomy Anatomized' The Economic History Review, n.s. 3:3 (1951), 295]

Another William Howard note

From Robert W. Kenny, 'Parliamentary Influence of Charles Howard, Earl of Nottingham, 1536-1624' [The Journal of Modern History 39:3 (1967), 215-232]:
What finally emerges from biographical data is something less than a "Howard party" in the commons, but still a group of some significance as loyal followers of crown policy. In 1586, the first parliament after Howard became one of the great officers of state, the only member with close ties to the lord admiral was his brother, sitting for Reigate. Other connections were peripheral: Thomas Knyvet and George Lewis were cousins but perhaps! not dependents; William More was as much a colleague as a follower. And the identification of John Young remains a little uncertain. Just after the Armada, the lord admiral's prestige was higher and his parliamentary position somewhat stronger- William Howard, More, Knyvet, Young, and another Lewis, but, in addition, Julius Caesar and the two Levesons. The size of the "following" declined somewhat in 1593. Howard had full control over Bletchingley and Reigate, sending William Howard, John Trevor, Julius Caesar, and Stephen Riddlesden; but there was scarcely anybody else that might be included except for William More, once again knight for Surrey.

In 1597 Howard's strength had improved. There were still members of possible or peripheral connection, Young at Shoreham and Nicholas Hawkins at Cardiff, and a rather larger number of dependable votes. There was one Howard representing Surrey and another Reigate, two Trevors representing Bletchingley, Julius Caesar at Windsor, and Sir Robert Southwell at Guildford. It was in 1601 that Nottingham's influence in commons seems to have reached its peak. Two Howard sons were county members for Surrey and Sussex, and a nephew sat for Reigate. There were two Trevors, at Reigate and Tregony, Caesars at Windsor and Appleby, Robert Mansell at King's Lynn and Wil liam Monson at Malmesbury. Then William, the Lewis with the closest ties to the Gamages, was returned for Cardiff and Thomas Knyvet had his customary seat at Westminster. So in 1601 the lord admiral would have had at least nine, and perhaps eleven, members in his interest, even if the electors at Bletchingley had rebelled. The 1601 parliament was the time of Nottingham's greatest political power, when Essex had been destroyed and he and Cecil were without rivals as holders of the: queen's confidence; it is not surprising, then, that the electoral appeal of his followers might be greater. [229-30]
1601 and immediately afterwards, then, would have been a good time to start sucking up to the Howards; perhaps by dedicating collections of honeyed sonnets to the eldest son. (Kenny's argument in this paper is that Nottingham, though 'a man whose name is familiar to the schoolboy but whose personality and consequence have remained-perhaps deservedly-obscure'; on account of the 'shortage' of documents relating to him. [215])

Friday 13 September 2013

George Orwell's last review

Orwell never lived to complete his last review, which was of Waugh's Brideshead Revisited. It peters out into notes ('Analyse "Brideshead Revisited." (Note faults due to being written in first person.) Studiously detached attitude. Not puritanical. Priests not superhuman ... But. Last scene, where the unconscious man makes the sign of the Cross. Note that after all the veneer is bound to crack sooner or later. One cannot really be Catholic and grown-up. Conclude. Waugh is about as good a novelist as one can be (i.e. as novelists go today) while holding untenable opinions'). But the opening paragraph is just marvellous:
Within the last few decades, in countries like Britain or the United States, the literary intelligentsia has grown large enough to constitute a world in itself. One important result of this is that the opinions which a writer feels frightened of expressing are not those which are disapproved of by society as a whole. To a great extent, what is still loosely thought of as heterodoxy has become orthodoxy. It is nonsense to pretend, for instance, that at this date there is something daring and original in proclaiming yourself an anarchist, an atheist, a pacifist, etc. The daring thing, or at any rate the unfashionable thing, is to believe in God or to approve of the capitalist system. In 1895, when Oscar Wilde was jailed, it must have needed very considerable moral courage to defend homosexuality. Today it would need no courage at all: today the equivalent action would be, perhaps, to defend antisemitism. But this example that I have chosen immediately reminds one of something else—namely, that one cannot judge the value of an opinion simply by the amount of courage that is required in holding it.

