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diff --git a/21793-h/21793-h.htm b/21793-h/21793-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1c34d3d --- /dev/null +++ b/21793-h/21793-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6575 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Obiter Dicta</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + TD { vertical-align: top; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + color: gray;} + + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">Obiter Dicta, by Augustine Birrell</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Obiter Dicta, by Augustine Birrell + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Obiter Dicta + Second Series + + +Author: Augustine Birrell + + + +Release Date: June 10, 2007 [eBook #21793] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OBITER DICTA*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1896 Elliot Stock edition by David Price, +email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>OBITER DICTA.<br /> +<span class="smcap"><i>second series</i></span>.</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">by</span><br /> +AUGUSTINE BIRRELL.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Cheap Edition</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">london</span>:<br /> +<span class="smcap">elliot stock</span>, <span +class="smcap">62</span>, <span class="smcap">paternoster +row</span>.<br /> +1896.</p> +<h2><!-- page v--><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +v</span>PREFACE.</h2> +<p>I am sorry not to have been able to persuade my old friend, +George Radford, who wrote the paper on ‘Falstaff’ in +the former volume, to contribute anything to the second series of +<i>Obiter Dicta</i>. In order to enjoy the pleasure of +reading your own books over and over again, it is essential that +they should be written either wholly or in part by somebody +else.</p> +<p>Critics will probably be found ready to assert that this +little book has no right to exist, since it exhibits nothing +worthy of the name of research, being written by one who has +never been inside the reading-room of the British Museum. +Neither does it expound any theory, save the unworthy one that +literature ought to <!-- page vi--><a name="pagevi"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. vi</span>please; nor does it so much as +introduce any new name or forgotten author to the attention of +what is facetiously called ‘the reading public.’</p> +<p>But I shall be satisfied with a mere <i>de facto</i> existence +for the book, if only it prove a little interesting to men and +women who, called upon to pursue, somewhat too rigorously for +their liking, their daily duties, are glad, every now and again, +when their feet are on the fender, and they are surrounded by +such small luxuries as their theories of life will allow them to +enjoy, to be reminded of things they once knew more familiarly +than now, of books they once had by heart, and of authors they +must ever love.</p> +<p>The first two papers are here printed for the first time; the +others have been so treated before, and now reappear, pulled +about a little, with the kind permission of the proper +parties.</p> +<p>3, <span class="smcap">New Square</span>, <span +class="smcap">Lincoln’s Inn</span>.<br /> +<i>April</i>, 1887.</p> +<h2><!-- page 1--><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +1</span>JOHN MILTON.</h2> +<p>It is now more than sixty years ago since Mr. Carlyle took +occasion to observe, in his Life of Schiller, that, except the +Newgate Calendar, there was no more sickening reading than the +biographies of authors.</p> +<p>Allowing for the vivacity of the comparison, and only +remarking, with reference to the Newgate Calendar, that its +compilers have usually been very inferior wits, in fact +attorneys, it must be owned that great creative and inventive +genius, the most brilliant gifts of bright fancy and happy +expression, and a glorious imagination, well-nigh seeming as if +it must be inspired, have too often been found most unsuitably +lodged in ill-living and scandalous mortals. Though few +things, even in what is called Literature, are more disgusting +than to hear small critics, who earn their bite and sup by acting +as the self-appointed showmen of the <!-- page 2--><a +name="page2"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 2</span>works of their +betters, heaping terms of moral opprobrium upon those whose +genius is, if not exactly a lamp unto our feet, at all events a +joy to our hearts,—still, not even genius can repeal the +Decalogue, or re-write the sentence of doom, ‘He which is +filthy, let him be filthy still.’ It is therefore +permissible to wish that some of our great authors had been +better men.</p> +<p>It is possible to dislike John Milton. Men have been +found able to do so, and women too; amongst these latter his +daughters, or one of them at least, must even be included. +But there is nothing sickening about his biography, for it is the +life of one who early consecrated himself to the service of the +highest Muses, who took labour and intent study as his portion, +who aspired himself to be a noble poem, who, Republican though he +became, is what Carlyle called him, the moral king of English +literature.</p> +<p>Milton was born in Bread Street, Cheapside, on the 9th of +December, 1608. This is most satisfactory, though indeed +what might have been expected. There is a notable +disposition nowadays, amongst the meaner-minded provincials, to +carp and gird at the claims of London to be considered the +mother-city of the Anglo-Saxon race, to regret her pre-eminence, +and sneer at <!-- page 3--><a name="page3"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 3</span>her fame. In the matters of +municipal government, gas, water, fog, and snow, much can be +alleged and proved against the English capital, but in the domain +of poetry, which I take to be a nation’s best guaranteed +stock, it may safely be said that there are but two shrines in +England whither it is necessary for the literary pilgrim to carry +his cockle hat and shoon—London, the birthplace of Chaucer, +Spenser, Ben Jonson, Milton, Herrick, Pope, Gray, Blake, Keats, +and Browning, and Stratford-upon-Avon, the birthplace of +Shakespeare. Of English poets it may be said generally they +are either born in London or remote country places. The +large provincial towns know them not. Indeed, nothing is +more pathetic than the way in which these dim, destitute places +hug the memory of any puny whipster of a poet who may have been +born within their statutory boundaries. This has its +advantages, for it keeps alive in certain localities fames that +would otherwise have utterly perished. Parnassus has +forgotten all about poor Henry Kirke White, but the lace +manufacturers of Nottingham still name him with whatever degree +of reverence they may respectively consider to be the due of +letters. Manchester is yet mindful of Dr. John Byrom. +Liverpool clings to Roscoe.</p> +<p><!-- page 4--><a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +4</span>Milton remained faithful to his birth-city, though, like +many another Londoner, when he was persecuted in one house he +fled into another. From Bread Street he moved to St. +Bride’s Churchyard, Fleet Street; from Fleet Street to +Aldersgate Street; from Aldersgate Street to the Barbican; from +the Barbican to the south side of Holborn; from the south side of +Holborn to what is now called York Street, Westminster; from York +Street, Westminster, to the north side of Holborn; from the north +side of Holborn to Jewin Street; from Jewin Street to his last +abode in Bunhill Fields. These are not vain repetitions if +they serve to remind a single reader how all the enchantments of +association lie about him. Englishwomen have been found +searching about Florence for the street where George Eliot +represents Romola as having lived, who have admitted never having +been to Jewin Street, where the author of <i>Lycidas</i> and +<i>Paradise Lost</i> did in fact live.</p> +<p>Milton’s father was the right kind of father, amiable, +accomplished, and well-to-do. He was by business what was +then called a scrivener, a term which has received judicial +interpretation, and imported a person who arranged loans on +mortgage, receiving a commission for so doing. <!-- page +5--><a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span>The +poet’s mother, whose baptismal name was Sarah (his father +was, like himself, John), was a lady of good extraction, and +approved excellence and virtue. We do not know very much +about her, for the poet was one of those rare men of genius who +are prepared to do justice to their fathers. Though Sarah +Milton did not die till 1637, she only knew her son as the author +of <i>Comus</i>, though it is surely a duty to believe that no +son would have poems like <i>L’Allegro</i> and <i>Il +Penseroso</i> in his desk, and not at least once produce them and +read them aloud to his mother. These poems, though not +published till 1645, were certainly composed in his +mother’s life. She died before the troubles began, +the strife and contention in which her well-graced son, the poet, +the dreamer of all things beautiful and cultured, the author of +the glancing, tripping measure—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee<br +/> +Jest and youthful jollity’—</p> +</blockquote> +<p>was destined to take a part, so eager and so fierce, and for +which he was to sacrifice twenty years of a poet’s +life.</p> +<p>The poet was sent to St. Paul’s School, where he had +excellent teaching of a humane and <!-- page 6--><a +name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>expanding +character, and he early became, what he remained until his sight +left him, a strenuous reader and a late student.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Or let my lamp at midnight hour<br /> +Be seen on some high, lonely tower,<br /> +Where I may oft outwatch the Bear.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Whether the maid who was told off by the elder Milton to sit +up till twelve or one o’clock in the morning for this +wonderful Pauline realized that she was a kind of doorkeeper in +the house of genius, and blessed accordingly, is not known, and +may be doubted. When sixteen years old Milton proceeded to +Christ’s College, Cambridge, where his memory is still +cherished; and a mulberry-tree, supposed in some way to be his, +rather unkindly kept alive. Milton was not a submissive +pupil; in fact, he was never a submissive anything, for there is +point in Dr. Johnson’s malicious remark, that man in +Milton’s opinion was born to be a rebel, and woman a +slave.</p> +<p>But in most cases, at all events, the rebel did well to be +rebellious, and perhaps he was never so entirely in the right as +when he protested against the slavish traditions of Cambridge +educational methods in 1625.</p> +<p>Universities must, however, at all times prove <!-- page +7--><a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +7</span>disappointing places to the young and ingenuous soul, who +goes up to them eager for literature, seeing in every don a +devotee to intellectual beauty, and hoping that lectures will, by +some occult process—the <i>genius loci</i>—initiate +him into the mysteries of taste and the storehouses of +culture. And then the improving conversation, the flashing +wit, the friction of mind with mind,—these are looked for, +but hardly found; and the young scholar groans in spirit, and +perhaps does as Milton did—quarrels with his tutor. +But if he is wise he will, as Milton also did, make it up again, +and get the most that he can from his stony-hearted stepmother +before the time comes for him to bid her his <i>Vale vale et +æternum vale</i>.</p> +<p>Milton remained seven years at Cambridge—from 1625 to +1632—from his seventeenth to his twenty-fourth year. +Any intention or thought he ever may have had of taking orders he +seems early to have rejected with a characteristic scorn. +He considered a state of subscription to articles a state of +slavery, and Milton was always determined, whatever else he was +or might become, to be his own man. Though never in +sympathy with the governing tone of the place, there is no reason +to suppose that Milton (any more than <!-- page 8--><a +name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 8</span>others) found +this lack seriously to interfere with a fair amount of good solid +enjoyment from day to day. He had friends who courted his +society, and pursuits both grave and gay to occupy his hours of +study and relaxation. He was called the ‘Lady’ +of his college, on account of his personal beauty and the purity +and daintiness of his life and conversation.</p> +<p>After leaving Cambridge Milton began his life, so attractive +to one’s thoughts, at Horton, in Buckinghamshire, where his +father had a house in which his mother was living. Here, +for five years, from his twenty-fourth to his twenty-ninth +year—a period often stormy in the lives of poets—he +continued his work of self-education. Some of his Cambridge +friends appear to have grown a little anxious, on seeing one who +had distinction stamped upon his brow, doing what the world calls +nothing; and Milton himself was watchful, and even +suspicious. His second sonnet records this state of +feeling:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of +youth,<br /> +Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!<br /> +My hasting days fly on with full career,<br /> +But my late spring no bud or blossom shew’th.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And yet no poet had ever a more beautiful springtide, though +it was restless, as spring <!-- page 9--><a +name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>should be, with +the promise of greater things and ‘high midsummer +pomps.’ These latter it was that were postponed +almost too long.</p> +<p>Milton at Horton made up his mind to be a great +poet—neither more nor less; and with that end in view he +toiled unceasingly. A more solemn dedication of a man by +himself to the poetical office cannot be imagined. +Everything about him became, as it were, pontifical, almost +sacramental. A poet’s soul must contain the perfect +shape of all things good, wise, and just. His body must be +spotless and without blemish, his life pure, his thoughts high, +his studies intense. There was no drinking at the +‘Mermaid’ for John Milton. His thoughts, like +his joys, were not those that</p> +<blockquote><p>‘are in widest commonalty spread.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>When in his walks he met the Hodge of his period, he is more +likely to have thought of a line in Virgil than of stopping to +have a chat with the poor fellow. He became a student of +the Italian language, and writes to a friend: ‘I who +certainly have not merely wetted the tip of my lips in the stream +of these (the classical) languages, but in proportion to my years +have swallowed the most copious draughts, can yet <!-- page +10--><a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +10</span>sometimes retire with avidity and delight to feast on +Dante, Petrarch, and many others; nor has Athens itself been able +to confine me to the transparent waves of its Ilissus, nor +ancient Rome to the banks of its Tiber, so as to prevent my +visiting with delight the streams of the Arno and the hills of +Fæsolæ.’</p> +<p>Now it was that he, in his often-quoted words written to the +young Deodati, doomed to an early death, was meditating ‘an +immortality of fame,’ letting his wings grow and preparing +to fly. But dreaming though he ever was of things to come, +none the less, it was at Horton he composed <i>Comus</i>, +<i>Lycidas</i>, <i>L’Allegro</i>, and <i>Il Penseroso</i>, +poems which enable us half sadly to realize how much went and how +much was sacrificed to make the author of <i>Paradise +Lost</i>.</p> +<p>After five years’ retirement Milton began to feel the +want of a little society, of the kind that is ‘quiet, wise, +and good,’ and he meditated taking chambers in one of the +Inns of Court, where he could have a pleasant and shady walk +under ‘immemorial elms,’ and also enjoy the +advantages of a few choice associates at home and an elegant +society abroad. The death of his mother in 1637 gave his +thoughts another direction, and he obtained his father’s +permission <!-- page 11--><a name="page11"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 11</span>to travel to Italy, ‘that +woman-country, wooed not wed,’ which has been the mistress +of so many poetical hearts, and was so of John +Milton’s. His friends and relatives saw but one +difficulty in the way. John Milton the younger, though not +at this time a Nonconformist, was a stern and unbending +Protestant, and was as bitter an opponent of His Holiness the +Pope as he certainly would have been, had his days been +prolonged, of His Majesty the Pretender.</p> +<p>There is something very characteristic in this almost inflamed +hostility in the case of a man with such love of beauty and +passion for architecture and music as always abided in Milton, +and who could write:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘But let my due feet never fail<br /> +To walk the studious cloisters’ pale,<br /> +And love the high embowèd roof,<br /> +With antique pillars massy-proof,<br /> +And storied windows richly dight,<br /> +Casting a dim, religious light.<br /> +There let the pealing organ blow<br /> +To the full-voiced quire below,<br /> +In service high and anthems clear,<br /> +As may with sweetness, through mine ear,<br /> +Dissolve me into ecstasies,<br /> +And bring all heaven before my eyes.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Here surely is proof of an æsthetic nature beyond most +of our modern raptures; but none the less, <!-- page 12--><a +name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 12</span>and at the +very same time, Rome was for Milton the ‘grim wolf’ +who, ‘with privy paw, daily devours apace.’ It +is with a sigh of sad sincerity that Dr. Newman admits that +Milton breathes through his pages a hatred of the Catholic +Church, and consequently the Cardinal feels free to call him a +proud and rebellious creature of God. That Milton was both +proud and rebellious cannot be disputed. Nonconformists +need not claim him for their own with much eagerness. What +he thought of Presbyterians we know, and he was never a church +member, or indeed a church-goer. Dr. Newman has admitted +that the poet Pope was an unsatisfactory Catholic; Milton was +certainly an unsatisfactory Dissenter. Let us be candid in +these matters. Milton was therefore bidden by his friends, +and by those with whom he took counsel, to hold his peace whilst +in Rome about the ‘grim wolf,’ and he promised to do +so, adding, however, the Miltonic proviso that this was on +condition that the Papists did not attack his religion +first. ‘If anyone,’ he wrote, ‘in the +very city of the Pope attacked the orthodox religion, I defended +it most freely.’ To call the Protestant religion, +which had not yet attained to its second century, the orthodox +religion <!-- page 13--><a name="page13"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 13</span>under the shadow of the Vatican was +to have the courage of his opinions. But Milton was not a +man to be frightened of schism. That his religious opinions +should be peculiar probably seemed to him to be almost +inevitable, and not unbecoming. He would have agreed with +Emerson, who declares that would man be great he must be a +Nonconformist.</p> +<p>There is something very fascinating in the records we have of +Milton’s one visit to the Continent. A more +impressive Englishman never left our shores. Sir Philip +Sidney perhaps approaches him nearest. Beautiful beyond +praise, and just sufficiently conscious of it to be careful never +to appear at a disadvantage, dignified in manners, versed in +foreign tongues, yet full of the ancient learning—a +gentleman, a scholar, a poet, a musician, and a +Christian—he moved about in a leisurely manner from city to +city, writing Latin verses for his hosts and Italian sonnets in +their ladies’ albums, buying books and music, and creating, +one cannot doubt, an all too flattering impression of an English +Protestant. To travel in Italy with Montaigne or Milton, or +Evelyn or Gray, or Shelley, or, pathetic as it is, with the dying +Sir Walter, is perhaps more instructive than to go there for <!-- +page 14--><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +14</span>yourself with a tourist’s ticket. Old +Montaigne, who was but forty-seven when he made his journey, and +whom therefore I would not call old had not Pope done so before +me, is the most delightful of travelling companions, and as easy +as an old shoe. A humaner man than Milton, a wiser man than +Evelyn—with none of the constraint of Gray, or the strange, +though fascinating, outlandishness of Shelley—he perhaps +was more akin to Scott than any of the other travellers; but +Scott went to Italy an overwhelmed man, whose only fear was he +might die away from the heather and the murmur of Tweed. +However, Milton is the most improving companion of them all, and +amidst the impurities of Italy, ‘in all the places where +vice meets with so little discouragement, and is protected with +so little shame,’ he remained the Milton of Cambridge and +Horton, and did nothing to pollute the pure temple of a +poet’s mind. He visited Paris, Nice, Genoa, Pisa, and +Florence, staying in the last city two months, and living on +terms of great intimacy with seven young Italians, whose musical +names he duly records. These were the months of August and +September, not nowadays reckoned safe months for Englishmen to be +in Florence—modern lives <!-- page 15--><a +name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span>being raised +in price. From Florence he proceeded through Siena to Rome, +where he also stayed two months. There he was present at a +magnificent entertainment given by the Cardinal Francesco +Barberini in his palace, and heard the singing of the celebrated +Leonora Baroni. It is not for one moment to be supposed +that he sought an interview with the Pope, as Montaigne had done, +who was exhorted by His Holiness ‘to persevere in the +devotion he had ever manifested in the cause of the +Church;’ and yet perhaps Montaigne by his essays did more +to sap the authority of Peter’s chair than Milton, however +willing, was able to do.</p> +<p>It has been remarked that Milton’s chief enthusiasm in +Italy was not art, but music, which falls in with +Coleridge’s <i>dictum</i>, that Milton is not so much a +picturesque as a musical poet—meaning thereby, I suppose, +that the effects which he produces and the scenes which he +portrays are rather suggested to us by the rhythm of his lines +than by actual verbal descriptions. From Rome Milton went +to Naples, whence he had intended to go to Sicily and Greece; but +the troubles beginning at home he forewent this pleasure, and +consequently never saw Athens, which was surely a <!-- page +16--><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span>great +pity. He returned to Rome, where, troubles or no troubles, +he stayed another two months. From Rome he went back to +Florence, which he found too pleasant to leave under two more +months. Then he went to Lucca, and so to Venice, where he +was very stern with himself, and only lingered a month. +From Venice he went to Milan, and then over the Alps to Geneva, +where he had dear friends. He was back in London in August, +1639, after an absence of fifteen months.</p> +<p>The times were troubled enough. Charles I., whose +literary taste was so good that one must regret the mischance +that placed a crown upon his comely head, was trying hard, at the +bidding of a priest, to thrust Episcopacy down Scottish throats, +who would not have it at any price. He was desperately in +need of money, and the House of Commons (which had then a +<i>raison d’être</i>) was not prepared to give him +any except on terms. Altogether it was an exciting time, +but Milton was in no way specially concerned in it. Milton +looms so large in our imagination amongst the figures of the +period that, despite Dr. Johnson’s sneers, we are apt to +forget his political insignificance, and to fancy him curtailing +his tour and returning home to <!-- page 17--><a +name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>take his +place amongst the leaders of the Parliament men. Return +home he did, but it was, as another pedagogue has reminded us, to +receive boys ‘to be boarded and instructed.’ +Dr. Johnson tells us that we ought not to allow our veneration +for Milton to rob us of a joke at the expense of a man ‘who +hastens home because his countrymen are contending for their +liberty, and when he reaches the scene of action vapours away his +patriotism in a private boarding-school;’ but that this +observation was dictated by the good Doctor’s spleen is +made plain by his immediately proceeding to point out, with his +accustomed good sense, that there is really nothing to laugh at, +since it was desirable that Milton, whose father was alive and +could only make him a small allowance, should do something, and +there was no shame in his adopting an honest and useful +employment.</p> +<p>To be a Parliament man was no part of the ambition of one who +still aspired to be a poet; who was not yet blind to the heavenly +vision; who was still meditating what should be his theme, and +who in the meantime chastised his sister’s sons, unruly +lads, who did him no credit and bore him no great love.</p> +<p><!-- page 18--><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +18</span>The Long Parliament met in November, 1640, and began its +work—brought Strafford to the scaffold, clapped Laud into +the Tower, Archbishop though he was, and secured as best they +could the permanency of Parliamentary institutions. None of +these things specially concerned John Milton. But there +also uprose the eternal Church question, ‘What sort of +Church are we to have?’ The fierce controversy raged, +and ‘its fair enticing fruit,’ spread round +‘with liberal hand,’ proved too much for the father +of English epic.</p> +<blockquote><p> ‘He +scrupled not to eat<br /> +Against his better knowledge.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>In other words, he commenced pamphleteer, and between May, +1641, and the following March he had written five pamphlets +against Episcopacy, and used an intolerable deal of bad language, +which, however excusable in a heated controversialist, ill became +the author of <i>Comus</i>.</p> +<p>The war broke out in 1642, but Milton kept house. The +‘tented field’ had no attractions for him.</p> +<p>In the summer of 1643 he took a sudden journey into the +country, and returned home to his boys with a wife, the daughter +of an <!-- page 19--><a name="page19"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 19</span>Oxfordshire Cavalier. Poor Mary +Powell was but seventeen, her poetic lord was thirty-five. +From the country-house of a rollicking squire to Aldersgate +Street was somewhat too violent a change. She had left ten +brothers and sisters behind her, the eldest twenty-one, the +youngest four. As one looks upon this picture and on that, +there is no need to wonder that the poor girl was unhappy. +The poet, though keenly alive to the subtle charm of a +woman’s personality, was unpractised in the arts of daily +companionship. He expected to find much more than he +brought of general good-fellowship. He had an ideal ever in +his mind of both bodily and spiritual excellence, and he was +almost greedy to realize both, but he knew not how. One of +his complaints was that his wife was mute and insensate, and sat +silent at his board. It must, no doubt, have been deadly +dull, that house in Aldersgate Street. Silence reigned, +save when broken by the cries of the younger Phillips sustaining +chastisement. Milton had none of that noble humanitarian +spirit which had led Montaigne long years before him to protest +against the cowardly traditions of the schoolroom. After a +month of Aldersgate Street, Mrs. Milton begged to go <!-- page +20--><a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +20</span>home. Her wish was granted, and she ran back to +her ten brothers and sisters, and when her leave of absence was +up refused to return. Her husband was furiously angry; and +in a time so short as almost to enforce the belief that he began +the work during the honeymoon, was ready with his celebrated +pamphlet, <i>The Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce restored to +the good of both sexes</i>. He is even said, with his +accustomed courage, to have paid attentions to a Miss Davis, who +is described as a very handsome and witty gentlewoman, and +therefore not one likely to sit silent at his board; but she was +a sensible girl as well, and had no notion of a married +suitor. Of Milton’s pamphlet it is everyone’s +duty to speak with profound respect. It is a noble and +passionate cry for a high ideal of married life, which, so he +argued, had by inflexible laws been changed into a drooping and +disconsolate household captivity, without refuge or +redemption. He shuddered at the thought of a man and woman +being condemned, for a mistake of judgment, to be bound together +to their unspeakable wearisomeness and despair, for, he says, not +to be beloved and yet retained is the greatest injury to a gentle +spirit. Our present doctrine of divorce, which sets the +<!-- page 21--><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +21</span>household captive free on payment of a broken vow, but +on no less ignoble terms, is not founded on the congruous, and is +indeed already discredited, if not disgraced.</p> +<p>This pamphlet on divorce marks the beginning of Milton’s +mental isolation. Nobody had a word to say for it. +Episcopalian, Presbyterian, and Independent held his doctrine in +as much abhorrence as did the Catholic, and all alike regarded +its author as either an impracticable dreamer or worse. It +was written certainly in too great haste, for his errant wife, +actuated by what motives cannot now be said, returned to her +allegiance, was mindful of her plighted troth, and, suddenly +entering his room, fell at his feet and begged to be +forgiven. She was only nineteen, and she said it was all +her mother’s fault. Milton was not a sour man, and +though perhaps too apt to insist upon repentance preceding +forgiveness, yet when it did so he could forgive divinely. +In a very short time the whole family of Powells, whom the war +had reduced to low estate, were living under his roof in the +Barbican, whither he moved on the Aldersgate house proving too +small for his varied belongings. The poet’s father +also lived with his son.</p> +<p>Mrs. Milton had four children, three of whom, <!-- page +22--><a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 22</span>all +daughters, lived to grow up. The mother died in childbirth +in 1652, being then twenty-six years of age.</p> +<p>The <i>Areopagitica</i>, <i>a Speech for Unlicensed +Printing</i>, followed the divorce pamphlet, but it also fell +upon deaf ears. Of all religious sects the Presbyterians, +who were then dominant, are perhaps the least likely to forego +the privilege of interference in the affairs of others. +Instead of the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of London, +instead of ‘a lordly Imprimatur, one from Lambeth House, +another from the west end of Paul’s,’ there was +appointed a commission of twenty Presbyterians to act as State +Licensers. Then was Milton’s soul stirred within him +to a noble rage. His was a threefold protest—as a +citizen of a State he fondly hoped had been free, as an author, +and as a reader. As a citizen he protested against so +unnecessary and improper an interference. It is not, he +cried, ‘the unfrocking of a priest, the unmitring of a +bishop, that will make us a happy nation,’ but the practice +of virtue, and virtue means freedom to choose. Milton was a +manly politician, and detested with his whole soul grandmotherly +legislation. ‘He who is not trusted with his own +actions, his drift not being <!-- page 23--><a +name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>known to be +evil, and standing to the hazard of law and penalty, has no great +argument to think himself reputed in the commonwealth wherein he +was born, for other than a fool or a foreigner.’ +‘They are not skilful considerers of human things who +imagine to remove sin by removing the matter of sin.’ +‘And were I the chooser, a dram of well-doing should be +preferred before many times as much the forcible hindrance of +evil doing.’ These are texts upon which sermons, not +inapplicable to our own day, might be preached. Milton has +made our first parent so peculiarly his own, that any +observations of his about Adam are interesting. ‘Many +there be that complain of Divine Providence for suffering Adam to +transgress. Foolish tongues! When God gave him reason +He gave him freedom to choose, for reason is but choosing; he had +been else a mere artificial Adam. We ourselves esteem not +of that obedience a love or gift which is of force. God +therefore left him free, set before him a provoking object ever +almost in his eyes; herein consisted his merit, herein the right +of his reward, the praise of his abstinence.’ So that +according to Milton even Eden was a state of trial. As an +author, <!-- page 24--><a name="page24"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 24</span>Milton’s protest has great +force. ‘And what if the author shall be one so +copious of fancy as to have many things well worth the adding +come into his mind after licensing, while the book is yet under +the press, which not seldom happens to the best and diligentest +writers, and that perhaps a dozen times in one book? The +printer dares not go beyond his licensed copy. So often +then must the author trudge to his leave-giver that those his new +insertions may be viewed, and many a jaunt will be made ere that +licenser—for it must be the same man—can either be +found, or found at leisure; meanwhile either the press must stand +still, which is no small damage, or the author lose his +accuratest thoughts, and send forth the book worse than he made +it, which to a diligent writer is the greatest melancholy and +vexation that can befall.’</p> +<p>Milton would have had no licensers. Every book should +bear the printer’s name, and ‘mischievous and +libellous books’ were to be burnt by the common hangman, +not as an effectual remedy, but as the ‘most effectual +remedy man’s prevention can use.’</p> +<p>The noblest pamphlet in ‘our English, the language of +men ever famous and foremost in <!-- page 25--><a +name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>the +achievements of liberty,’ accomplished nothing, and its +author must already have thought himself fallen on evil days.</p> +<p>In the year 1645, the year of Naseby, as Mr. Pattison reminds +us, appeared the first edition of Milton’s Poems. +Then, for the first time, were printed <i>L’Allegro</i> and +<i>Il Penseroso</i>, the <i>Ode on the Morning of Christ’s +Nativity</i>, and various of the sonnets. The little volume +also contained <i>Comus</i> and <i>Lycidas</i>, which had been +previously printed. With the exception of three sonnets and +a few scraps of translation, Milton had written nothing but +pamphlets since his return from Italy. At the beginning of +the volume, which is a small octavo, was a portrait of the poet, +most villainously executed. He was really thirty-seven, but +flattered himself, as men of that age will, that he looked ten +years younger; he was therefore much chagrined to find himself +represented as a grim-looking gentleman of at least fifty. +The way he revenged himself upon the hapless artist is well +known. The volume, with the portrait, is now very scarce, +almost rare.</p> +<p>In 1647 Milton removed from the Barbican, both his father and +his father-in-law being dead, to a smaller house in Holborn, +backing upon <!-- page 26--><a name="page26"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 26</span>Lincoln’s Inn Fields, close to +where the Inns of Court Hotel now stands, and not far from the +spot which was destined to witness the terrible tragedy which was +at once to darken and glorify the life of one of Milton’s +most fervent lovers, Charles Lamb. About this time he is +supposed to have abandoned pedagogy. The habit of +pamphleteering stuck to him; indeed, it is one seldom thrown +off. It is much easier to throw off the pamphlets.</p> +<p>In 1649 Milton became a public servant, receiving the +appointment of Latin Secretary to the Council of Foreign +Affairs. He knew some member of the Committee, who obtained +his nomination. His duties were purely clerkly. It +was his business to translate English despatches into Latin, and +foreign despatches into English. He had nothing whatever to +do with the shaping of the foreign policy of the +Commonwealth. He was not even employed in translating the +most important of the State papers. There is no reason for +supposing that he even knew the leading politicians of his +time. There is a print one sees about, representing Oliver +Cromwell dictating a foreign despatch to John Milton; but it is +all imagination, nor is there anything to prove that Cromwell and +<!-- page 27--><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +27</span>Milton, the body and soul of English Republicanism, were +ever in the same room together, or exchanged words with one +another. Milton’s name does not occur in the great +history of Lord Clarendon. Whitelocke, who was the leading +member of the Committee which Milton served, only mentions him +once. Thurloe spoke of him as a blind man who wrote Latin +letters. Richard Baxter, in his folio history of his Life +and Times, never mentions Milton at all. <a +name="citation27"></a><a href="#footnote27" +class="citation">[27]</a> He was just a clerk in the +service of the Commonwealth, of a scholarly bent, peculiar habit +of thought, and somewhat of an odd temper. He was not the +man to cultivate great acquaintances, or to flitter away his time +waiting the convenience of other people. When once asked to +use his influence to obtain for a friend an appointment, he +replied he had no influence, ‘<i>propter paucissimas +familiaritates meas cum gratiosis</i>, <i>qui domi fere</i>, +<i>idque libenter</i>, <i>me contineo</i>.’ The busy +great men of the day would have been more than astonished, they +would have been disgusted, had they been told that posterity +would refer to most of them compendiously, as having lived in the +age of Milton. But this need not trouble us.</p> +<p>On the Continent Milton enjoyed a wider <!-- page 28--><a +name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span>reputation, +on account of his controversy with the great European scholar, +Salmasius, on the sufficiently important and interesting, and +then novel, subject of the execution of Charles I. Was it +justifiable? Salmasius, a scholar and a Protestant, though +of an easy-going description, was employed, or rather, as he had +no wages (Milton’s hundred <i>Jacobuses</i> being +fictitious), nominated by Charles, afterwards the Second, to +indict the regicides at the bar of European opinion, which +accordingly he did in the Latin language. The work reached +this country in the autumn of 1649, and it evidently became the +duty of somebody to answer it. Two qualifications were +necessary—the replier must be able to read Latin, and to +write it after a manner which should escape the ridicule of the +scholars of Leyden, Geneva, and Paris. Milton occurred to +somebody’s mind, and the task was entrusted to him. +It is not to be supposed that Cromwell was ever at the pains to +read Salmasius for himself, but still it would not have done to +have it said that the <i>Defensio Regia</i> of so celebrated a +scholar as Salmasius remained unanswered, and so the appointment +was confirmed, and Milton, no new hand at a pamphlet, set to +work. In March, 1651, his first <i>Defence of the English +<!-- page 29--><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +29</span>People</i> was in print. In this great pamphlet +Milton asserts, as against the doctrine of the divine right of +kings, the undisputed sovereignty of the people; and he maintains +the proposition that, as well by the law of God, as by the law of +nations, and the law of England, a king of England may be brought +to trial and death, the people being discharged from all +obligations of loyalty when a lawful prince becomes a tyrant, or +gives himself over to sloth and voluptuousness. This noble +argument, alike worthy of the man and the occasion, is doubtless +over-clouded and disfigured by personal abuse of Salmasius, whose +relations with his wife had surely as little to do with the head +of Charles I. as had poor Mr. Dick’s memorial. +Salmasius, it appears, was henpecked, and to allow yourself to be +henpecked was, in Milton’s opinion, a high crime and +misdemeanour against humanity, and one which rendered a man +infamous, and disqualified him from taking part in debate.</p> +<p>It has always been reported that Salmasius, who was getting on +in years, and had many things to trouble him besides his own +wife, perished in the effort of writing a reply to Milton, in +which he made use of language <!-- page 30--><a +name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span>quite as bad +as any of his opponent’s; but it now appears that this is +not so. Indeed, it is generally rash to attribute a +man’s death to a pamphlet, or an article, either of his own +or anybody else’s.</p> +<p>Salmasius, however, died, though from natural causes, and his +reply was not published till after the Restoration, when the +question had become, what it has ever since remained, +academical.</p> +<p>Other pens were quicker, and to their productions Milton, in +1654, replied with his <i>Second Defence of the English +People</i>, a tract containing autobiographical details of +immense interest and charm. By this time he was totally +blind, though, with a touch of that personal sensitiveness ever +characteristic of him, he is careful to tell Europe, in the +<i>Second Defence</i>, that externally his eyes were uninjured, +and shone with an unclouded light.</p> +<p>Milton’s <i>Defences of the English People</i> are +rendered provoking by his extraordinary language concerning his +opponents. ‘Numskull,’ ‘beast,’ +‘fool,’ ‘puppy,’ ‘knave,’ +‘ass,’ ‘mongrel-cur,’ are but a few of +the epithets employed. This is doubtless mere matter of +pleading, a rule of the forum where controversies between <!-- +page 31--><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +31</span>scholars are conducted; but for that very reason it +makes the pamphlets as provoking to an ordinary reader as an old +bill of complaint in Chancery must have been to an impatient +suitor who wanted his money. The main issues, when cleared +of personalities, are important enough, and are stated by Milton +with great clearness. ‘Our king made not us, but we +him. Nature has given fathers to us all, but we ourselves +appointed our own king; so that the people is not for the king, +but the king for them.’ It was made a matter of great +offence amongst monarchs and monarchical persons that Charles was +subject to the indignity of a trial. With murders and +poisonings kings were long familiar. These were part of the +perils of the voyage, for which they were prepared, but, as +Salmasius put it, ‘for a king to be arraigned in a court of +judicature, to be put to plead for his life, to have sentence of +death pronounced against him, and that sentence +executed,’—oh! horrible impiety. To this Milton +replies: ‘Tell me, thou superlative fool, whether it be not +more just, more agreeable to the rules of humanity and the laws +of all human societies, to bring a criminal, be his offence what +it will, before a court of justice, to give him leave to speak +<!-- page 32--><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +32</span>for himself, and if the law condemns him, then to put +him to death as he has deserved, so as he may have time to repent +or to recollect himself; than presently, as soon as ever he is +taken, to butcher him without more ado?’</p> +<p>But a king of any spirit would probably answer that he +preferred to have his despotism tempered by assassination than by +the mercy of a court of John Miltons. To which answer +Milton would have rejoined, ‘Despotism, I know you not, +since we are as free as any people under heaven.’</p> +<p>The weakest part in Milton’s case is his having to admit +that the Parliament was overawed by the army, which he says was +wiser than the senators.</p> +<p>Milton’s address to his countrymen, with which he +concludes the first defence, is veritably in his grand style:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘He has gloriously delivered you, the first +of nations, from the two greatest mischiefs of this +life—tyranny and superstition. He has endued you with +greatness of mind to be First of Mankind, who after having +confined their own king and having had him delivered into their +hands, have not scrupled to condemn <!-- page 33--><a +name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 33</span>him +judicially, and pursuant to that sentence of condemnation to put +him to death. After performing so glorious an action as +this, you ought to do nothing that’s mean and little; you +ought not to think of, much less do, anything but what is great +and sublime. Which to attain to, this is your only way: as +you have subdued your enemies in the field, so to make it appear +that you of all mankind are best able to subdue Ambition, +Avarice, the love of Riches, and can best avoid the corruptions +that prosperity is apt to introduce. These are the only +arguments by which you will be able to evince that you are not +such persons as this fellow represents you, traitors, robbers, +murderers, parricides, madmen, that you did not put your king to +death out of any ambitious design—that it was not an act of +fury or madness, but that it was wholly out of love to your +liberty, your religion, to justice, virtue, and your country, +that you punished a tyrant. But if it should fall out +otherwise (which God forbid), if, as you have been valiant in +war, you should grow debauched in peace, and that you should not +have learnt, by so eminent, so remarkable an example before your +eyes, to fear God, and <!-- page 34--><a name="page34"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 34</span>work righteousness; for my part I +shall easily grant and confess (for I cannot deny it), whatever +ill men may speak or think of you, to be very true. And you +will find in time that God’s displeasure against you will +be greater than it has been against your +adversaries—greater than His grace and favour have been to +yourseves, which you have had larger experience of than any other +nation under heaven.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>This controversy naturally excited greater interest abroad, +where Latin was familiarly known, than ever it did here at +home. Though it cost Milton his sight, or at all events +accelerated the hour of his blindness, he appears greatly to have +enjoyed conducting a high dispute in the face of Europe. +‘I am,’ so he says, ‘spreading abroad amongst +the cities, the kingdoms, and nations, the restored culture of +civility and freedom of life.’ We certainly managed +in this affair of the execution of Charles to get rid of that +note of insularity which renders our politics uninviting to the +stranger.</p> +<p>Milton, despite his blindness, remained in the public service +until after the death of Cromwell; in fact, he did not formally +resign <!