Wednesday 4 September 2013


Kids resent going to school because they feel they’re missing out on something. On what? On the magic life of adults? I’m old enough to remember being taken into town by adults who would park me and my sister outside a bookies, or a pub, whilst they popped-in to perform whatever incomprehensible things it was that adults did in such ‘no kids allowed’ venues. Standing on tip-toes to try and see over that portion of the windows opaqued with frosted glass; or snatching glances through the swinging entrance door as people went in, or came out—it was exciting. Of course the glamour of it was wholly a function of its mystery, and now that I am an adult (wa-ay past twenty-one) I understand that there is nothing but seediness beyond the magic door. What adults do when the kids are at school is dull, not glamorous. They go to work. But kids go to school to work too. It’s not much a secret to say that kids go to school not to work at their ‘learning’ so much as to learn work, more specifically to learn the rhythms and habits of work, sitting at a desk, fulfilling tasks handed down by their superiors, keeping regular hours. What happens when you feign sickness and skive off school? You end up watching daytime television, which activity starts out fun, and very quickly becomes boring. But perhaps this is a glimpse into a deeper mystery. What is it adults do all day? They are bored, which situation they fight more-or-less desperate rear-guard actions against, by (amongst other things) visiting betting shops and pubs.

Thursday 29 August 2013

On Maturity, Christianity, Bombs

Thinking about childishness. Yesterday, I observed a group of 13/14-year-olds in Bracknell Waterstones larking about (it being school holidays) and despite the sour glances of middle-aged book-browsers. Not me: I approve of kids larking about on principle. The principle, precisely, of kiddishness. But then one of them rebuked the others, in that owl-hooty, deep/suddenly-piping/deep-again voice adolescents use: 'oh God you're so immature!' I remember that from my own school days: 'immature' was a frequently deployed put-down. How we yearned to be mature! To be suave, confident, to smoke cigarettes and have kneeling women clutching our left-hand-sides whilst we stared moodily out at camera with our arms crossed, like James Bond. Now that I am mature I have to say: I am/do none of those things. But I wasn't to know that in 1978.

Now, in one sense, the desire to be 'mature' is very obviously a good thing: It's one of those magnetic forces drawing us through teenagerdom towards the Land of Grown Up. But it has its pernicious side. Or do I mean: the Land of Grown Up has comprehensively misunderstood what 'maturity' means? There's a reason why it's kids who fret most about it.

These thoughts have been occasioned by my listening to a number of Christian commentators on the radio about the current situation in the Middle East. I wonder about a particular tangle of motivations in the souls of Christians who seek to engage with the larger world, especially those who think such engagement must involve sending in 'our' military. What interests me is how such Christians square their faith with their ideology. I don't say so in a sneering way, incidentally: for though there doubtless are hypocrites amongst the ranks of Christians, as there are amongst every other group, many believers strive in good faith to constellate what the New Testament tells them about turning the other cheek and becoming again as a little child, and what their heads tell them about the need to engage in the world in a more -- shall we say -- mature manner than that.

I often feel that many Christians labour with a buried, or half-buried, sense of 'all that peace, love and forgiveness stuff is fine for kids; but sadly we are grown-ups and must deal with a grown-up world.' A little while ago I wondered whether the enduring appeal of Lewis's Narnia books doesn't have something to do with this, the way those novels elevate the Lion of Judah ('an aspect of Christ only marginally adumbrated in the Bible') to the central expression of the messiah’s nature.
The lamb pops up too, from time to time, in the later books; but you can’t help feeling that, subconsciously, Lewis just wanted a more carnivorous Jesus than the one supplied by his actual Bible. A Christ with bigger teeth.