-- page 35--><a name="page35"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 35</span>until after the Restoration. He +played no part, having none to play, in the performances that +occurred between those events. He poured forth pamphlets, +but there is no reason to believe that they were read otherwise +than carelessly and by few. His ideas were his own, and +never had a chance of becoming fruitful. There seemed to +him to be a ready and an easy way to establish a free +Commonwealth, but on the whole it turned out that the easiest +thing to do was to invite Charles Stuart to reascend the throne +of his ancestors, which he did, and Milton went into hiding.</p> +<p>It is terrible to think how risky the situation was. +Milton was undoubtedly in danger of his life, and <i>Paradise +Lost</i> was unwritten. He was for a time under +arrest. But after all he was not one of the +regicides—he was only a scribe who had defended +regicide. Neither was he a man well associated. He +was a solitary, and, for the most part, an unpopular thinker, and +blind withal. He was left alone for the rest of his +days. He lived first in Jewin Street, off Aldersgate +Street; and finally in Artillery Walk, Bunhill Fields. He +had married, four years after his first wife’s death, a +lady who died <!-- page 36--><a name="page36"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 36</span>within a twelvemonth, though her +memory is kept ever fresh, generation after generation, by her +husband’s sonnet beginning,</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Methought I saw my late espoused +saint.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Dr. Johnson, it is really worth remembering, called this a +poor sonnet. In 1664 Milton married a third and last wife, +a lady he had never seen, and who survived her husband for no +less a period than fifty-three years, not dying till the year +1727. The poet’s household, like his country, never +realized any of his ideals. His third wife took decent care +of him, and there the matter ended. He did not belong to +the category of adored fathers. His daughters did not love +him—it seems even probable they disliked him. Mr. +Pattison has pointed out that Milton never was on terms even with +the scholars of his age. Political acquaintances he had +none. He was, in Puritan language, ‘unconnected with +any place of worship,’ and had therefore no pastoral visits +to receive, or sermons to discuss. The few friends he had +were mostly young men who were attracted to him, and were glad to +give him their company; and it is well that he had this pleasure, +for he was ever in his wishes a social man—not intended +<!-- page 37--><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +37</span>to live alone, and blindness must have made society +little short of a necessity for him.</p> +<p>Now it was, in the evening of his days, with a Stuart once +more upon the throne, and Episcopacy finally installed, that +Milton, a defeated thinker, a baffled pamphleteer—for had +not Salmasius triumphed?—with Horton and Italy far, far +behind him, set himself to keep the promise of his glorious +youth, and compose a poem the world should not willingly let +die. His manner of life was this. In summer he rose +at four, in winter at five. He went to bed at nine. +He began the day with having the Hebrew Scriptures read to +him. Then he contemplated. At seven his man came to +him again, and he read and wrote till an early dinner. For +exercise he either walked in the garden or swung in a +machine. Besides conversation, his only other recreation +was music. He played the organ and the bass viol. He +would sometimes sing himself. After recreation of this kind +he would return to his study to be read to till six. After +six his friends were admitted, and would sit with him till +eight. At eight he had his supper—olives or something +light. He was very abstemious. After supper he smoked +a pipe of tobacco, drank a glass of <!-- page 38--><a +name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span>water, and +went to bed. He found the night a favourable time for +composition, and what he composed at night he dictated in the +day, sitting obliquely in an elbow chair with his leg thrown over +the arm.</p> +<p>In 1664 <i>Paradise Lost</i> was finished, but as in 1665 came +the Great Plague, and after the Great Plague the Great Fire, it +was long before the MS. found its way into the hands of the +licenser. It is interesting to note that the first member +of the general public who read <i>Paradise Lost</i>, I hope all +through, was a clergyman of the name of Tomkyns, the deputy of +the Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr. Sheldon. The Archbishop +was the State Licenser for religious books, but of course did not +do the work himself. Tomkyns did the work, and was for a +good while puzzled what to make of the old Republican’s +poem. At last, and after some singularly futile criticisms, +Tomkyns consented to allow the publication of <i>Paradise +Lost</i>, which accordingly appeared in 1667, admirably printed, +and at the price of 3<i>s.</i> a copy. The author’s +agreement with the publisher is in writing—as Mr. Besant +tells us all agreements with publishers should be—and may +be seen in the British Museum. Its terms are clear. +The poet was to have £5 down; <!-- page 39--><a +name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>another +£5 when the first edition, which was not to exceed 1,500 +copies, was sold; a third £5 when a second edition was +sold; and a fourth and last £5 when a third edition was +sold. He got his first £5, also his second, and after +his death his widow sold all her rights for £5. +Consequently £18, which represents perhaps £50 of our +present currency, was Milton’s share of all the money that +has been made by the sale of his great poem. But the praise +is still his. The sale was very considerable. The +‘general reader’ no doubt preferred the poems of +Cleaveland and Flatman, but Milton found an audience which was +fit and not fewer than ever is the case when noble poetry is +first produced.</p> +<p><i>Paradise Regained</i> was begun upon the completion of +<i>Paradise Lost</i>, and appeared with <i>Samson Agonistes</i> +in 1671, and here ended Milton’s life as a producing +poet. He lived on till Sunday, 8th November, 1674, when the +gout, or what was then called gout, struck in and he died, and +was buried beside his father in the Church of St. Giles’s, +Cripplegate. He remained laborious to the last, and imposed +upon himself all kinds of drudgery, compiling dictionaries, +histories of Britain and Russia. He must have worked not so +much from love of <!-- page 40--><a name="page40"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 40</span>his subjects as from dread of +idleness. But he had hours of relaxation, of social +intercourse, and of music; and it is pleasant to remember that +one pipe of tobacco. It consecrates your own.</p> +<p>Against Milton’s great poem it is sometimes alleged that +it is not read; and yet it must, I think, be admitted that for +one person who has read Spenser’s <i>Fairy Queen</i>, ten +thousand might easily be found who have read <i>Paradise +Lost</i>. Its popularity has been widespread. Mr. +Mark Pattison and Mr. John Bright measure some ground between +them. No other poem can be mentioned which has so coloured +English thought as Milton’s, and yet, according to the +French senator whom Mr. Arnold has introduced to the plain +reader, ‘<i>Paradise Lost</i> is a false poem, a grotesque +poem, a tiresome poem.’ It is not easy for those who +have a touch of Milton’s temper, though none of his genius, +to listen to this foreign criticism quite coolly. Milton +was very angry with Salmasius for venturing to find fault with +the Long Parliament for having repealed so many laws, and so far +forgot himself as to say, ‘<i>Nam nostræ leges</i>, +<i>Ole</i>, <i>quid ad te</i>?’ But there is nothing +municipal about <i>Paradise Lost</i>. All the world has a +<!-- page 41--><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +41</span>right to be interested in it and to find fault with +it. But the fact that the people for whom primarily it was +written have taken it to their hearts and have it on their lips +ought to have prevented it being called tiresome by a senator of +France.</p> +<p>But what is the matter with our great epic? That nobody +ever wished it longer is no real accusation. Nobody ever +did wish an epic longer. The most popular books in the +world are generally accounted too long—<i>Don Quixote</i>, +the <i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i>, <i>Tom Jones</i>. But, +says Mr. Arnold, the whole real interest of the poem depends upon +our being able to take it literally; and again, ‘Merely as +matter of poetry, the story of the Fall has no special force or +effectiveness—its effectiveness for us comes, and can only +come, from our taking it all as the literal narrative of what +positively happened.’ These bewildering utterances +make one rub one’s eyes. Carlyle comes to our relief: +‘All which propositions I for the present content myself +with modestly, but peremptorily and irrevocably +denying.’</p> +<p>Mr. Pattison surely speaks the language of ordinary good sense +when he writes: ‘For the world of <i>Paradise Lost</i> is +an ideal, conventional <!-- page 42--><a name="page42"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 42</span>world quite as much as the world of +the <i>Arabian Nights</i>, or the world of the chivalrous +romance, or that of the pastoral novel.’</p> +<p>Coleridge, in the twenty-second chapter of the <i>Biographia +Literaria</i>, points out that the fable and characters of +<i>Paradise Lost</i> are not derived from Scripture, as in the +<i>Messiah</i> of Klopstock, but merely suggested by it—the +illusion on which all poetry is founded being thus never +contradicted. The poem proceeds upon a legend, ancient and +fascinating, and to call it a commentary upon a few texts in +Genesis is a marvellous criticism.</p> +<p>The story of the Fall of Man, as recorded in the Semitic +legend, is to me more attractive as a story than the Tale of +Troy, and I find the rebellion of Satan and his dire revenge more +to my mind than the circles of Dante. Eve is, I think, more +interesting than ‘Heaven-born Helen, Sparta’s +queen’—I mean in herself, and as a woman to write +poetry about.</p> +<p>The execution of the poem is another matter. So far as +style is concerned its merits have not yet been questioned. +As a matter of style and diction, Milton is as safe as +Virgil. The handling of the story is more vulnerable. +The long speeches put in the mouth of the Almighty are <!-- page +43--><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span>never +pleasing, and seldom effective. The weak point about +argument is that it usually admits of being answered. For +Milton to essay to justify the ways of God to man was well and +pious enough, but to represent God Himself as doing so by +argumentative process was not so well, and was to expose the +Almighty to possible rebuff. The king is always present in +his own courts, but as judge, not as advocate; hence the royal +dignity never suffers.</p> +<p>It is narrated of an eminent barrister, who became a most +polished judge, Mr. Knight Bruce, that once, when at the very +head of his profession, he was taken in before a Master in +Chancery, an office since abolished, and found himself pitted +against a little snip of an attorney’s clerk, scarce higher +than the table, who, nothing daunted, and by the aid of +authorities he cited from a bundle of books as big as himself, +succeeded in worsting Knight Bruce, whom he persisted in calling +over again and again ‘my learned friend.’ Mr. +Bruce treated the imp with that courtesy which is always an +opponent’s due, but he never went before the Masters any +more.</p> +<p>The Archangel has not escaped the reproach often brought +against affable persons of being a <!-- page 44--><a +name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span>bit of a +bore, and though this is to speak unbecomingly, it must be owned +that the reader is glad whenever Adam plucks up heart of grace +and gets in a word edgeways. Mr. Bagehot has complained of +Milton’s angels. He says they are silly. But +this is, I think, to intellectualize too much. There are +some classes who are fairly exempted from all obligation to be +intelligent, and these airy messengers are surely amongst that +number. The retinue of a prince or of a bride justify their +choice if they are well-looking and group nicely.</p> +<p>But these objections do not touch the main issue. Here +is the story of the loss of Eden, told enchantingly, musically, +and in the grand style. ‘Who,’ says M. Scherer, +in a passage quoted by Mr. Arnold, ‘can read the eleventh +and twelfth books without yawning?’ People, of +course, are free to yawn when they please, provided they put +their hands to their mouths; but in answer to this insulting +question one is glad to be able to remember how Coleridge has +singled out Adam’s vision of future events contained in +these books as especially deserving of attention. But to +read them is to repel the charge.</p> +<p>There was no need for Mr. Arnold, of <!-- page 45--><a +name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span>all men, to +express dissatisfaction with Milton:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Words which no ear ever to hear in +heaven<br /> +Expected; least of all from thee, ingrate,<br /> +In place thyself so high above thy peers.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The first thing for people to be taught is to enjoy great +things greatly. The spots on the sun may be an interesting +study, but anyhow the sun is not all spots. Indeed, +sometimes in the early year, when he breaks forth afresh,</p> +<blockquote><p>‘And winter, slumbering in the open air,<br +/> +Wears on his smiling face a dream of spring,</p> +</blockquote> +<p>we are apt to forget that he has any spots at all, and, as he +shines, are perhaps reminded of the blind poet sitting in his +darkness, in this prosaic city of ours, swinging his leg over the +arm of his chair, and dictating the lines:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Seasons return, but not to me returns<br /> +Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,<br /> +Or sight of vernal bloom or summer’s rose,<br /> +Or flocks or herds, or human face divine.<br /> +But cloud instead, and ever-during dark<br /> +Surrounds me—from the cheerful ways of men<br /> +Cut off; and for the book of knowledge fair<br /> +Presented with a universal blank<br /> +Of nature’s works, to me expunged and razed<br /> +And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.<br /> +So much the rather, Thou, Celestial Light,<br /> +<!-- page 46--><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +46</span>Shine inwards, and the mind through all her powers<br /> +Irradiate—<i>there</i> plant eyes; all mist from thence<br +/> +Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell<br /> +Of things invisible to mortal sight.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Coleridge added a note to his beautiful poem, ‘The +Nightingale,’ lest he should be supposed capable of +speaking with levity of a single line in Milton. The note +was hardly necessary, but one loves the spirit that prompted him +to make it. Sainte-Beuve remarks: ‘Parler des +poètes est toujours une chose bien délicate, et +surtout quand on l’a été un peu +soi-même.’ But though it does not matter what +the little poets do, great ones should never pass one another +without a royal salute.</p> +<h2><!-- page 47--><a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +47</span>POPE.</h2> +<p><i>A Lecture delivered at Birmingham before the Midland +Institute</i>.</p> +<p>The eighteenth century has been well abused by the +nineteenth. So far as I can gather, it is the settled +practice of every century to speak evil of her immediate +predecessor, and I have small doubt that, had we gone groping +about in the tenth century, we should yet have been found hinting +that the ninth was darker than she had any need to be.</p> +<p>But our tone of speaking about the last century has lately +undergone an alteration. The fact is, we are drawing near +our own latter end. The Head Master of Harrow lately +thrilled an audience by informing them that he had, that very +day, entered an existing <i>bonâ fide</i> boy upon the +school books, whose education, however, would not begin till the +twentieth century. As a parent was overheard to observe, +‘An illustration <!-- page 48--><a name="page48"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 48</span>of that sort comes home to +one.’ The older we grow the less confident we become, +the readier to believe that our judgments are probably wrong, and +liable, and even likely, to be reversed; the better disposed to +live and let live. The child, as Mr. Browning has somewhere +elaborated, cries for the moon and beats its nurse, but the old +man sips his gruel with avidity and thanks Heaven if nobody beats +him. And so we have left off beating the eighteenth +century. It was not so, however, in our lusty prime. +Carlyle, historian though he was of Frederick the Great and the +French Revolution, revenged himself for the trouble it gave him +by loading it with all vile epithets. If it had been a cock +or a cook he could not have called it harder names. It was +century spendthrift, fraudulent, bankrupt, a swindler century, +which did but one true action, ‘namely, to blow its brains +out in that grand universal suicide named French +Revolution.’</p> +<p>The leaders of the neo-Catholic movement very properly +shuddered at a century which whitewashed its churches and thought +even monthly communions affected. The ardent Liberal could +not but despise a century which did without the franchise, and, +despite the most <!-- page 49--><a name="page49"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 49</span>splendid materials, had no Financial +Reform Almanack. The sentimental Tory found little to +please him in the House of Hanover and Whig domination. The +lovers of poetry, with Shelley in their ears and Wordsworth at +their hearts, made merry with the trim muses of Queen Anne, with +their sham pastorals, their dilapidated classicism, and still +more with their town-bred descriptions of the country, with its +purling brooks and nodding groves, and, hanging over all, the +moon—not Shelley’s ‘orbed maiden,’ but +‘the refulgent lamp of night.’ And so, on all +hands, the poor century was weighed in a hundred different +balances and found wanting. It lacked inspiration, unction, +and generally all those things for which it was thought certain +the twentieth century would commend us. But we do not talk +like that now. The waters of the sullen Lethe, rolling +doom, are sounding too loudly in our own ears. We would die +at peace with all centuries. Mr. Frederic Harrison writes a +formal <i>Defence of the Eighteenth Century</i>, Mr. Matthew +Arnold reprints half a dozen of Dr. Johnson’s <i>Lives of +the Poets</i>. Mr. Leslie Stephen composes a history of +thought during this objurgated period, and also edits, in +sumptuously <!-- page 50--><a name="page50"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 50</span>inconvenient volumes, the works of +its two great novelists, Richardson and Fielding; and, finally, +there now trembles on the very verge of completion a splendid and +long-laboured edition of the poems and letters of the great poet +of the eighteenth century, the abstract and brief chronicle of +his time, a man who had some of its virtues and most of its +vices, one whom it is easy to hate, but still easier to +quote—Alexander Pope.</p> +<p>Twenty years ago the chances were that a lecturer on Pope +began by asking the, perhaps not impertinent, question, +‘Was he a poet?’ And the method had its merits, +for the question once asked, it was easy for the lecturer, like +an incendiary who has just fired a haystack, to steal away amidst +the cracklings of a familiar controversy. It was not +unfitting that so quarrelsome a man as Pope should have been the +occasion of so much quarrelsomeness in others. For long the +battle waged as fiercely over Pope’s poetry as erst it did +in his own <i>Homer</i> over the body of the slain +Patroclus. Stout men took part in it, notably Lord Byron, +whose letters to Mr. Bowles on the subject, though composed in +his lordship’s most ruffianly vein, still make good +reading—of a sort. But <!-- page 51--><a +name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>the battle is +over, at all events for the present. It is not now our +humour to inquire too curiously about first causes or primal +elements. As we are not prepared with a definition of +poetry, we feel how impossible it would be for us to deny the +rank of a poet to one whose lines not infrequently scan and +almost always rhyme. For my part, I should as soon think of +asking whether a centipede has legs or a wasp a sting as whether +the author of the <i>Rape of the Lock</i> and the <i>Epistle to +Dr. Arbuthnot</i> was or was not a poet.</p> +<p>Pope’s life has been described as a succession of petty +secrets and third-rate problems, but there seems to be no doubt +that it began on May 21st, 1688, in Lombard Street, in the city +of London. But this event over, mystery steps in with the +question, What was his father? The occupation of the elder +Pope occasioned nearly as fierce a controversy as the poetical +legitimacy of the younger. Malice has even hinted that old +Pope was a hatter. The poet, of course, knew, but +wouldn’t tell, being always more ready, as Johnson +observes, to say what his father was not than what he was. +He denied the hatter, and said his father was of the family of +the Earls of Downe; but on this <!-- page 52--><a +name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span>statement +being communicated to a relative of the poet, the brutal fellow, +who was probably without a tincture of polite learning, said he +heard of the relationship for the first time! ‘Hard +as thy heart, and as thy birth obscure,’ sang one of +Pope’s too numerous enemies in the easy numbers he had +taught his age. It is, however, now taken as settled that +the elder Pope, like Izaak Walton and John Gilpin, and many other +good fellows, was a linen-draper. He made money, and one +would like to know how he did it in the troublesome times he +lived in; but <i>his</i> books have all perished. He was a +Roman Catholic, as also was the poet’s mother, who was her +husband’s second wife, and came out of Yorkshire. It +used to be confidently asserted that the elder Pope, on retiring +from business, which he did early in the poet’s childhood, +put his fortune in a box and spent it as he needed it,—a +course of conduct the real merits of which are likely to be hid +from a lineal descendant. Old Pope, however, did nothing of +the kind, but invested money in the French funds, his conscience +not allowing him to do so in the English, and he also lent sums +on bond to fellow-Catholics, one of whom used to remit him his +half-year’s interest calculated at <!-- page 53--><a +name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>the rate of +£4 per cent. per annum, whereas by the terms of the bond he +was to pay £4¼ per cent. per annum. On another +occasion the same borrower deducted from the interest accrued due +a pound he said he had lent the youthful poet. These things +annoyed the old gentleman, as they would most old gentlemen of my +acquaintance. The poet was the only child of his mother, +and a queerly constituted mortal he was. Dr. Johnson has +recorded the long list of his infirmities with an almost chilling +bluntness; but, alas! so malformed was Pope’s character, so +tortuous and twisted were his ways, so elaborately artificial and +detestably petty many of his devices, that it is not malice, but +charity, that bids us remember that, during his whole maturity, +he could neither dress nor undress himself, go to bed or get up +without help, and that on rising he had to be invested with a +stiff canvas bodice and tightly laced, and have put on him a fur +doublet and numerous stockings to keep off the cold and fill out +his shrunken form. If ever there was a man whose life was +one long provocation, that man was the author of the +<i>Dunciad</i>. Pope had no means of self-defence save his +wit. Dr. Johnson was a queer fellow enough, having +inherited, as he <!-- page 54--><a name="page54"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 54</span>tells us, a vile melancholy from his +father, and he certainly was no Adonis to look at, but those who +laughed at him were careful to do so behind his gigantic +back. When a rapacious bookseller insulted him he knocked +him down. When the caricaturist Foote threatened to take +him off upon the stage, the most Christian of lexicographers +caused it to be intimated to him that if he did the author of +<i>Rasselas</i> would thrash him in the public street, and the +buffoon desisted. ‘Did not Foote,’ asked +Boswell, ‘think of exhibiting you, sir?’ and our +great moralist replied, ‘Sir, fear restrained him; he knew +I would have broken his bones.’ When he denounced +Macpherson for his <i>Ossian</i> frauds, and the irate Celt said +something about personal chastisement, Johnson told him, in +writing, that he was not to be deterred from detecting a cheat by +the menaces of a ruffian, and by way of a temporary provision for +his self-defence selected a most grievous cudgel, six feet in +height, and terminating in a head (once the root) of the size of +a large orange. The possession of great physical strength +is no mean assistance to a straightforward life. The late +Professor Fawcett, who, though blind, delighted, arm-in-arm with +a friend, to skate furiously on the fens, <!-- page 55--><a +name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span>never could +be brought to share the fears entertained on his behalf by some +of the less stalwart of his acquaintances. +‘Why,’ he used to exclaim apologetically, ‘even +if I do run up against anybody, it is always the other fellow who +gets the worst of it.’ But poor Pope, whom a child +could hustle, had no such resources. We should always +remember this; it is brutal to forget it.</p> +<p>Pope’s parents found in their only son the vocation of +their later life. He might be anything he liked. Did +he lisp in numbers, the boyish rhymes were duly scanned and +criticised; had he a turn for painting, lessons were +provided. He might be anything he chose, and everything by +turns. Many of us have been lately reading chapters from +the life of another only son, and though the comparison may not +bear working out, still, that there were points of strong +similarity between the days of the youthful poet at Binfield and +those of Ruskin at Herne Hill may be suspected. +Pope’s education was, of course, private, for a double +reason—his proscribed faith and his frail form. Mr. +Leslie Stephen, with a touching faith in public schools, has the +hardihood to regret that it was obviously impossible to send Pope +to Westminster. <!-- page 56--><a name="page56"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 56</span>One shudders at the thought. It +could only have ended in an inquest. As it was, the poor +little cripple was whipped at Twyford for lampooning his +master. Pope was extraordinarily sensitive. Cruelty +to animals he abhorred. Every kind of sport, from spinning +cockchafers to coursing hares, he held in loathing, and one +cannot but be thankful that the childhood of this supersensitive +poet was shielded from the ruffianism of the nether world of boys +as that brood then existed. Westminster had not long to +wait for Cowper. Pope was taught his rudiments by stray +priests and at small seminaries, where, at all events, he had his +bent, and escaped the contagious error that Homer wrote in Greek +in order that English boys might be beaten. Of course he +did not become a scholar. Had he done so he probably would +not have translated Homer, though he might have lectured on how +not to do it. Indeed, the only evidence we have that Pope +knew Greek at all is that he translated Homer, and was accustomed +to carry about with him a small pocket edition of the bard in the +original. Latin he could probably read with decent comfort, +though it is noticeable that if he had occasion to refer to a +Latin book, and there was a <!-- page 57--><a +name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>French +translation, he preferred the latter version to the +original. Voltaire, who knew Pope, asserts that he could +not speak a word of French, and could hardly read it; but +Voltaire was not a truthful man, and on one occasion told lies in +an affidavit. The fact is, Pope’s curiosity was too +inordinate—his desire to know everything all at once too +strong—to admit of the delay of learning a foreign +language; and he was consequently a reader of translations, and +he lived in an age of translations. He was, as a boy, a +simply ferocious reader, and was early acquainted with the +contents of the great poets, both of antiquity and the modern +world. His studies, at once intense, prolonged, and +exciting, injured his feeble health, and made him the lifelong +sufferer he was. It was a noble zeal, and arose from the +immense interest Pope ever took in human things.</p> +<p>From 1700 to 1715, that is, from his fourteenth to his +twenty-ninth year, he lived with his father and mother at +Binfield, on the borders of Windsor Forest, which he made the +subject of one of his early poems, against which it was alleged, +with surely some force, that it has nothing distinctive about it, +and might as easily have been written about any other forest; to +<!-- page 58--><a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +58</span>which, however, Dr. Johnson characteristically replied +that the <i>onus</i> lay upon the critic of first proving that +there is anything distinctive about Windsor Forest, which +personally he doubted, one green field in the Doctor’s +opinion being just like another. In 1715 Pope moved with +his parents to Chiswick, where, in 1717, his father, aged +seventy-five, died. The following year the poet again moved +with his mother to the celebrated villa at Twickenham, where in +1733 she died, in her ninety-third year. Ten years later +Pope’s long disease, his life, came to its appointed +end. His poetical dates may be briefly summarized thus: his +<i>Pastorals</i>, 1709; the <i>Essay on Criticism</i>, 1711; the +first version of the <i>Rape of the Lock</i>, 1712; the second, +1714; the <i>Iliad</i>, begun in 1715, was finished 1720; +<i>Eloisa</i>, 1717; the <i>Elegy</i> to the memory of an +<i>Unfortunate Lady</i> and the <i>Dunciad</i>, 1728; the +<i>Essay on Man</i>, 1732; and then the <i>Epistles</i> and +<i>Satires</i>. Of all Pope’s biographers, Dr. +Johnson is still, and will probably ever remain, the best. +The <i>Life</i>, indeed, like the rest of the <i>Lives of the +Poets</i>, is a lazy performance. It is not the strenuous +work of a young author eager for fame. When Johnson sat +down, at the instance of the London <!-- page 59--><a +name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>booksellers, +to write the lives of those poets whose works his employers +thought it well to publish, he had long been an author at grass, +and had no mind whatever again to wear the collar. He had +great reading and an amazing memory, and those were at the +service of the trade. The facts he knew, or which were +brought to his door, he recorded, but research was not in his +way. Was he not already endowed—with a pension, +which, with his customary indifference to attack, he wished were +twice as large, in order that his enemies might make twice as +much fuss over it? None the less—nay, perhaps all the +more—for being written with so little effort, the <i>Lives +of the Poets</i> are delightful reading, and Pope’s is one +of the very best of them. <a name="citation59"></a><a +href="#footnote59" class="citation">[59]</a> None knew the +infirmities of ordinary human nature better than Johnson. +They neither angered him nor amused him; he neither storms, +sneers, nor chuckles, as he records man’s vanity, +insincerity, jealousy, and pretence. It is with a placid +pen he pricks <!-- page 60--><a name="page60"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 60</span>the bubble fame, dishonours the +overdrawn sentiment, burlesques the sham philosophy of life; but +for generosity, friendliness, affection, he is always on the +watch, whilst talent and achievement never fail to win his +admiration; he being ever eager to repay, as best he could, the +debt of gratitude surely due to those who have taken pains to +please, and who have left behind them in a world, which rarely +treated them kindly, works fitted to stir youth to emulation, or +solace the disappointments of age. And over all man’s +manifold infirmities, he throws benignantly the mantle of his +stately style. Pope’s domestic virtues were not +likely to miss Johnson’s approbation. Of them he +writes:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘The filial piety of Pope was in the highest +degree amiable and exemplary. His parents had the happiness +of living till he was at the summit of poetical +reputation—till he was at ease in his fortune, and without +a rival in his fame, and found no diminution of his respect or +tenderness. Whatever was his pride, to them he was +obedient; and whatever was his irritability, to them he was +gentle. Life has, amongst its soothing and quiet comforts, +few things better to give than such a son.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 61--><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +61</span>To attempt to state in other words a paragraph like this +would be indelicate, as bad as defacing a tombstone, or rewriting +a collect.</p> +<p>Pope has had many editors, but the last edition will probably +long hold the field. It is more than sixty years since the +original John Murray, of Albemarle Street, determined, with the +approval of his most distinguished client Lord Byron, to bring +out a library edition of Pope. The task was first entrusted +to Croker, the man whom Lord Macaulay hated more than he did cold +boiled veal, and whose edition, had it seen the light in the +great historian’s lifetime, would have been, whatever its +merits, well basted in the <i>Edinburgh Review</i>. But +Croker seems to have made no real progress; for though +occasionally advertised amongst Mr. Murray’s list of +forthcoming works, the first volume did not make its appearance +until 1871, fourteen years after Croker’s death. The +new editor was the Rev. Whitwell Elwin, a clergyman, with many +qualifications for the task,—patient, sensible, not too +fluent, but an intense hater of Pope. ‘To be wroth +with one you love,’ sings Coleridge, ‘doth work like +madness in the brain;’ and to edit in numerous volumes the +works of a man you cordially dislike <!-- page 62--><a +name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 62</span>and always +mistrust has something of the same effect, whilst it is certainly +hard measure on the poor fellow edited. His lot—if I +may venture upon a homely comparison founded upon a lively +reminiscence of childhood—resembles that of an unfortunate +infant being dressed by an angry nurse, in whose malicious hands +the simplest operations of the toilet, to say nothing of the +severer processes of the tub, can easily be made the vehicles of +no mean torture. Good cause can be shown for hating Pope if +you are so minded, but it is something of a shame to hate him and +edit him too. The Rev. Mr. Elwin unravels the web of +Pope’s follies with too rough a hand for my liking; and he +was, besides, far too apt to believe his poet in the wrong simply +because somebody has said he was. For example, he reprints +without comment De Quincey’s absurd strictures on the +celebrated lines—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Who but must laugh if such a man there +be;<br /> +Who would not weep if Atticus were he!’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>De Quincey found these lines unintelligible, and pulls them +about in all directions but the right one. The ordinary +reader never felt any difficulty. However, Mr. Elwin kept +it up till old age overtook him, and now Mr. Courthope <!-- page +63--><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +63</span>reigns in his stead. Mr. Courthope, it is easy to +see, would have told a very different tale had he been in command +from the first, for he keeps sticking in a good word for the +crafty little poet whenever he decently can. And this is +how it should be. Mr. Courthope’s <i>Life</i>, which +will be the concluding volume of Mr. Murray’s edition, is +certain to be a fascinating book.</p> +<p>It is Pope’s behaviour about his letters that is now +found peculiarly repellent. Acts of diseased egotism +sometimes excite an indignation which injurious crimes fail to +arouse.</p> +<p>The whole story is too long to be told, and is by this time +tolerably familiar. Here, however, is part of it. In +early life Pope began writing letters, bits of pompous +insincerity, as indeed the letters of clever boys generally are, +to men old enough to be his grandparents, who had been struck by +his precocity and anticipated his fame, and being always master +of his own time, and passionately fond of composition, he kept up +the habit so formed, and wrote his letters as one might fancy the +celebrated Blair composing his sermons, with much solemnity, very +slowly, and without emotion. A packet of these addressed to +a gentleman owning the once proud name of Cromwell, and who was +certainly <!-- page 64--><a name="page64"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 64</span>‘guiltless of his +country’s blood’—for all that is now known of +him is that he used to go hunting in a tie-wig, that is, a +full-bottomed wig tied up at the ends—had been given by +that gentleman to a lady with whom he had relations, who being, +as will sometimes happen, a little pressed for money, sold them +for ten guineas to Edmund Curll, a bold pirate of a bookseller +and publisher, upon whose head every kind of abuse has been +heaped, not only by the authors whom he actually pillaged, but by +succeeding generations of penmen who never took his wages, but +none the less revile his name. He was a wily ruffian. +In the year 1727 he was condemned by His Majesty’s judges +to stand in the pillory at Charing Cross for publishing a libel, +and thither doubtless, at the appointed hour, many poor authors +flocked, with their pockets full of the bad eggs that should have +made their breakfasts, eager to wreak vengeance upon their +employer; but a printer in the pillory has advantages over others +traders, and Curll had caused handbills to be struck off and +distributed amongst the crowd, stating, with his usual +effrontery, that he was put in the pillory for vindicating the +blessed memory of her late Majesty Queen Anne. This either +touched or tickled the mob—it does not <!-- page 65--><a +name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 65</span>matter +which—who protected Curll whilst he stood on high from +further outrage, and when his penance was over bore him on their +shoulders to an adjacent tavern, where (it is alleged) he got +right royally drunk. <a name="citation65"></a><a +href="#footnote65" class="citation">[65]</a> Ten years +earlier those pleasant youths, the Westminster scholars, had got +hold of him, tossed him in a blanket, and beat him. This +was the man who bought Pope’s letters to Cromwell for ten +guineas, and published them. Pope, oddly enough, though +very angry, does not seem on this occasion to have moved the +Court of Chancery, as he subsequently did against the same +publisher, for an injunction to restrain the vending of the +volume. Indeed, until his suit in 1741, when he obtained an +injunction against Curll, restraining the sale of a volume +containing some of his letters to Swift, the right of the writer +of a letter to forbid its publication had never been established, +and the view that a letter was a gift to the receiver had +received some countenance. But Pope had so much of the true +temper of a litigant, and so loved a nice point, that he might +have been expected to raise the question on the first +opportunity. He, however, did not do so, and the volume had +a considerable sale—a fact not <!-- page 66--><a +name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>likely to be +lost sight of by so keen an author as Pope, to whom the thought +occurred, ‘Could I only recover all my letters, and get +them published, I should be as famous in prose as I am in +rhyme.’ His communications with his friends now begin +to be full of the miscreant Curll, against whose machinations and +guineas no letters were proof. Have them Curll would, and +publish them he would, to the sore injury of the writer’s +feelings. The only way to avoid this outrage upon the +privacy of true friendship was for all the letters to be returned +to the writer, who had arranged for them to be received by a +great nobleman, against whose strong boxes Curll might rage and +surge in vain. Pope’s friends did not at first quite +catch his drift. ‘You need give yourself no +trouble,’ wrote Swift, though at a later date than the +transaction I am now describing; ‘every one of your letters +shall be burnt.’ But that was not what Pope +wanted. The first letters he recovered were chiefly those +he had written to Mr. Caryll, a Roman Catholic gentleman of +character. Mr. Caryll parted with his letters with some +reluctance, and even suspicion, and was at the extraordinary +pains of causing them all to be transcribed; in a word, he kept +copies <!-- page 67--><a name="page67"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 67</span>and said nothing about it. Now +it is that Pope set about as paltry a job as ever engaged the +attention of a man of genius. He proceeded to manufacture a +sham correspondence; he garbled and falsified to his +heart’s content. He took a bit of one letter and +tagged it on to a bit of another letter, and out of these two +foreign parts made up an imaginary letter, never really written +to anybody, which he addressed to Mr. Addison, who was dead, or +to whom else he chose. He did this without much regard to +anything except the manufacture of something which he thought +would read well, and exhibit himself in an amiable light and in a +sweet, unpremeditated strain. This done, the little poet +destroyed the originals, and deposited one copy, as he said he +was going to do, in the library of the Earl of Oxford, whose +permission so to do he sought with much solemnity, the nobleman +replying with curtness that any parcel Mr. Pope chose to send to +his butler should be taken care of. So far good. The +next thing was to get the letters published from the copy he had +retained for his own use. His vanity and love of intrigue +forbade him doing so directly, and he bethought himself of his +enemy, the piratical Curll, with whom, there can now be no +reasonable doubt, <!-- page 68--><a name="page68"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 68</span>he opened a sham correspondence under +the initials ‘P.T.’ ‘P.T.’ was made +to state that he had letters in his possession of Mr. +Pope’s, who had done him some disservice, which letters he +was willing to let Curll publish. Curll was as wily as +Pope, to whom he at once wrote and told him what +‘P.T.’ was offering him. Pope replied by an +advertisement in a newspaper, denying the existence of any such +letters. ‘P.T.,’ however, still kept it up, and +a mysterious person was introduced as a go-between, wearing a +clergyman’s wig and lawyer’s bands. Curll at +last advertised as forthcoming an edition of Mr. Pope’s +letters to, and, as the advertisement certainly ran, from divers +noblemen and gentlemen. Pope affected the utmost fury, and +set the House of Lords upon the printer for threatening to +publish peers’ letters without their leave. Curll, +however, had a tongue in his head, and easily satisfied a +committee of their Lordship’s House that this was a +mistake, and that no noblemen’s letters were included in +the intended publication, the unbound sheets of which he +produced. The House of Lords, somewhat mystified and +disgusted, gave the matter up, and the letters came out in +1735. Pope raved, but the judicious even then opined <!-- +page 69--><a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +69</span>that he protested somewhat too much. He promptly +got a bookseller to pirate Curll’s edition—a +proceeding on his part which struck Curll as the unkindest cut of +all, and flagrantly dishonest. He took proceedings against +Pope’s publisher, but what came of the litigation I cannot +say.</p> +<p>The Caryll copy of the correspondence as it actually existed, +after long remaining in manuscript, has been published, and we +have now the real letters and the sham letters side by +side. The effect is grotesquely disgusting. For +example, on September 20th, 1713, Pope undoubtedly wrote to +Caryll as follows:—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘I have been just taking a walk in St. +James’s Park, full of the reflections of the transitory +nature of all human delights, and giving my thoughts a loose into +the contemplation of those sensations of satisfaction which +probably we may taste in the more exalted company of separate +spirits, when we range the starry walks above and gaze on the +world at a vast distance, as now we do on those.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Poor stuff enough, one would have thought. On re-reading +this letter Pope was so pleased with his moonshine that he +transferred the whole passage to an imaginary letter, to which +<!-- page 70--><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +70</span>he gave the, of course fictitious, date of February +10th, 1715, and addressed to Mr. Blount; so that, as the +correspondence now stands, you first get the Caryll letter of +1713, ‘I have been just taking a solitary walk by +moonshine,’ and so on about the starry walks; and then you +get the Blount letter of 1715, ‘I have been just taking a +solitary walk by moonshine;’ and go on to find Pope +refilled with his reflections as before. Mr. Elwin does +not, you may be sure, fail to note how unlucky Pope was in his +second date, February 10th, 1715; that being a famous year, when +the Thames was frozen over, and as the thaw set in on the 9th, +and the streets were impassable even for strong men, a tender +morsel like Pope was hardly likely to be out after dark. +But, of course, when Pope concocted the Blount letter in 1735, +and gave it any date he chose, he could not be expected to carry +in his head what sort of night it was on any particular day in +February twenty-two years before. It is ever dangerous to +tamper with written documents which have been out of your sole +and exclusive possession even for a few minutes.</p> +<p>A letter Pope published as having been addressed to Addison is +made up of fragments <!-- page 71--><a name="page71"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 71</span>of three letters actually written to +Caryll. Another imaginary letter to Addison contains the +following not inapt passage from a letter to Caryll:—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Good God! what an incongruous animal is +man! how unsettled in his best part, his soul, and how changing +and variable in his frame of body. What is man altogether +but one mighty inconsistency?’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>What, indeed! The method subsequently employed by Pope +to recover his letters from Swift, and to get them published in +such a way as to create the impression that Pope himself had no +hand in it, cannot be here narrated. It is a story no one +can take pleasure in. Of such an organized hypocrisy as +this correspondence it is no man’s duty to speak +seriously. Here and there an amusing letter occurs, but as +a whole it is neither interesting, elevating, nor amusing. +When in 1741 Curll moved to dissolve the injunction Pope had +obtained in connection with the Swift correspondence, his counsel +argued that letters on familiar subjects and containing inquiries +after the health of friends were not learned works, and +consequently were not within the copyright statute of Queen Anne, +which was entitled, ‘An Act for <!