This is political too, of course; and for many (genuine, devout) Christians part of the struggle of their faith is precisely to find a way of decanting off all the hippy, Communist, wimpiness with which their saviour is characterised in the NT. There is a certain type of Conservative for whom, the cosier he is at home, the more he feels that Christian values of ‘love’, ‘mercy’, ‘forgiveness’ and ‘turning the other cheek’ are best manifested in the world via helicopter gunships, daisycutters and the sanctioned torture of tan-skinned detainees.
That last bit is a touch snidely put, I concede; but there's a real question behind my rhetoric. The question is: why do we tend to assume, in our post Lord of the Flies, post-Battle-Royale world, that becoming again as a little child is the same thing as abduring violence? Do we really think kids aren't violent? The issue is maturity; and violence, whatever else it may be, and whatever other satisfactions it offers us, is not mature. The moment when you stop debating with somebody and instead punch them on the nose is the moment your maturity deserts you. The thought of all those fireworky explosions going off in Syria (boom! smash! crash!) is the sort of thing that delights a 5-year-old, not a 35-year-old.

Wednesday 28 August 2013

Gulielmus Howardus

Following up on this speculation about the identity of Shakespeare's sonnets and their dedicatee, Mr W.H., I have been in a more-or-less desultory manner searching for any other dedications to William Howard from the 1590s and 1600s. I haven't found any, but I did find this. It is a 1592 edition of Florence of Worcester's Chronicon ex chronicis (from the early 12th-century), edited by 'William Howard'. Is it my man?

Now the William Howard I'm interested in (eldest son of the Lord High Admiral, Baron Howard of Effingham) was born in 1577. That means he turned seventeen in 1592, when this book was published. Accordingly it is unlikely, to say the least, that this is the same William Howard. Except, except! Could editing the Chronicon ex chronicis have been, as it were, a scholar's task given to a bright schoolboy by his tutor?