-- page 72--><a +name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>the +Encouragement of Learning;’ but Lord Hardwicke, with his +accustomed good sense, would have none of this objection, and +observed (and these remarks, being necessary for the judgment, +are not mere <i>obiter dicta</i>, but conclusive):</p> +<blockquote><p>‘It is certain that no works have done more +service to mankind than those which have appeared in this shape +upon familiar subjects, and which, perhaps, were never intended +to be published, and it is this which makes them so valuable, for +I must confess, for my own part, that letters which are very +elaborately written, and originally intended for the press, are +generally the most insignificant, and very little worth any +person’s reading’ (2 Atkyns, p. 357).</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I am encouraged by this authority to express the unorthodox +opinion that Pope’s letters, with scarcely half-a-dozen +exceptions, and only one notable exception, are very little worth +any person’s reading.</p> +<p>Pope’s epistolary pranks have, perhaps, done him some +injustice. It has always been the fashion to admire the +letter which, first appearing in 1737, in Pope’s +correspondence, and there attributed to Gay, describes the death +by <!-- page 73--><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +73</span>lightning of the rustic lovers John Hewet and Sarah +Drew. An identical description occurring in a letter +written by Pope to Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, and subsequently +published by Warton from the original, naturally caused the poet +to be accused of pilfering another man’s letter, and +sending it off as his own. Mr. Thackeray so puts it in his +world-famous <i>Lectures</i>, and few literary anecdotes are +better known; but the better opinion undoubtedly is that the +letter was Pope’s from the beginning, and attributed by him +to Gay because he did not want to have it appear that on the date +in question he was corresponding with Lady Mary. After all, +there is a great deal to be said in favour of honesty.</p> +<p>When we turn from the man to the poet we have at once to +change our key. A cleverer fellow than Pope never commenced +author. He was in his own mundane way as determined to be a +poet, and the best going, as John Milton himself. He took +pains to be splendid—he polished and pruned. His +first draft never reached the printer—though he sometimes +said it did. This ought, I think, to endear him to us in +these hasty days, when authors high and low think nothing of +emptying the slops of their <!-- page 74--><a +name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 74</span>minds over +their readers, without so much as a cry of ‘Heads +below!’</p> +<p>Pope’s translation of the <i>Iliad</i> was his first +great undertaking, and he worked at it like a Trojan. It +was published by subscription for two guineas; that is, the first +part was. His friends were set to work to collect +subscribers. Caryll alone got thirty-eight. Pope +fully entered into this. He was always alive to the value +of his wares, and despised the foppery of those of his literary +friends who would not make money out of their books, but would do +so out of their country. He writes to Caryll:</p> +<p>‘But I am in good earnest of late, too much a man of +business to mind metaphors and similes. I find subscribing +much superior to writing, and there is a sort of little epigram I +more especially delight in, after the manner of rondeaus, which +begin and end all in the same words, +namely—“Received” and “A. +Pope.” These epigrams end smartly, and each of them +is tagged with two guineas. Of these, as I have learnt, you +have composed several ready for me to set my name to.’</p> +<p>This is certainly much better than that trumpery walk in the +moonshine. Pope had not at this time joined the Tories, and +both <!-- page 75--><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +75</span>parties subscribed. He cleared over £5,000 +by the <i>Iliad</i>. Over the <i>Odyssey</i> he slackened, +and employed two inferior wits to do half the books; but even +after paying his journeymen he made nearly £4,000 over the +<i>Odyssey</i>. Well might he write in later +life—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Since, thanks to Homer, I do live and +thrive.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Pope was amongst the first of prosperous authors, and heads +the clan of cunning fellows who have turned their lyrical cry +into consols, and their odes into acres.</p> +<p>Of the merits of this great work it is not necessary to speak +at length. Mr. Edmund Yates tells a pleasant story of how +one day, when an old school Homer lay on his table, Shirley +Brooks sauntered in, and taking the book up, laid it down again, +dryly observing:</p> +<p>‘Ah! I see you have <i>Homer’s</i> Iliad! +Well, I believe it is the best.’ And so it is. +Homer’s Iliad is the best, and Pope’s Homer’s +Iliad is the second best. Whose is the third best is +controversy.</p> +<p>Pope knew next to no Greek, but then he did not work upon the +Greek text. He had Chapman’s translation ever at his +elbow, also the version of John Ogilby, which had appeared <!-- +page 76--><a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +76</span>in 1660—a splendid folio, with illustrations by +the celebrated Hollar. Dryden had not got farther than the +first book of the <i>Iliad</i>, and a fragment of the sixth +book. A faithful rendering of the exact sense of Homer is +not, of course, to be looked for. In the first book Pope +describes the captive maid Briseis as looking back. In +Homer she does not look back, but in Dryden she does; and Pope +followed Dryden, and did not look, at all events, any farther +back.</p> +<p>But what really is odd is that in Cowper’s translation +Briseis looks back too. Now, Cowper had been to a public +school, and consequently knew Greek, and made it his special +boast that, though dull, he was faithful. It is easy to +make fun of Pope’s version, but true scholars have seldom +done so. Listen to Professor Conington <a +name="citation76"></a><a href="#footnote76" +class="citation">[76]</a>:—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘It has been, and I hope still is, the +delight of every intelligent schoolboy. They read of kings, +and heroes, and mighty deeds in language which, in its calm +majestic flow, unhasting, unresting, carries them on as +irresistibly as Homer’s own could do were they born readers +of Greek, and their minds <!-- page 77--><a +name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span>are filled +with a conception of the heroic age, not indeed strictly true, +but almost as near the truth as that which was entertained by +Virgil himself.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Mr. D. G. Rossetti, himself both an admirable translator and a +distinguished poet, has in effect laid down the first law of +rhythmical translation thus: ‘Thou shalt not turn a good +poem into a bad one.’ Pope kept this law.</p> +<p>Pope was a great adept at working upon other men’s +stuff. There is hardly anything in which men differ more +enormously than in the degree in which they possess this faculty +of utilization. Pope’s <i>Essay on Criticism</i>, +which brought him great fame, and was thought a miracle of wit, +was the result of much hasty reading, undertaken with the +intention of appropriation. Apart from the <i>limæ +labor</i>, which was enormous, and was never grudged by Pope, +there was not an hour’s really hard work in it. +Dryden had begun the work of English criticism with his <i>Essay +on Dramatic Poesy</i>, and other well-known pieces. He had +also translated Boileau’s <i>Art of Poetry</i>. Then +there were the works of those noble lords, Lord Sheffield, Lord +Roscommon, Lord Granville, and the Duke of <!-- page 78--><a +name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +78</span>Buckingham. Pope, who loved a brief, read all +these books greedily, and with an amazing quick eye for +points. His orderly brain and brilliant wit re-arranged and +rendered resplendent the ill-placed and ill-set thoughts of other +men.</p> +<p>The same thing is noticeable in the most laboured production +of his later life, the celebrated <i>Essay on Man</i>. For +this he was coached by Lord Bolingbroke.</p> +<p>Pope was accustomed to talk with much solemnity of his ethical +system, of which the <i>Essay on Man</i> is but a fragment, but +we need not trouble ourselves about it. Dr. Johnson said +about <i>Clarissa Harlowe</i> that the man who read it for the +story might hang himself; so we may say about the poetry of Pope: +the man who reads it for its critical or ethical philosophy may +hang himself. We read Pope for pleasure, but a bit of his +philosophy may be given:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Presumptuous man! the reason wouldst thou +find,<br /> +Why formed so weak, so little, and so blind?<br /> +First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess,<br /> +Why formed no weaker, blinder, and no less?<br /> +Ask of thy mother Earth why oaks are made<br /> +Taller and stronger than the weeds they shade!<br /> +Or ask of yonder argent fields above<br /> +Why Jove’s satellites are less than Jove!’</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 79--><a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +79</span>To this latter interrogatory presumptuous science, +speaking through the mouth of Voltaire, was ready with an +answer. If Jupiter were less than his satellites they +wouldn’t go round him. Pope can make no claim to be a +philosopher, and had he been one, Verse would have been a most +improper vehicle to convey his speculations. No one +willingly fights in handcuffs or wrestles to music. For a +man with novel truths to promulgate, or grave moral laws to +expound, to postpone doing so until he had hitched them into +rhyme would be to insult his mission. Pope’s gifts +were his wit, his swift-working mind, added to all the cunning of +the craft and mystery of composition. He could say things +better than other men, and hence it comes that, be he a great +poet or a small one, he is a great writer, an English +classic. What is it that constitutes a great writer? +A bold question, certainly, but whenever anyone asks himself a +question in public you may be certain he has provided himself +with an answer. I find mine in the writings of a +distinguished neighbour of yours, himself, though living, an +English classic—Cardinal Newman. He says <a +name="citation79"></a><a href="#footnote79" +class="citation">[79]</a>:</p> +<p><!-- page 80--><a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +80</span>‘I do not claim for a great author, as such, any +great depth of thought, or breadth of view, or philosophy, or +sagacity, or knowledge of human nature, or experience of human +life—though these additional gifts he may have, and the +more he has of them the greater he is,—but I ascribe to +him, as his characteristic gift, in a large sense, the faculty of +expression. He is master of the two-fold +λοyος, the thought and the word, +distinct but inseparable from each other. . . . He always +has the right word for the right idea, and never a word too +much. If he is brief it is because few words suffice; if he +is lavish of them, still each word has its mark, and aids, not +embarrasses, the vigorous march of his elocution. He +expresses what all feel, but all cannot say, and his sayings pass +into proverbs amongst his people, and his phrases become +household words and idioms of their daily speech, which is +tessellated with the rich fragments of his language, as we see in +foreign lands the marbles of Roman grandeur worked into the walls +and pavements of modern palaces.’ Pope satisfies this +definition. He has been dead one hundred and forty-two +years; yet, next to Shakespeare, who has been dead two hundred +and seventy years, and who was <!-- page 81--><a +name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>nearer to +Pope than Pope is to us, he is the most quoted of English poets, +the one who has most enriched our common speech. Horace +used, but has long ceased, to be the poet of Parliament; for Mr. +Gladstone, who, more than any other, has kept alive in Parliament +the scholarly traditions of the past, has never been very +Horatian, preferring, whenever the dignity of the occasion seemed +to demand Latin, the long roll of the hexameter, something out of +Virgil or Lucretius. The new generation of honourable +members might not unprofitably turn their attention to +Pope. Think how, at all events, the labour members would +applaud, not with ‘a sad civility,’ but with +downright cheers, a quotation they actually understood.</p> +<p>Pope is seen at his best in his satires and epistles, and in +the mock-heroic. To say that the <i>Rape of the Lock</i> is +the best mock-heroic poem in the language is to say nothing; to +say that it is the best in the world is to say more than my +reading warrants; but to say that it and <i>Paradise Regained</i> +are the only two faultless poems, of any length, in English is to +say enough.</p> +<p>The satires are savage—perhaps satires should be; but +Pope’s satires are sometimes what satires <!-- page 82--><a +name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>should never +be—shrill. Dr. Johnson is more to my mind as a sheer +satirist than Pope, for in satire character tells more than in +any other form of verse. We want a personality +behind—a strong, gloomy, brooding personality; soured and +savage if you will—nay, as soured and savage as you like, +but spiteful never.</p> +<p>Pope became rather by the backing of his friends than from any +other cause a party man. Party feeling ran high during the +first Georges, and embraced things now outside its +ambit—the theatre, for example, and the opera. You +remember how excited politicians got over Addison’s +<i>Cato</i>, which, as the work of a Whig, and appearing at a +critical time, was thought to be full of a wicked wit and a +subtle innuendo future ages have failed to discover amidst its +obvious dulness. Pope, who was not then connected with +either party, wrote the prologue, and in one of the best letters +ever written to nobody tells the story of the first night.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘The numerous and violent claps of the Whig +party, on the one side the theatre, were echoed back by the +Tories on the other, while the author sweated behind the scenes +with concern to find their applause proceeded more from the hand +than the head. This was the case <!-- page 83--><a +name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 83</span>too of the +prologue-writer, who was clapped into a stanch Whig, sore against +his will, at almost every two lines. I believe that you +have heard that, after all the applause of the opposite faction, +my Lord Bolingbroke sent for Booth, who played Cato, into the box +between one of the acts, and presented him with fifty guineas, in +acknowledgment, as he expressed it, for his defending the cause +of liberty so well against a perpetual dictator. The Whigs +are unwilling to be distanced this way, as it is said, and, +therefore, design a present to the said Cato very speedily. +In the meantime they are getting ready as good a sentence as the +former on their side. So, betwixt them, it is probable that +Cato, as Dr. Garth expressed it, may have something to live upon +after he dies.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Later on music was dragged into the fray. The Court was +all for Handel and the Germans; the Prince of Wales and the Tory +nobility affected the Italian opera. The Whigs went to the +Haymarket; the Tories to the Opera House in Lincoln’s Inn +Field. In this latter strife Pope took small part; for, +notwithstanding his <i>Ode on St. Cecilia’s Day</i>, he +hated music with an entire sincerity. He also affected to +<!-- page 84--><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +84</span>hate the drama; but some have thought this accounted for +by the fact that, early in his career, he was damned for the +farce of <i>Three Hours after Marriage</i>, which, after the +fashion of our own days, he concocted with another, the co-author +in this case being a wit of no less calibre than Gay, the author +of <i>The Beggars’ Opera</i>. The astonished audience +bore it as best they might till the last act, when the two +lovers, having first inserted themselves respectively into the +skins of a mummy and a crocodile, talk at one another across the +boards; then they rose in their rage, and made an end of that +farce. Their yells were doubtless still in Pope’s +ears when, years afterwards, he wrote the fine lines—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘While all its throats the gallery +extends<br /> +And all the thunder of the pit ascends,<br /> +Loud as the wolves on Orca’s stormy steep<br /> +Howl to the roarings of the northern deep.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Pope, as we have said, became a partisan, and so had his hands +full of ready-made quarrels; but his period was certainly one +that demanded a satirist. Perhaps most periods do; but I am +content to repeat, his did. Satire like Pope’s is +essentially modish, and requires a restricted range. Were +anyone desirous of satirizing <!-- page 85--><a +name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>humanity at +large I should advise him to check his noble rage, and, at all +events, to begin with his next-door neighbour, who is almost +certain to resent it, which humanity will not do. This was +Pope’s method. It was a corrupt set amongst whom he +moved. The gambling in the South Sea stock had been +prodigious, and high and low, married and single, town and +country, Protestant and Catholic, Whig and Tory, took part in +it. One <i>could</i> gamble in that stock. The mania +began in February 1720, and by the end of May the price of +£100 stock was up to £340. In July and August +it was £950, and even touched, £1,000. In the +middle of September it was down to £590, and before the end +of the year it had dropped to £125. Pope himself +bought stock when it stood so low as £104, but he had never +the courage to sell, and consequently lost, according to his own +account, half his worldly possessions. The Prime Minister, +Sir Robert Walpole, also bought stock, but he sold—as did +his Most Gracious Majesty the King—at £1,000. +The age was also a scandalous, ill-living age, and Pope, who was +a most confirmed gossip and tale-bearer, picked up all that was +going. The details of every lawsuit of a personal <!-- page +86--><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +86</span>character were at his finger-ends. Whoever starved +a sister, or forged a will, or saved his candle-ends, made a +fortune dishonestly, or lost one disgracefully, or was reported +to do so, be he citizen or courtier, noble duke or plump +alderman, Mr. Pope was sure to know all about it, and as likely +as not to put it into his next satire. Living, as the poet +did, within easy distance of London, he always turned up in a +crisis as regularly as a porpoise in a storm, so at least writes +a noble friend. This sort of thing naturally led to +quarrels, and the shocking incompleteness of this lecture stands +demonstrated by the fact that, though I have almost done, I have +as yet said nothing abort Pope’s quarrels, which is nearly +as bad as writing about St. Paul and leaving out his +journeys. Pope’s quarrels are celebrated. His +quarrel with Mr. Addison, culminating in the celebrated +description, almost every line of which is now part and parcel of +the English language; his quarrel with Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, +whom he satirized in the most brutal lines ever written by man of +woman; his quarrel with Lord Hervey; his quarrel with the +celebrated Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, ought not to be +dismissed so lightly, but what can I do? From the Duchess +of <!-- page 87--><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +87</span>Marlborough Pope is said to have received a sum of +money, sometimes stated at £1,000 and sometimes at +£3,000, for consenting to suppress his description of her +as Atossa, which, none the less, he published. I do not +believe the story; money passed between the parties and went to +Miss Martha Blount, but it must have been for some other +consideration. Sarah Jennings was no fool, and loved money +far too well to give it away without security; and how possibly +could she hope by a cash payment to erase from the tablets of a +poet’s memory lines dictated by his hate, or bind by the +law of honour a man capable of extorting blackmail? Then +Pope quarrelled most terribly with the elder Miss Blount, who, he +said, used to beat her mother; then he quarrelled with the mother +because she persisted in living with the daughter and pretending +to be fond of her. As for his quarrels with the whole tribe +of poor authors, are they not writ large in the four books of the +<i>Dunciad</i>? Mr. Swinburne is indeed able to find in +some, at all events, of these quarrels a species of holy war, +waged, as he says, in language which is at all events strong, +‘against all the banded bestialities of all dunces and all +dastards, all blackguardly blockheads and all blockheaded +blackguards.’</p> +<p><!-- page 88--><a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +88</span>I am sorry to be unable to allow myself to be wound up +in Mr. Swinburne’s bucket to the height of his +argument. There are two kinds of quarrels, the noble and +the ignoble. When John Milton, weary and depressed for a +moment in the battle he was fighting in the cause of an +enlightened liberty and an instructed freedom, exclaims, with the +sad prophet Jeremy, ‘Woe is me, my mother, that thou hast +borne me, a man of strife and contention,’ we feel the +sublimity of the quotation, which would not be quite the case +were the words uttered by an Irishman returning home with a +broken head from Donnybrook Fair. The <i>Dunciad</i> was +quite uncalled-for. Even supposing that we admit that Pope +was not the aggressor:</p> +<blockquote><p> ‘The noblest answer unto +such<br /> +Is kindly silence when they brawl.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But it is, to say the least of it, doubtful whether Pope did +not begin brawling first. Swift, whose misanthropy was +genuine, and who begged Pope whenever he thought of the world to +give it another lash on his (the Dean’s) account, saw +clearly the danger of Pope’s method, and wrote to him: +‘Take care the bad poets do not out-wit you as they have +done the good ones in <!-- page 89--><a name="page89"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 89</span>every age; whom they have provoked to +transmit their names to posterity. Mævius is as well +known as Virgil, and Gildon will be as well known as you if his +name gets into your verses; and as for the difference between +good and bad fame, it is a mere trifle.’ The advice +was far too good to be taken. But what has happened? +The petty would-be Popes, but for the real Pope, would have been +entirely forgotten. As it is, only their names survive in +the index to the <i>Dunciad</i>; their indecencies and dastardly +blockheadisms are as dead as Queen Anne; and if the historian or +the moralist seeks an illustration of the coarseness and +brutality of their style, he finds it only too easily, not in the +works of the dead dunces, but in the pages of their +persecutor. Pope had none of the grave purpose which makes +us, at all events, partially sympathize with Ben Jonson in his +quarrels with the poetasters of his day. It is a mere +toss-up whose name you may find in the <i>Dunciad</i>—a +miserable scribbler’s or a resplendent scholar’s; a +tasteless critic’s or an immortal wit’s. A +satirist who places Richard Bentley and Daniel Defoe amongst the +Dunces must be content to abate his pretensions to be regarded as +a social purge.</p> +<p><!-- page 90--><a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +90</span>Men and women, we can well believe, went in terror of +little Mr. Pope. Well they might, for he made small +concealment of their names, and even such as had the luck to +escape obvious recognition have been hoisted into infamy by the +untiring labours of subsequent commentators. It may, +perhaps, be still open to doubt who was the Florid Youth referred +to in the Epilogue to the <i>Satires</i>:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘And how did, pray, the Florid Youth +offend<br /> +Whose speech you took and gave it to a friend?’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Bowles said it was Lord Hervey, and that the adjective is due +to his lordship’s well-known practice of painting himself; +but Mr. Croker, who knew everything, and was in the habit of +contradicting the Duke of Wellington about the battle of +Waterloo, says, ‘Certainly not. The Florid Youth was +young Henry Fox.’</p> +<p>Sometimes, indeed, in our hours of languor and dejection, +when</p> +<blockquote><p> ‘The heart is sick,<br /> +And all the wheels of being slow,’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>the question forces itself upon us, What can it matter who the +Florid Youth was, and who cares how he offended? But this +questioning <!-- page 91--><a name="page91"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 91</span>spirit must be checked. +‘The proper study of mankind is man,’ and that title +cannot be denied even to a florid youth. Still, as I was +saying, people did not like it at the time, and the then Duke of +Argyll said, in his place in the House of Lords, that if anybody +so much as named him in an invective, he would first run him +through the body, and then throw himself—not out of the +window, as one was charitably hoping—but on a much softer +place—the consideration of their Lordship’s +House. Some persons of quality, of less truculent aspect +than McCallum More, thought to enlist the poet’s services, +and the Duchess of Buckingham got him to write an epitaph on her +deceased son—a feeble lad—to which transaction the +poet is thought to allude in the pleasing lines,</p> +<blockquote><p>‘But random praise—the task can +ne’er be done,<br /> +Each mother asks it for her booby son.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Mr. Alderman Barber asked it for himself, and was +willing—so at least it was reported—to pay for it at +the handsome figure of £4,000 for a single couplet. +Pope, however, who was not mercenary, declined to gratify the +alderman, who by his will left the poet a legacy of £100, +possibly hoping by this benefaction, if he could <!-- page +92--><a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>not +be praised in his lifetime, at all events to escape posthumous +abuse. If this were his wish it was gratified, and the +alderman sleeps unsung.</p> +<p>Pope greatly enjoyed the fear he excited. With something +of exultation he sings:—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Yes, I am proud: I must be proud to see<br +/> +Men, not afraid of God, afraid of me;<br /> +Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne,<br /> +Yet touched and shamed by ridicule alone.<br /> +O sacred weapon! left for Truth’s defence,<br /> +Sole dread of folly, vice, and insolence!<br /> +To all but heaven-directed hands denied,<br /> +The Muse may give thee, but the gods must guide:<br /> +Reverent I touch thee, but with honest zeal,<br /> +To rouse the watchmen of the public weal,<br /> +To Virtue’s work provoke the tardy Hall<br /> +And goad the prelate slumb’ring in his stall.<br /> +Ye tinsel insects! whom a court maintains,<br /> +That counts your beauties only by your stains,<br /> +Spin all your cobwebs o’er the eye of day,<br /> +The Muse’s wing shall brush you all away.<br /> +All his grace preaches, all his lordship sings,<br /> +All that makes saints of queens, and gods of kings,—<br /> +All, all but truth drops dead-born from the press,<br /> +Like the last gazette, or the last address.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The poet himself was very far from being invulnerable, and he +writhed at every sarcasm. There was one of his +contemporaries of whom <!-- page 93--><a name="page93"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 93</span>he stood in mortal dread, but whose +name he was too frightened even to mention. It is easy to +guess who this was. It was Hogarth, who in one of his +caricatures had depicted Pope as a hunchback, whitewashing +Burlington House. Pope deemed this the most grievous insult +of his life, but he said nothing about it; the spiteful pencil +proving more than master of the poisoned pen.</p> +<p>Pope died on May 30th, 1744, bravely and cheerfully +enough. His doctor was offering him one day the usual +encouragements, telling him his breath was easier, and so on, +when a friend entered, to whom the poet exclaimed, ‘Here I +am, dying of a hundred good symptoms.’ In +Spence’s <i>Anecdotes</i> there is another story, pitched +in a higher key: ‘Shortly before his death, he said to me, +“What’s that?” pointing into the air with a +very steady regard, and then looked down on me and said, with a +smile of great pleasure, and with the greatest softness, +“’Twas a vision.”’ It may have been +so. At the very last he consented to allow a priest to be +sent for, who attended and administered to the dying man the last +sacraments of the Church. The spirit in which he received +them cannot be pronounced religious. As Cardinal Newman +<!-- page 94--><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +94</span>has observed, Pope was an unsatisfactory Catholic.</p> +<p>Pope died in his enemies’ day.</p> +<p>Dr. Arbuthnot, who was acknowledged by all his friends to have +been the best man who ever lived, be the second-best who he +might, had predeceased the poet; and it should be remembered, +before we take upon ourselves the task of judging a man we never +saw, that Dr. Arbuthnot, who was as shrewd as he was good, had +for Pope that warm personal affection we too rarely notice +nowadays between men of mature years. Swift said of +Arbuthnot: ‘Oh! if the world had but a dozen Arbuthnots in +it I would burn my <i>Travels</i>.’ This may be +doubted without damage to the friendly testimony. The +terrible Dean himself, whose azure eyes saw through most +pretences, loved Pope; but Swift was now worse than dead—he +was mad, dying a-top, like the shivered tree he once gazed upon +with horror and gloomy forebodings of impending doom.</p> +<p>Many men must have been glad when they read in their scanty +journals that Mr. Pope lay dead at his villa in Twickenham. +They breathed the easier for the news. Personal satire may +be a legitimate, but it is an ugly weapon. The Muse often +gives what the gods do not guide; <!-- page 95--><a +name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span>and though we +may be willing that our faults should be scourged, we naturally +like to be sure that we owe our sore backs to the blackness of +our guilt, and not merely to the fact that we have the proper +number of syllables to our names, or because we occasionally dine +with an enemy of our scourger.</p> +<p>But living as we do at a convenient distance from Mr. Pope, we +may safely wish his days had been prolonged, not necessarily to +those of his mother, but to the Psalmist’s span, so that he +might have witnessed the dawn of a brighter day. 1744 was +the nadir of the eighteenth century. With Macbeth the dying +Pope might have exclaimed,—</p> +<blockquote><p> ‘Renown and grace is +dead;<br /> +The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees<br /> +Is left in the vault to brag of.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The feats of arms that have made the first Ministry of the +elder Pitt for ever glorious would have appealed to Pope’s +better nature, and made him forget the scandals of the court and +the follies of the town. Who knows but they might have +stirred him, for he was not wholly without the true poet’s +prophetic gift, which dreams of things to come, to foretell, in +that animated and <!-- page 96--><a name="page96"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 96</span>animating style of his, which has no +rival save glorious John Dryden’s, the expansion of +England, and how, in far-off summers he should never see, English +maidens, living under the Southern Cross, should solace their +fluttering hearts before laying themselves down to sleep with +some favourite bit from his own <i>Eloisa to Abelard</i>? +Whether, in fact, maidens in those latitudes do read +<i>Eloisa</i> before blowing out their candles I cannot say; but +Pope, I warrant, would have thought they would. And they +might do worse—and better.</p> +<p>Both as a poet and a man Pope had many negations.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Of love, that sways the sun and all the +stars,’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>he knew absolutely nothing. Even of the lesser +light,</p> +<blockquote><p> ‘The eternal moon of +love,<br /> +Under whose motions life’s dull billows move,’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>he knew but little.</p> +<p>His <i>Eloisa</i>, splendid as is its diction, and vigorous +though be the portrayal of the miserable creature to whom the +poem relates, most certainly lacks ‘a gracious +somewhat,’ whilst no less certainly is it marred by a most +unfeeling coarseness. A poem about love it may be—a +<!-- page 97--><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +97</span>love-poem it is not. Of the ‘wild benefit of +nature,’—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘The silence that is in the starry sky,<br +/> +The sleep that is among the lonely hills,’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Pope had small notion, though there is just a whiff of +Wordsworth in an observation he once hazarded, that a tree is a +more poetical object than a prince in his coronation robes. +His taste in landscape gardening was honoured with the +approbation of Horace Walpole, and he spent £1,000 upon a +grotto, which incurred the ridicule of Johnson. Of that +indescribable something, that ‘greatness’ which +causes Dryden to uplift a lofty head from the deep pit of his +corruption, neither Pope’s character nor his style bears +any trace. But still, both as a poet and a man we must give +place, and even high place, to Pope. About the poetry there +can be no question. A man with his wit, and faculty of +expression, and infinite painstaking, is not to be evicted from +his ancient homestead in the affections and memories of his +people by a rabble of critics, or even a <i>posse</i> of +poets. As for the man, he was ever eager and interested in +life. Beneath all his faults—for which he had more +excuse than a whole congregation of the righteous need ever <!-- +page 98--><a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +98</span>hope to muster for their own shortcomings—we +recognise humanity, and we forgive much to humanity, knowing how +much need there is for humanity to forgive us. +Indifference, known by its hard heart and its callous temper, is +the only unpardonable sin. Pope never committed it. +He had much to put up with. We have much to put up +with—in him. He has given enormous pleasure to +generations of men, and will continue so to do. We can +never give him any pleasure. The least we can do is to +smile pleasantly as we replace him upon his shelf, and say, as we +truthfully may, ‘There was a great deal of human nature in +Alexander Pope.’</p> +<h2><!-- page 99--><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +99</span>DR. JOHNSON.</h2> +<p>If we should ever take occasion to say of Dr. Johnson’s +Preface to Shakspeare what he himself said of a similar +production of the poet Rowe, ‘that it does not discover +much profundity or penetration,’ we ought in common +fairness always to add that nobody else has ever written about +Shakspeare one-half so entertainingly. If this statement be +questioned, let the doubter, before reviling me, re-read the +preface, and if, after he has done so, he still demurs, we shall +be content to withdraw the observation, which, indeed, has only +been made for the purpose of introducing a quotation from the +Preface itself.</p> +<p>In that document, Dr. Johnson, with his unrivalled +stateliness, writes as follows:—‘The poet of whose +works I have undertaken the revision may now begin to assume the +dignity of an ancient, and claim the privilege of established +fame and prescriptive veneration. <!-- page 100--><a +name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 100</span>He has long +outlived his century, the term commonly fixed as the test of +literary merit.’</p> +<p>The whirligig of time has brought in his revenges. The +Doctor himself has been dead his century. He died on the +13th of December, 1784. Come, let us criticise him.</p> +<p>Our qualifications for this high office need not be +investigated curiously.</p> +<p>‘Criticism,’ writes Johnson in the 60th +<i>Idler</i>, ‘is a study by which men grow important and +formidable at a very small expense. The power of invention +has been conferred by nature upon few, and the labour of learning +those sciences which may by mere labour be obtained, is too great +to be willingly endured; but every man can exert such judgment as +he has upon the works of others; and he whom nature has made +weak, and idleness keeps ignorant, may yet support his vanity by +the name of a critick.’</p> +<p>To proceed with our task by the method of comparison is to +pursue a course open to grave objection, yet it is forced upon us +when we find, as we lately did, a writer in the <i>Times</i> +newspaper, in the course of a not very discriminating review of +Mr. Froude’s recent volumes, casually remarking, as if it +admitted of no more doubt than the day’s price of consols, +that Carlyle was <!-- page 101--><a name="page101"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 101</span>a greater man than Johnson. It +is a good thing to be positive. To be positive in your +opinions and selfish in your habits is the best recipe, if not +for happiness, at all events for that far more attainable +commodity, comfort, with which we are acquainted. ‘A +noisy man,’ sang poor Cowper, who could not bear anything +louder than the hissing of a tea-urn, ‘a noisy man is +always in the right,’ and a positive man can seldom be +proved wrong. Still, in literature it is very desirable to +preserve a moderate measure of independence, and we, therefore, +make bold to ask whether it is as plain as the ‘old hill of +Howth,’ that Carlyle was a greater man than Johnson? +Is not the precise contrary the truth? No abuse of Carlyle +need be looked for here or from me. When a man of genius +and of letters happens to have any striking virtues, such as +purity, temperance, honesty, the novel task of dwelling on them +has such attraction for us, that we are content to leave the +elucidation of his faults to his personal friends, and to stern, +unbending moralists like Mr. Edmund Yates and the <i>World</i> +newspaper. <a name="citation101"></a><a href="#footnote101" +class="citation">[101]</a> To love Carlyle is, thanks to +Mr. Froude’s super-human <!-- page 102--><a +name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 102</span>ideal of +friendship, a task of much heroism, almost meriting a pension; +still, it is quite possible for the candid and truth-loving +soul. But a greater than Johnson he most certainly was +not.</p> +<p>There is a story in Lockhart’s <i>Life of Scott</i> of +an ancient beggar-woman, who, whilst asking an alms of Sir +Walter, described herself, in a lucky moment for her pocket, as +‘an old struggler.’ Scott made a note of the +phrase in his diary, and thought it deserved to become +classical. It certainly clings most tenaciously to the +memory—so picturesquely does it body forth the striving +attitude of poor battered humanity. Johnson was ‘an +old struggler.’ <a name="citation102"></a><a +href="#footnote102" class="citation">[102]</a> So too, in +all conscience, was Carlyle. The struggles of Johnson have +long been historical; those of Carlyle have just become so. +We are interested in both. To be indifferent would be +inhuman. Both men had great endowments, tempestuous +natures, hard lots. They were not amongst Dame +Fortune’s favourites. They had to fight their +way. What they took they took by storm. <!-- page +103--><a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +103</span>But—and here is a difference indeed—Johnson +came off victorious, Carlyle did not.</p> +<p>Boswell’s book is an arch of triumph, through which, as +we read, we see his hero passing into eternal fame, to take up +his place with those—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Dead but sceptred sovereigns who still +rule<br /> + Our spirits from their urns.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Froude’s book is a tomb over which the lovers of +Carlyle’s genius will never cease to shed tender but +regretful tears.</p> +<p>We doubt whether there is in English literature a more +triumphant book than Boswell’s. What materials for +tragedy are wanting? Johnson was a man of strong passions, +unbending spirit, violent temper, as poor as a church-mouse, and +as proud as the proudest of church dignitaries; endowed with the +strength of a coal-heaver, the courage of a lion, and the tongue +of Dean Swift, he could knock down booksellers and silence +bargees; he was melancholy almost to madness, ‘radically +wretched,’ indolent, blinded, diseased. Poverty was +long his portion; not that genteel poverty that is sometimes +behindhand with its rent, but that hungry poverty that does not +know where to look for its dinner. Against all these things +had this ‘old struggler’ to contend; over all these +<!-- page 104--><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +104</span>things did this ‘old struggler’ +prevail. Over even the fear of death, the giving up of this +‘intellectual being,’ which had haunted his gloomy +fancy for a lifetime, he seems finally to have prevailed, and to +have met his end as a brave man should.</p> +<p>Carlyle, writing to his wife, says, and truthfully enough, +‘The more the devil worries me the more I wring him by the +nose;’ but then if the devil’s was the only nose that +was wrung in the transaction, why need Carlyle cry out so +loud? After buffeting one’s way through the +storm-tossed pages of Froude’s <i>Carlyle</i>—in +which the universe is stretched upon the rack because food +disagrees with man and cocks crow—with what thankfulness +and reverence do we read once again the letter in which Johnson +tells Mrs. Thrale how he has been called to endure, not dyspepsia +or sleeplessness, but paralysis itself:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘On Monday I sat for my picture, and walked +a considerable way with little inconvenience. In the +afternoon and evening I felt myself light and easy, and began to +plan schemes of life. Thus I went to bed, and, in a short +time, waked and sat up, as has long been my custom; when I felt a +confusion in my head which <!-- page 105--><a +name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 105</span>lasted, I +suppose, about half a minute; I was alarmed, and prayed God that +however much He might afflict my body He would spare my +understanding. . . . Soon after I perceived that I had +suffered a paralytic stroke, and that my speech was taken from +me. I had no pain, and so little dejection, in this +dreadful state, that I wondered at my own apathy, and considered +that perhaps death itself, when it should come, would excite less +horror than seems now to attend it. In order to rouse the +vocal organs I took two drams. . . . I then went to bed, +and, strange as it may seem, I think, slept. When I saw +light it was time I should contrive what I should do. +Though God stopped my speech He left me my hand. I enjoyed +a mercy which was not granted to my dear friend Lawrence, who now +perhaps overlooks me, as I am writing, and rejoices that I have +what he wanted. My first note was necessarily to my +servant, who came in talking, and could not immediately +comprehend why he should read what I put into his hands. . . +. How this will be received by you I know not. I hope +you will sympathize with me; but perhaps—</p> +<p>‘“My mistress, gracious, mild, and good,<br /> +Cries—Is he dumb? ’Tis time he +shou’d.”</p> +<p><!-- page 106--><a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +106</span>‘I suppose you may wish to know how my disease is +treated by the physicians. They put a blister upon my back, +and two from my ear to my throat, one on a side. The +blister on the back has done little, and those on the throat have +not risen. I bullied and bounced (it sticks to our last +sand), and compelled the apothecary to make his salve according +to the Edinburgh dispensatory, that it might adhere better. +I have now two on my own prescription. They likewise give +me salt of hartshorn, which I take with no great confidence; but +I am satisfied that what can be done is done for me. I am +almost ashamed of this querulous letter, but now it is written +let it go.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>This is indeed tonic and bark for the mind.</p> +<p>If, irritated by a comparison that ought never to have been +thrust upon us, we ask why it is that the reader of Boswell finds +it as hard to help loving Johnson as the reader of Froude finds +its hard to avoid disliking Carlyle, the answer must be that +whilst the elder man of letters was full to overflowing with the +milk of human kindness, the younger one was full to overflowing +with something not nearly so nice; and that whilst Johnson was +pre-eminently a reasonable man, reasonable in all his demands +<!-- page 107--><a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +107</span>and expectations, Carlyle was the most unreasonable +mortal that ever exhausted the patience of nurse, mother, or +wife.</p> +<p>Of Dr. Johnson’s affectionate nature nobody has written +with nobler appreciation than Carlyle himself. +‘Perhaps it is this Divine feeling of affection, throughout +manifested, that principally attracts us to Johnson. A true +brother of men is he, and filial lover of the earth.’</p> +<p>The day will come when it will be recognised that Carlyle, as +a critic, is to be judged by what he himself corrected for the +press, and not by splenetic entries in diaries, or whimsical +extravagances in private conversation.</p> +<p>Of Johnson’s reasonableness nothing need be said, except +that it is patent everywhere. His wife’s judgment was +a sound one: ‘He is the most sensible man I ever +met.’</p> +<p>As for his brutality, of which at one time we used to hear a +great deal, we cannot say of it what Hookham Frere said of +Landor’s immorality, that it was:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Mere imaginary classicality<br /> +Wholly devoid of criminal reality.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>It was nothing of the sort. Dialectically the great +Doctor was a great brute. The fact is, he had so accustomed +himself to wordy warfare, <!