The book is dedicated to William Cecil, Lord Burleigh. One relevant context here has to do with the main factions at Elizabeth's court. One such faction comprised supporters of Burleigh, amongst the most prominent of whom was Charles Howard -- his company of players, the Admiral's Men, was known for its pro-Burleigh bias. Another consisted of supporters of Essex, to whom Shakesperare's Lord Chamberlain's men are sometimes thought to have inclined. Given that the bibliophilic Burleigh was a family friend of the Howards, it would perhaps make sense for a young W.H. to dedicate his project to 'GULIHELMO CECILIO, BARONI DE BURGLEGH'
Cum nuper, vir honoratissime, nonnulli venerandae antiquitatis admiratores, mihi cupidius instarent, ut hunc libellum apud me latentem, non tam quidem stylo tersum, ac oratione politum, quam inventu rarum et lectu jucundum divulgan pateret, nimis inhumanum videbatur tam aequum flagitantibus non annuere, praesertim cum publica multorum utilitas, privatae meae solius voluptati merito sit praeferenda. Horum precibus, quas pro postulati aequitate repudiare non debui, et pro necessitudinis vinculo diutius sustinere non potui, jam tandem victus concessi. Jamque operi e tenebris in lucem prodituro patronus defuit. Unus occurrebas eo nomine inprimis dignus. Hoc igitur qualitercunque elaboratum, umbra tuae amplitudinis, tanquam praecipui literarum Maecenatis, tegere ausus sum, tum ob solidissimum tuum in iisdem judicium, tum propter eximium amorem, quo id genus studii fautores prosequi semper dignatus es. Nec dubito quin pro tua solita et singulari bonitate, quae mihi nunquam defuit, conatus hosce meos in alienis vigiliis edendis, quum nihil dignum oculis, dignum auribus tuis meo Marte proferre valeo, tanquam grati animi et summorum tuorum erga me beneficiorum non obliti pignus sis accepturus: pro quibus, quod solum possum, semper et ubique me tui observantissimum fore et polliceor et praestabo. Amplitudinis tuae deditissimus, GUIELMUS HOWARDUS.
Which means:
It is only recently, my most honourable lord, that various admirers of venerable antiquity eagerly brought this little book out of its hiding place and pressed it upon me, not only, indeed, on account of its polished oration, but that I am always keen to find such rare works for the delight both of reading them and (my pen cleaned and ready) of disseminating them to the world; so that it seemed to me a cruelty to deny their request [to publish it], especially since the work in question tends not only towards private pleasure but towards the public good. I could not reject the fairness of the petition or ignore their entreaties, on account of the bond of solidarity I hold with them; and unable to hold out any longer, I have at last now acceded to them. So that now only a patron is lacking to help the work emerge from the darkness and into the light. Your name was the first to present itself: one most worthy to the task. Therefore, whether the work be well done or not, I have taken the liberty of hiding it beneath the ample shade cast by your mighty name, as important to literature as was Maecenas himself; you yourself being as renowned for your fine judgement as for the love with which you support this manner of study. I have no doubts concerning your singular virtue, and never have doubted it whilst I laboured editing these efforts; that where my sense of gratitude, though unworthy of your eyes and ears, my great Mars, can at least pledge my indebtedness to the high honour of serving you, the honour of which is always and everywhere most evident to me, and I promise so to continue.
Your most devoted WILLIAM HOWARD
Which is so far, so conventional. What about the epistle to Howard's 'candid readers'?
Ecce, benigne lector, tot evolutis saxulis prodit in lucem, et censurae tuae se subjicit opusculum: si auctorem quaeris, Florentii eruditi Wigoruiae monachi: si originem, ab ipsis mundi incunabulis ad Henrici Primi, regis Angliae, tempora deductum: si materiam, tam extra quam domestica gesta continens: et nisi multorum, quod vix fieri posse arbitror, erret judicium, quod praelo mandetur inprimis dignum. Hoc cum jamdiu intra privatos parietes conclusum latuisset, quorundam bortatu animum induxi meum, sumptus aliquos et operam meam in eodem divulgando impendere: maxime in eorum gratiam, qui se totos huic nunquam satis laudato studio devoverunt. Ut autem ad hujus operis pleniorem cognitionem, tanquam Theseo filo, ducaris, liceat mihi bona tua cum venia te prагmonere, auctorem in sua annorum computatione duas observare series, unam secundum Dionysium, cui in vertice paginae haec nota S. D. prаsfigitur: alteram secundum Evangelium, cui ex adverso S. E. indicis loco praeponuntur. Quas quidem series xxn. annis inter se discrepare invenies. ******** Quantum ad historiam spectat, ab antiquo exemplari ne latum quidcm unguem discessi; quo factum est ut nonnuuquam coactus fuerim aliqua manca et mutilata relinquere, cum nullum aliud adesset exemplar quod istius lacunas supplere posset. Hujus operis, ut ante dixi, auctor fuit Florentius, ecclesiae cathedralis Wigorniae monachus, qui historiam suam ab initio mundi ad annum a partu Virginis M.cxviii. deduxit, in quo vitatn una cum opere finivit, quod inde postea ab alio ejusdem ceenobii viro, anonymo, usque ad annum M.cxLi. fuit continuatum: quanto vero ulterius ac nostro saeculo vicinius illa se extendat historia incertus sum, propterea quod libellus unde continuationis illius pars desumitur, aliud est ejusdem auctoris opus, sed imperfectum in fine: quem libellum mihi utendum tradidit dominus Gulielmus Lambardus, cujus multiplicis et non vulgaris eruditionis passim extant pulcherrima testimonia. Quod solum restat, hortarer te, amice lector, nisi eo te duceret naturae tuae candor, ut errata, quae inter excudendum irrepserunt, studio et ardore meo placendi tibi condones. Quod si feceris, sumptui ac operae meae, si quae fuit, abunde satisfacies: et alios pariter incitabis, ut majorum nostrorum lucubrationes, tenebris obductis, quarum quamplures adhuc extant, ad publicam potius utilitatem divulgent, quam ad suam voluptatem sibi detineant. Vale. Calend. Aug. м.dxcii.
Which begins:
Behold (gracious reader) how after the lapse of so many years this little work is produced into the light, and submits itself to your censure. You ask me how it can be that Florence, one of the learned monks of Worcester, was correctly able to lay out things from the very cradle of the world to the time of Henry the First, King of England: and how he was able correctly to record both domestic and also continental affairs.
And ends:
It only remains to urge you, dear reader, to draw on the excellence of your own nature and pardon any mistakes which may have crept into the printing, excusing them as marks of my enthusiasm and eagerness to please you. If you do, the cost and labour expended on this work will be amply repaid if only it encourage others to look again at the lucubrations of our ancestors (many of which are yet extant, though obscured in darkness) in order to publish them for the public good, rather than be occupied only by their own pleasure. Goodbye. Aug. 1592.