-- page 108--><a +name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 108</span>that he +lost all sense of moral responsibility, and cared as little for +men’s feelings as a Napoleon did for their lives. +When the battle was over, the Doctor frequently did what no +soldier ever did that I have heard tell of, apologized to his +victims and drank wine or lemonade with them. It must also +be remembered that for the most part his victims sought him +out. They came to be tossed and gored. And after all, +are they so much to be pitied? They have our sympathy, and +the Doctor has our applause. I am not prepared to say, with +the simpering fellow with weak legs whom David Copperfield met at +Mr. Waterbrook’s dinner-table, that I would sooner be +knocked down by a man with blood than picked up by a man without +any; but, argumentatively speaking, I think it would be better +for a man’s reputation to be knocked down by Dr. Johnson +than picked up by Mr. Froude.</p> +<p>Johnson’s claim to be the best of our talkers cannot, on +our present materials, be contested. For the most part we +have only talk about other talkers. Johnson’s is +matter of record. Carlyle no doubt was a great +talker—no man talked against talk or broke silence to +praise it more eloquently than he, but unfortunately none of it +is in evidence. All that is given us <!-- page 109--><a +name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>is a sort +of Commination Service writ large. We soon weary of +it. Man does not live by curses alone.</p> +<p>An unhappier prediction of a boy’s future was surely +never made than that of Johnson’s by his cousin, Mr. +Cornelius Ford, who said to the infant Samuel, ‘You will +make your way the more easily in the world as you are content to +dispute no man’s claim to conversation excellence, and they +will, therefore, more willingly allow your pretensions as a +writer.’ Unfortunate Mr. Ford! The man never +breathed whose claim to conversation excellence Dr. Johnson did +not dispute on every possible occasion, whilst, just because he +was admittedly so good a talker, his pretensions as a writer have +been occasionally slighted.</p> +<p>Johnson’s personal character has generally been allowed +to stand high. It, however, has not been submitted to +recent tests. To be the first to ‘smell a +fault’ is the pride of the modern biographer. +Boswell’s artless pages afford useful hints not lightly to +be disregarded. During some portion of Johnson’s +married life he had lodgings, first at Greenwich, afterwards at +Hampstead. But he did not always go home o’ nights; +sometimes preferring to roam <!-- page 110--><a +name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 110</span>the streets +with that vulgar ruffian Savage, who was certainly no fit company +for him. He once actually quarrelled with +‘Tetty,’ who, despite her ridiculous name, was a very +sensible woman with a very sharp tongue, and for a season, like +stars, they dwelt apart. Of the real merits of this dispute +we must resign ourselves to ignorance. The materials for +its discussion do not exist; even Croker could not find +them. Neither was our great moralist as sound as one would +have liked to see him in the matter of the payment of small +debts. When he came to die, he remembered several of these +outstanding accounts; but what assurance have we that he +remembered them all? One sum of £10 he sent across to +the honest fellow from whom he had borrowed it, with an apology +for his delay; which, since it had extended over a period of +twenty years, was not superfluous. I wonder whether he ever +repaid Mr. Dilly the guinea he once borrowed of him to give to a +very small boy who had just been apprenticed to a printer. +If he did not, it was a great shame. That he was indebted +to Sir Joshua in a small loan is apparent from the fact that it +was one of his three dying requests to that great man that he +<!-- page 111--><a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +111</span>should release him from it, as, of course, the most +amiable of painters did. The other two requests, it will be +remembered, were to read his Bible, and not to use his brush on +Sundays. The good Sir Joshua gave the desired promises with +a full heart, for these two great men loved one another; but +subsequently discovered the Sabbatical restriction not a little +irksome, and after a while resumed his former practice, arguing +with himself that the Doctor really had no business to extract +any such promise. The point is a nice one, and perhaps ere +this the two friends have met and discussed it in the Elysian +fields. If so, I hope the Doctor, grown +‘angelical,’ kept his temper with the mild shade of +Reynolds better than on the historical occasion when he discussed +with him the question of ‘strong drinks.’</p> +<p>Against Garrick, Johnson undoubtedly cherished a smouldering +grudge, which, however, he never allowed anyone but himself to +fan into flame. His pique was natural. Garrick had +been his pupil at Edial, near Lichfield; they had come up to town +together with an easy united fortune of +fourpence—‘current coin o’ the +realm.’ Garrick soon had the world at his feet and +garnered golden grain. Johnson <!-- page 112--><a +name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 112</span>became +famous too, but remained poor and dingy. Garrick surrounded +himself with what only money can buy, good pictures and rare +books. Johnson cared nothing for pictures—how should +he? he could not see them; but he did care a great deal about +books, and the pernickety little player was chary about lending +his splendidly bound rarities to his quondam preceptor. Our +sympathies in this matter are entirely with Garrick; Johnson was +one of the best men that ever lived, but not to lend books +to. Like Lady Slattern, he had a ‘most observant +thumb.’ But Garrick had no real cause for +complaint. Johnson may have soiled his folios and sneered +at his trade, but in life Johnson loved Garrick, and in death +embalmed his memory in a sentence which can only die with the +English language: ‘I am disappointed by that stroke of +death which has eclipsed the gaiety of nations, and impoverished +the public stock of harmless pleasure.’</p> +<p>Will it be believed that puny critics have been found to +quarrel with this colossal compliment on the poor pretext of its +falsehood? Garrick’s death, urge these dullards, +could not possibly have eclipsed the gaiety of nations, since he +had retired from the stage months <!-- page 113--><a +name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 113</span>previous to +his demise. When will mankind learn that literature is one +thing, and sworn testimony another?</p> +<p>Johnson’s relations with Burke were of a more crucial +character. The author of <i>Rasselas</i> and <i>The English +Dictionary</i> can never have been really jealous of Garrick, or +in the very least desirous of ‘bringing down the +house;’ but Burke had done nobler things than that. +He had made politics philosophical, and had at least tried to +cleanse them from the dust and cobwebs of party. Johnson, +though he had never sat in the House of Commons, had yet, in his +capacity of an unauthorized reporter, put into the mouths of +honourable members much better speeches than ever came out of +them, and it is no secret that he would have liked to make a +speech or two on his own account. Burke had made +many. Harder still to bear, there were not wanting good +judges to say that, in their opinion, Burke was a better talker +than the great Samuel himself. To cap it all, was not Burke +a ‘vile Whig’? The ordeal was an unusually +trying one. Johnson emerges triumphant.</p> +<p>Though by no means disposed to hear men made much of, he +always listened to praise of <!-- page 114--><a +name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 114</span>Burke with +a boyish delight. He never wearied of it. When any +new proof of Burke’s intellectual prowess was brought to +his notice, he would exclaim exultingly, ‘Did we not always +say he was a great man?’ And yet how admirably did +this ‘poor scholar’ preserve his independence and +equanimity of mind! It was not easy to dazzle the +Doctor. What a satisfactory story that is of Burke showing +Johnson over his fine estate at Beaconsfield, and expatiating in +his exuberant style on its ‘liberties, privileges, +easements, rights, and advantages,’ and of the old Doctor, +the tenant of ‘a two-pair back’ somewhere off Fleet +Street, peering cautiously about, criticising everything, and +observing with much coolness—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Non equidem invideo, miror +magis.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>A friendship like this could be disturbed but by death, and +accordingly we read:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Mr. Langton one day during Johnson’s +last illness found Mr. Burke and four or five more friends +sitting with Johnson. Mr. Burke said to him, “I am +afraid, sir, such a number of us may be oppressive to +you.” “No, sir,” said Johnson, “it +is not so; and I must be in a wretched state indeed when your +company <!-- page 115--><a name="page115"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 115</span>would not be a delight to +me.” Mr. Burke, in a tremulous voice, expressive of +being very tenderly affected, replied: “My dear sir, you +have always been too good to me.” Immediately +afterwards he went away. This was the last circumstance in +the acquaintance of these two eminent men.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But this is a well-worn theme, though, like some other +well-worn themes, still profitable for edification or +rebuke. A hundred years can make no difference to a +character like Johnson’s, or to a biography like +Boswell’s. We are not to be robbed of our conviction +that this man, at all events, was both great and good.</p> +<p>Johnson the author is not always fairly treated. Phrases +are convenient things to hand about, and it is as little the +custom to inquire into their truth as it is to read the +letterpress on banknotes. We are content to count +banknotes, and to repeat phrases. One of these phrases is, +that whilst everybody reads Boswell, nobody reads Johnson. +The facts are otherwise. Everybody does not read Boswell, +and a great many people do read Johnson. If it be asked, +What do the general public know of Johnson’s nine volumes +octavo? I reply, Beshrew the general public! What in +the name of the <!-- page 116--><a name="page116"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 116</span>Bodleian has the general public got +to do with literature? The general public subscribes to +Mudie, and has its intellectual, like its lacteal sustenance, +sent round to it in carts. On Saturdays these carts, laden +with ‘recent works in circulation,’ traverse the +Uxbridge Road; on Wednesdays they toil up Highgate Hill, and if +we may believe the reports of travellers, are occasionally seen +rushing through the wilds of Camberwell and bumping over +Blackheath. It is not a question of the general public, but +of the lover of letters. Do Mr. Browning, Mr. Arnold, Mr. +Lowell, Mr. Trevelyan, Mr. Stephen, Mr. Morley, know their +Johnson? ‘To doubt would be disloyalty.’ +And what these big men know in their big way hundreds of little +men know in their little way. We have no writer with a more +genuine literary flavour about him than the great Cham of +literature. No man of letters loved letters better than +he. He knew literature in all its branches—he had +read books, he had written books, he had sold books, he had +bought books, and he had borrowed them. Sluggish and inert +in all other directions, he pranced through libraries. He +loved a catalogue; he delighted in an index. He was, to +employ a happy phrase of Dr. Holmes, at home <!-- page 117--><a +name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 117</span>amongst +books, as a stable-boy is amongst horses. He cared +intensely about the future of literature and the fate of literary +men. ‘I respect Millar,’ he once exclaimed; +‘he has raised the price of literature.’ Now +Millar was a Scotchman. Even Horne Tooke was not to stand +in the pillory: ‘No, no, the dog has too much literature +for that.’ The only time the author of +<i>Rasselas</i> met the author of the <i>Wealth of Nations</i> +witnessed a painful scene. The English moralist gave the +Scotch one the lie direct, and the Scotch moralist applied to the +English one a phrase which would have done discredit to the lips +of a costermonger; <a name="citation117"></a><a +href="#footnote117" class="citation">[117]</a> but this +notwithstanding, when Boswell reported that Adam Smith preferred +rhyme to blank verse, Johnson hailed the news as enthusiastically +as did Cedric the Saxon the English origin of the bravest knights +in the retinue of the Norman king. ‘Did Adam say +that?’ he shouted: ‘I love him for it. I could +hug him!’ Johnson no doubt honestly believed he held +George III. in reverence, but really he did not care a +pin’s fee for all the crowned heads of Europe. All +his reverence <!-- page 118--><a name="page118"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 118</span>was reserved for ‘poor +scholars.’ When a small boy in a wherry, on whom had +devolved the arduous task of rowing Johnson and his biographer +across the Thames, said he would give all he had to know about +the Argonauts, the Doctor was much pleased, and gave him, or got +Boswell to give him, a double fare. He was ever an advocate +of the spread of knowledge amongst all classes and both +sexes. His devotion to letters has received its fitting +reward, the love and respect of all ‘lettered +hearts.’</p> +<p>Considering him a little more in detail, we find it plain that +he was a poet of no mean order. His resonant lines, +informed as they often are with the force of their author’s +character—his strong sense, his fortitude, his +gloom—take possession of the memory, and suffuse themselves +through one’s entire system of thought. A poet +spouting his own verses is usually a figure to be avoided; but +one could be content to be a hundred and thirty next birthday to +have heard Johnson recite, in his full sonorous voice, and with +his stately elocution, <i>The Vanity of Human Wishes</i>. +When he came to the following lines, he usually broke down, and +who can wonder?—</p> +<blockquote><p> <!-- page +119--><a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +119</span>‘Proceed, illustrious youth,<br /> +And virtue guard thee to the throne of truth!<br /> +Yet should thy soul indulge the gen’rous heat<br /> +Till captive science yields her last retreat;<br /> +Should reason guide thee with her brightest ray,<br /> +And pour on misty doubt resistless day;<br /> +Should no false kindness lure to loose delight,<br /> +Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright;<br /> +Should tempting novelty thy cell refrain,<br /> +And sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain;<br /> +Should beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart,<br /> +Nor claim the triumph of a lettered heart;<br /> +Should no disease thy torpid veins invade,<br /> +Nor melancholy’s phantoms haunt thy shade;<br /> +Yet hope not life from grief or danger free,<br /> +Nor think the doom of man revers’d for thee.<br /> +Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes,<br /> +And pause a while from letters to be wise;<br /> +There mark what ills the scholar’s life assail,<br /> +Toil, envy, want, the patron and the gaol.<br /> +See nations, slowly wise and meanly just,<br /> +To buried merit raise the tardy bust.<br /> +If dreams yet flatter, once again attend,<br /> +Hear Lydiat’s life, and Galileo’s end.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>If this be not poetry, may the name perish!</p> +<p>In another style, the stanzas on the young heir’s +majority have such great merit as to tempt one to say that the +author of <i>The Jolly Beggars</i>, Robert Burns himself, might +have written them. Here are four of them:</p> +<blockquote><p><!-- page 120--><a name="page120"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 120</span>‘Loosen’d from the +minor’s tether,<br /> + Free to mortgage or to sell;<br /> +Wild as wind and light as feather,<br /> + Bid the sons of thrift farewell.</p> +<p>‘Call the Betseys, Kates, and Jennies,<br /> + All the names that banish care,<br /> +Lavish of your grandsire’s guineas,<br /> + Show the spirit of an heir.</p> +<p>‘Wealth, my lad, was made to wander,<br /> + Let it wander as it will;<br /> +Call the jockey, call the pander,<br /> + Bid them come and take their fill.</p> +<p>‘When the bonny blade carouses,<br /> + Pockets full and spirits high—<br /> +What are acres? what are houses?<br /> + Only dirt—or wet or dry.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Johnson’s prologues, and his lines on the death of +Robert Levet, are well known. Indeed, it is only fair to +say that our respected friend, the General Public, frequently has +Johnsonian tags on its tongue:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Slow rises worth by poverty +depressed.’</p> +<p>‘The unconquered lord of pleasure and of +pain.’</p> +<p>‘He left the name at which the world grew pale<br /> +To point a moral or adorn a tale.’</p> +<p>‘Death, kind nature’s signal of +retreat.’</p> +<p>‘Panting Time toiled after him in vain.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 121--><a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +121</span>All these are Johnson’s, who, though he is not, +like Gray, whom he hated so, all quotations, is yet oftener in +men’s mouths than they perhaps wot of.</p> +<p>Johnson’s tragedy, <i>Irene</i>, need not detain +us. It is unreadable, and to quote his own sensible words, +‘It is useless to criticise what nobody reads.’ +It was indeed the expressed opinion of a contemporary called Pot +that <i>Irene</i> was the finest tragedy of modern times; but on +this judgment of Pot’s being made known to Johnson, he was +only heard to mutter, ‘If Pot says so, Pot lies,’ as +no doubt he did.</p> +<p>Johnson’s Latin Verses have not escaped the condemnation +of scholars. Whose have? The true mode of critical +approach to copies of Latin verse is by the question—How +bad are they? Croker took the opinion of the Marquess +Wellesley as to the degree of badness of Johnson’s Latin +Exercises. Lord Wellesley, as became so distinguished an +Etonian, felt the solemnity of the occasion, and, after +bargaining for secrecy, gave it as his opinion that they were all +very bad, but that some perhaps were worse than others. To +this judgment I have nothing to add.</p> +<p>As a writer of English prose, Johnson has <!-- page 122--><a +name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 122</span>always +enjoyed a great, albeit a somewhat awful reputation. In +childish memories he is constrained to be associated with dust +and dictionaries, and those provoking obstacles to a boy’s +reading—‘long words.’ It would be easy to +select from Johnson’s writings numerous passages written in +that essentially vicious style to which the name Johnsonese has +been cruelly given; but the searcher could not fail to find many +passages guiltless of this charge. The characteristics of +Johnson’s prose style are colossal good sense, though with +a strong sceptical bias, good humour, vigorous language, and +movement from point to point, which can only be compared to the +measured tread of a well-drilled company of soldiers. Here +is a passage from the preface to Shakspeare:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Notes are often necessary, but they are +necessary evils. Let him that is yet unacquainted with the +powers of Shakspeare, and who desires to feel the highest +pleasure that the drama can give, read every play from the first +scene to the last, with utter negligence of all his +commentators. When his fancy is once on the wing, let it +not stoop at correction or explanation. When his attention +is strongly engaged, let it disdain alike to turn <!-- page +123--><a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +123</span>aside to the name of Theobald and of Pope. Let +him read on, through brightness and obscurity, through integrity +and corruption; let him preserve his comprehension of the +dialogue and his interest in the fable. And when the +pleasures of novelty have ceased, let him attempt exactness and +read the commentators.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Where are we to find better sense, or much better English?</p> +<p>In the pleasant art of chaffing an author Johnson has hardly +an equal. De Quincey too often overdoes it. Macaulay +seldom fails to excite sympathy with his victim. In +playfulness Mr. Arnold perhaps surpasses the Doctor, but then the +latter’s playfulness is always leonine, whilst Mr. +Arnold’s is surely, sometimes, just a trifle +kittenish. An example, no doubt a very good one, of +Johnson’s humour must be allowed me. Soame Jenyns, in +his book on the <i>Origin of Evil</i>, had imagined that, as we +have not only animals for food, but choose some for our +diversion, the same privilege may be allowed to beings above us, +‘who may deceive, torment, or destroy us for the ends only +of their own pleasure.’</p> +<p>On this hint writes our merry Doctor as follows:</p> +<blockquote><p><!-- page 124--><a name="page124"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 124</span>‘I cannot resist the +temptation of contemplating this analogy, which I think he might +have carried farther, very much to the advantage of his +argument. He might have shown that these “hunters, +whose game is man,” have many sports analogous to our +own. As we drown whelps or kittens, they amuse themselves +now and then with sinking a ship, and stand round the fields of +Blenheim, or the walls of Prague, as we encircle a cockpit. +As we shoot a bird flying, they take a man in the midst of his +business or pleasure, and knock him down with an apoplexy. +Some of them perhaps are virtuosi, and delight in the operations +of an asthma, as a human philosopher in the effects of the +air-pump. Many a merry bout have these frolick beings at +the vicissitudes of an ague, and good sport it is to see a man +tumble with an epilepsy, and revive and tumble again, and all +this he knows not why. The paroxysms of the gout and stone +must undoubtedly make high mirth, especially if the play be a +little diversified with the blunders and puzzles of the blind and +deaf. . . . One sport the merry malice of these beings has +found means of enjoying, to which we have nothing equal or +similar. They now and then <!-- page 125--><a +name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>catch a +mortal, proud of his parts, and flattered either by the +submission of those who court his kindness, or the notice of +those who suffer him to court theirs. A head thus prepared +for the reception of false opinions, and the projection of vain +designs, they easily fill with idle notions till, in time, they +make their plaything an author; their first diversion commonly +begins with an ode or an epistle, then rises perhaps to a +political irony, and is at last brought to its height by a +treatise of philosophy. Then begins the poor animal to +entangle himself in sophisms and to flounder in +absurdity.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The author of the philosophical treatise, <i>A Free Inquiry +into the Nature and Origin of Evil</i>, did not at all enjoy this +‘merry bout’ of the ‘frolick’ +Johnson.</p> +<p>The concluding paragraphs of Johnson’s Preface to his +Dictionary are historical prose, and if we are anxious to find +passages fit to compare with them in the melancholy roll of their +cadences and in their grave sincerity and manly emotion, we must, +I think, take a flying jump from Dr. Johnson to Dr. Newman.</p> +<p>For sensible men the world offers no better reading than the +<i>Lives of the Poets</i>. They afford an admirable example +of the manner of man <!