Does this sound like a young and eager scholar? Could it be this William Howard? Hints in that direction: a 'stylus tersus', a wiped or cleaned pen, is something a schoolboy might use. The exaggerated respect for 'venerable ancestors' reads, perhaps, like a youngling sucking up to his elders, as does the reference to 'studio et ardore meo' in the epistle. The reference in the dedication to the book being brought to him, even of its being pressed upon him, rather than it being something he himself discovered, reads to me like a student recording the imposition of a scholarly task.

UPDATE. A piece of evidence from this Book Auction catalogue from 1904, which records the sale of a copy of this very edition, inscribed on the cover: 'Gulielmo Lambardo dedit dominus Gulielmus Howardus', which is to say: 'Lord William Howard gave this to William Lambarde.' (The catalogue dates the book to '1570' in error). William Lambarde (1536-1601) was this fellow: he knew Elizabeth personally, and was a family friend of the Howards'.

SECOND UPDATE. Here's another piece of evidence, not only that our William Howard (ie the son of the Lord Admiral) was the editor of this edition, but that he was sometimes addressed, his nobility notwithstanding, as 'Mr': it's William Cave's Scriptorum ecclesiasticorum Historia literaria (1688), where the edition of 'Florence of Worcestor's Chronicon ex chronicis is recorded as having been edited for publication by 'nobilissimus Vir Gulielmus Howardus, postea Comes Northamptonensis'; 'the most noble Mr. William Howard, afterwards Earl of Northampton' (the capital 'V' of 'Vir', there, shows that Cave doesn't mean 'that most noble man ...' but rather 'the most noble Mr. W. H.').

PS. Howard's edition was printed by 'Thomas Dawson for Richard Watkins'. Watkins' apprentice, Richard Bonian, published a licensed edition of Shakespeare's Troilus and Cressida in 1609 (the year the Sonnets were published). As for Thomas Thorpe, publisher of those sonnets and author of the dedication to Mr. W.H.: well, Sidney Lee's 1905 life of Shakespeare, quoting Arber’s Transcripts of the Registers of the Stationer’s Company, tells us that Thorpe was an innkeeper’s son from Barnet, who was in ‘midsummer 1584 ... apprenticed for nine years to a reputable printer and stationer, Richard Watkins. Nearly ten years later he took up the freedom of the Stationers’ Company, and was thereby qualified to set up as a publisher in his own right.’ That means that William Howard very likely had dealings with Thomas Thorpe in 1592, as he brought his schoolboy Latin project to the press.


FINAL UPDATE. All for nothing! Turns out this edition has nothing to do with the Admiral's son, whatever William Cave thought in 1688. It was edited by a different, much older Lord William Howard (1563-1640). Judging by his DNB article, he was something of a dangerous fellow, politically. But none of this is of any use to me; for this W.H. is too old for the Sonnets. Bah!