-- page 126--><a name="page126"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 126</span>Johnson was. The subject was +suggested to him by the booksellers, whom as a body he never +abused. Himself the son of a bookseller, he respected their +calling. If they treated him with civility, he responded +suitably. If they were rude to him he knocked them +down. These worthies chose their own poets. Johnson +remained indifferent. He knew everybody’s poetry, and +was always ready to write anybody’s Life. If he knew +the facts of a poet’s life—and his knowledge was +enormous on such subjects—he found room for them; if he did +not, he supplied their place with his own shrewd reflections and +sombre philosophy of life. It thus comes about that Johnson +is every bit as interesting when he is writing about Sprat, or +Smith, or Fenton, as he is when he has got Milton or Gray in +hand. He is also much less provoking. My own +favourite <i>Life</i> is that of Sir Richard Blackmore.</p> +<p>The poorer the poet the kindlier is the treatment he +receives. Johnson kept all his rough words for Shakspeare, +Milton, and Gray.</p> +<p>In this trait, surely an amiable one, he was much resembled by +that eminent man the late Sir George Jessel, whose civility to a +barrister was always in inverse ratio to the barrister’s +<!-- page 127--><a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +127</span>practice; and whose friendly zeal in helping young and +nervous practitioners over the stiles of legal difficulty was +only equalled by the fiery enthusiasm with which he thrust back +the Attorney and Solicitor General and people of that sort.</p> +<p>As a political thinker Johnson has not had justice. He +has been lightly dismissed as the last of the old-world +Tories. He was nothing of the sort. His cast of +political thought is shared by thousands to this day. He +represents that vast army of electors whom neither canvasser nor +caucus has ever yet cajoled or bullied into a +polling-booth. Newspapers may scold, platforms may shake; +whatever circulars can do may be done, all that placards can tell +may be told; but the fact remains that one-third of every +constituency in the realm shares Dr. Johnson’s +‘narcotic indifference,’ and stays away.</p> +<p>It is, of course, impossible to reconcile all Johnson’s +recorded utterances with any one view of anything. When +crossed in conversation or goaded by folly he was capable of +anything. But his dominant tone about politics was +something of this sort. Provided a man lived in a State +which guaranteed him private <!-- page 128--><a +name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 128</span>liberty and +secured him public order, he was very much of a knave or +altogether a fool if he troubled himself further. To go to +bed when you wish, to get up when you like, to eat and drink and +read what you choose, to say across your port or your tea +whatever occurs to you at the moment, and to earn your living as +best you may—this is what Dr. Johnson meant by private +liberty. Fleet Street open day and night—this is what +he meant by public order. Give a sensible man these, and +take all the rest the world goes round. Tyranny was a +bugbear. Either the tyranny was bearable, or it was +not. If it was bearable, it did not matter; and as soon as +it became unbearable the mob cut off the tyrant’s head, and +wise men went home to their dinner. To views of this sort +he gave emphatic utterance on the well-known occasion when he +gave Sir Adam Ferguson a bit of his mind. Sir Adam had +innocently enough observed that the Crown had too much +power. Thereupon Johnson:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Sir, I perceive you are a vile Whig. +Why all this childish jealousy of the power of the Crown? +The Crown has not power enough. When I say that all +governments are alike, I consider that in no government power can +be <!-- page 129--><a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +129</span>abused long; mankind will not bear it. If a +sovereign oppresses his people, they will rise and cut off his +head. There is a remedy in human nature against tyranny +that will keep us safe under every form of government.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>This is not, and never was, the language of Toryism. It +is a much more intellectual ‘ism.’ It is +indifferentism. So, too, in his able pamphlet, <i>The False +Alarm</i>, which had reference to Wilkes and the Middlesex +election, though he no doubt attempts to deal with the +constitutional aspect of the question, the real strength of his +case is to be found in passages like the following:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘The grievance which has produced all this +tempest of outrage, the oppression in which all other oppressions +are included, the invasion which has left us no property, the +alarm that suffers no patriot to sleep in quiet, is comprised in +a vote of the House of Commons, by which the freeholders of +Middlesex are deprived of a Briton’s +birthright—representation in Parliament. They have, +indeed, received the usual writ of election; but that writ, alas! +was malicious mockery; they were insulted with the form, but +denied the reality, for there was one man excepted from their +choice. The <!-- page 130--><a name="page130"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 130</span>character of the man, thus fatally +excepted, I have no purpose to delineate. Lampoon itself +would disdain to speak ill of him of whom no man speaks +well. Every lover of liberty stands doubtful of the fate of +posterity, because the chief county in England cannot take its +representative from a gaol.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Temperament was of course at the bottom of this +indifference. Johnson was of melancholy humour and +profoundly sceptical. Cynical he was not—he loved his +fellow-men; his days were full of</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Little, nameless, unremembered acts<br /> +Of kindness and of love.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But he was as difficult to rouse to enthusiasm about humanity +as is Mr. Justice Stephen. He pitied the poor devils, but +he did not believe in them. They were neither happy nor +wise, and he saw no reason to believe they would ever become +either. ‘Leave me alone,’ he cried to the +sultry mob, bawling ‘Wilkes and Liberty.’ +‘I at least am not ashamed to own that I care for neither +the one nor the other.’</p> +<p>No man, however, resented more fiercely than Johnson any +unnecessary interference with men who were simply going their own +way. The Highlanders only knew Gaelic, yet political <!-- +page 131--><a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +131</span>wiseacres were to be found objecting to their having +the Bible in their own tongue. Johnson flew to arms: he +wrote one of his monumental letters; the opposition was quelled, +and the Gael got his Bible. So too the wicked interference +with Irish enterprise, so much in vogue during the last century, +infuriated him. ‘Sir,’ he said to Sir Thomas +Robinson, ‘you talk the language of a savage. What, +sir! would you prevent any people from feeding themselves, if by +any honest means they can do so?’</p> +<p>Were Johnson to come to life again, total abstainer as he +often was, he would, I expect, denounce the principle involved in +‘Local Option.’ I am not at all sure he would +not borrow a guinea from a bystander and become a subscriber to +the ‘Property Defence League;’ and though it is +notorious that he never read any book all through, and never +could be got to believe that anybody else ever did, he would, I +think, read a larger fraction of Mr. Spencer’s pamphlet, +‘<i>Man</i> versus <i>the State</i>,’ than of any +other ‘recent work in circulation.’ The state +of the Strand, when two vestries are at work upon it, would, I am +sure, drive him into open rebellion.</p> +<p>As a letter-writer Johnson has great merits. <!-- page +132--><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +132</span>Let no man despise the epistolary art. It is said +to be extinct. I doubt it. Good letters were always +scarce. It does not follow that, because our grandmothers +wrote long letters, they all wrote good ones, or that nobody +nowadays writes good letters because most people write bad +ones. Johnson wrote letters in two styles. One was +monumental—more suggestive of the chisel than the +pen. In the other there are traces of the same style, but, +like the old Gothic architecture, it has grown domesticated, and +become the fit vehicle of plain tidings of joy and +sorrow—of affection, wit, and fancy. The letter to +Lord Chesterfield is the most celebrated example of the +monumental style. From the letters to Mrs. Thrale many good +examples of the domesticated style might be selected One must +suffice:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Queeney has been a good girl, and wrote me +a letter. If Burney said she would write, she told you a +fib. She writes nothing to me. She can write home +fast enough. I have a good mind not to tell her that Dr. +Bernard, to whom I had recommended her novel, speaks of it with +great commendation, and that the copy which she lent me has been +read by Dr. Lawrence three times over. And yet what <!-- +page 133--><a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +133</span>a gipsy it is. She no more minds me than if I +were a Branghton. Pray, speak to Queeney to write again. . +. . Now you think yourself the first writer in the world +for a letter about nothing. Can you write such a letter as +this? So miscellaneous, with such noble disdain of +regularity, like Shakspeare’s works; such graceful +negligence of transition, like the ancient enthusiasts. The +pure voice of Nature and of Friendship. Now, of whom shall +I proceed to speak? of whom but Mrs. Montague? Having +mentioned Shakspeare and Nature, does not the name of Montague +force itself upon me? Such were the transitions of the +ancients, which now seem abrupt, because the intermediate idea is +lost to modern understandings.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But the extract had better end, for there are, (I fear) +‘modern understandings who will not perceive the +intermediate idea’ between Shakspeare and Mrs. Montague, +and to whom even the name of Branghton will suggest no +meaning.</p> +<p>Johnson’s literary fame is, in our judgment, as secure +as his character. Like the stone which he placed over his +father’s grave at Lichfield, and which, it is shameful to +think, <!-- page 134--><a name="page134"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 134</span>has been removed, it is ‘too +massy and strong’ to be ever much affected by the wind and +weather of our literary atmosphere. ‘Never,’ so +he wrote to Mrs. Thrale, ‘let criticisms operate upon your +face or your mind; it is very rarely that an author is hurt by +his critics. The blaze of reputation cannot be blown out; +but it often dies in the socket. From the author of +<i>Fitzosborne’s Letters</i> I cannot think myself in much +danger. I met him only once, about thirty years ago, and in +some small dispute soon reduced him to whistle.’ Dr. +Johnson is in no danger from anybody. None but Gargantua +could blow him out, and he still burns brightly in his +socket.</p> +<p>How long this may continue who can say? It is a far cry +to 1985. Science may by that time have squeezed out +literature, and the author of the <i>Lives of the Poets</i> may +be dimly remembered as an odd fellow who lived in the Dark Ages, +and had a very creditable fancy for making chemical +experiments. On the other hand, the Spiritualists may be in +possession, in which case the Cock Lane Ghost will occupy more of +public attention than Boswell’s hero, who will, perhaps, be +reprobated as the profane utterer of these idle words: +‘Suppose <!-- page 135--><a name="page135"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 135</span>I know a man to be so lame that he +is absolutely incapable to move himself, and I find him in a +different room from that in which I left him, shall I puzzle +myself with idle conjectures, that perhaps his nerves have by +some unknown change all at once become effective? No, sir, +it is clear how he got into a different room—he was +<i>carried</i>.’</p> +<p>We here part company with Johnson, bidding him a most +affectionate farewell, and leaving him in undisturbed possession +of both place and power. His character will bear +investigation, and some of his books perusal. The latter, +indeed, may be submitted to his own test, and there is no truer +one. A book, he wrote, should help us either to enjoy life +or to endure it. His frequently do both.</p> +<h2><!-- page 136--><a name="page136"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 136</span>EDMUND BURKE.</h2> +<p><i>A Lecture delivered before the Edinburgh Philosophical +Society</i>.</p> +<p>Mr. John Morley, who amongst other things has written two +admirable books about Edmund Burke, is to be found in the Preface +to the second of them apologizing for having introduced into the +body of the work extracts from his former volume—conduct +which he seeks to justify by quoting from the Greek (always a +desirable thing to do when in difficulty), to prove that, though +you may say what you have to say well once, you cannot so say it +twice.</p> +<p>A difficulty somewhat of the same kind cannot fail to be felt +by everyone who takes upon himself to write on Burke; for however +innocent a man’s own past life may be of any public +references to the subject, the very many good things other men +have said about it must seriously interfere with true liberty of +treatment.</p> +<p><!-- page 137--><a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +137</span>Hardly any man, and certainly no politician, has been +so bepraised as Burke, whose very name, suggesting, as it does, +splendour of diction, has tempted those who would praise him to +do so in a highly decorated style, and it would have been easy +work to have brought together a sufficient number of animated +passages from the works of well-known writers all dedicated to +the greater glory of Edmund Burke, and then to have tagged on +half-a-dozen specimens of his own resplendent rhetoric, and so to +have come to an apparently natural and long-desired conclusion +without exciting any more than the usual post-lectorial +grumble.</p> +<p>This course, however, not recommending itself, some other +method had to be discovered. Happily, it is out of the +question within present limits to give any proper summary of +Burke’s public life. This great man was not like some +modern politicians, a specialist, confining his activities within +the prospectus of an association; nor was he, like some others, a +thing of shreds and patches, busily employed to-day picking up +the facts with which he will overwhelm his opponents on the +morrow; but was one ever ready to engage with all comers on all +subjects from out the stores of his accumulated <!-- page +138--><a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +138</span>knowledge. Even were we to confine ourselves to +those questions only which engaged Burke’s most powerful +attention, enlisted his most active sympathy, elicited his most +bewitching rhetoric, we should still find ourselves called upon +to grapple with problems as vast and varied as Economic Reform, +the Status of our Colonies, our Empire in India, our relations +with Ireland both in respect to her trade and her prevalent +religion; and then, blurring the picture, as some may +think—certainly rendering it Titanesque and gloomy—we +have the spectacle of Burke in his old age, like another Laocoon, +writhing and wrestling with the French Revolution; and it may +serve to give us some dim notion of how great a man Burke was, of +how affluent a mind, of how potent an imagination, of how +resistless an energy, that even when his sole unassisted name is +pitted against the outcome of centuries, and we say Burke and the +French Revolution, we are not overwhelmed by any sense of obvious +absurdity or incongruity.</p> +<p>What I propose to do is merely to consider a little +Burke’s life prior to his obtaining a seat in Parliament, +and then to refer to any circumstances which may help us to +account for the <!-- page 139--><a name="page139"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 139</span>fact that this truly extraordinary +man, whose intellectual resources beggar the imagination, and who +devoted himself to politics with all the forces of his nature, +never so much as attained to a seat in the Cabinet—a feat +one has known to be accomplished by persons of no proved +intellectual agility. Having done this, I shall then, +bearing in mind the aphorism of Lord Beaconsfield, that it is +always better to be impudent than servile, essay an analysis of +the essential elements of Burke’s character.</p> +<p>The first great fact to remember is that the Edmund Burke we +are all agreed in regarding as one of the proudest memories of +the House of Commons was an Irishman. When we are in our +next fit of political depression about that island, and are about +piously to wish, as the poet Spenser tells us men were wishing +even in his time, that it were not adjacent, let us do a little +national stocktaking, and calculate profits as well as +losses. Burke was not only an Irishman, but a typical +one—of the very kind many Englishmen, and even possibly +some Scotchmen, make a point of disliking. I do not say he +was an aboriginal Irishman, but his ancestors are said to have +settled in the county of Galway, under Strongbow, in King Henry +<!-- page 140--><a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +140</span>the Second’s time, when Ireland was first +conquered and our troubles began. This, at all events, is a +better Irish pedigree than Mr. Parnell’s.</p> +<p>Skipping six centuries, we find Burke’s father an +attorney in Dublin—which somehow sounds a very Irish thing +to be—who in 1725 married a Miss Nagle, and had fifteen +children. The marriage of Burke’s parents was of the +kind called mixed—a term which doubtless admits of wide +application, but when employed technically signifies that the +religious faith of the spouses was different; one, the father, +being a Protestant, and the lady an adherent to what used to be +pleasantly called the ‘old religion.’ The +severer spirit now dominating Catholic councils has condemned +these marriages, on the score of their bad theology and their lax +morality; but the practical politician, who is not usually much +of a theologian—though Lord Melbourne and Mr. Gladstone are +distinguished exceptions—and whose moral conscience is apt +to be robust (and here I believe there are no exceptions), cannot +but regret that so good an opportunity of lubricating religious +differences with the sweet oil of the domestic affections should +be lost to us in these days of bitterness <!-- page 141--><a +name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 141</span>and +dissension. Burke was brought up in the Protestant faith of +his father, and was never in any real danger of deviating from +it; but I cannot doubt that his regard for his Catholic +fellow-subjects, his fierce repudiation of the infamies of the +Penal Code—the horrors of which he did something to +mitigate—his respect for antiquity, and his historic sense, +were all quickened by the fact that a tenderly loved and loving +mother belonged through life and in death to an ancient and an +outraged faith.</p> +<p>The great majority of Burke’s brothers and sisters, like +those of Laurence Sterne, were ‘not made to live;’ +and out of the fifteen but three, beside himself, attained +maturity. These were his eldest brother Garrett, on whose +death Edmund succeeded to the patrimonial Irish estate, which he +sold; his younger brother, Richard, a highly speculative +gentleman, who always lost; and his sister, Juliana, who married +a Mr. French, and was, as became her mother’s daughter, a +rigid Roman Catholic—who, so we read, was accustomed every +Christmas Day to invite to the Hall the maimed, the aged, and +distressed of her vicinity to a plentiful repast, during which +she waited upon them as a servant. <!-- page 142--><a +name="page142"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 142</span>A sister +like this never did any man any serious harm.</p> +<p>Edmund Burke was born in 1729, in Dublin, and was taught his +rudiments in the country—first by a Mr. O’Halloran, +and afterwards by a Mr. FitzGerald, village pedagogues both, who +at all events succeeded in giving their charge a brogue which +death alone could silence. Burke passed from their hands to +an academy at Ballitore, kept by a Quaker, whence he proceeded to +Trinity College, Dublin. He was thus not only Irish born, +but Irish bred. His intellectual habit of mind exhibited +itself early. He belonged to the happy family of omnivorous +readers, and, in the language of his latest schoolmaster, he went +to college with a larger miscellaneous stock of reading than was +usual with one of his years; which, being interpreted out of +pedagogic into plain English, means that ‘our good +Edmund’ was an enormous devourer of poetry and novels, and +so he remained to the end of his days. That he always +preferred Fielding to Richardson is satisfactory, since it pairs +him off nicely with Dr. Johnson, whose preference was the other +way, and so helps to keep an interesting question wide +open. His passion for the poetry of Virgil is +significant. <!-- page 143--><a name="page143"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 143</span>His early devotion to Edward Young, +the grandiose author of the <i>Night Thoughts</i>, is not to be +wondered at; though the inspiration of the youthful Burke, either +as poet or critic, may be questioned, when we find him +rapturously scribbling in the margin of his copy:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Jove claimed the verse old Homer sung,<br +/> +But God Himself inspired Dr. Young.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But a boy’s enthusiasm for a favourite poet is a thing +to rejoice over. The years that bring the philosophic mind +will not bring—they must find—enthusiasm.</p> +<p>In 1750 Burke (being then twenty-one) came for the first time +to London, to do what so many of his lively young countrymen are +still doing—though they are beginning to make a grievance +even of that—eat his dinners at the Middle Temple, and so +qualify himself for the Bar. Certainly that student was in +luck who found himself in the same mess with Burke; and yet so +stupid are men—so prone to rest with their full weight on +the immaterial and slide over the essential—that had that +good fortune been ours we should probably have been more taken up +with Burke’s brogue than with his brains. Burke came +to London with a cultivated curiosity, and <!-- page 144--><a +name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 144</span>in no +spirit of desperate determination to make his fortune. That +the study of the law interested him cannot be doubted, for +everything interested him, particularly the stage. Like the +sensible Irishman he was, he lost his heart to Peg Woffington on +the first opportunity. He was fond of roaming about the +country during, it is to be hoped, vacation-time only, and is to +be found writing the most cheerful letters to his friends in +Ireland (all of whom are persuaded that he is going some day to +be somebody, though sorely puzzled to surmise what thing or when, +so pleasantly does he take life), from all sorts of +out-of-the-way country places, where he lodges with quaint old +landladies who wonder maternally why he never gets drunk, and +generally mistake him for an author until he pays his bill. +When in town he frequented debating societies in Fleet Street and +Covent Garden, and made his first speeches; for which purpose he +would, unlike some debaters, devote studious hours to getting up +the subjects to be discussed. There is good reason to +believe that it was in this manner his attention was first +directed to India. He was at all times a great talker, and, +Dr. Johnson’s dictum notwithstanding, a good +listener. He was endlessly interested <!-- page 145--><a +name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 145</span>in +everything—in the state of the crops, in the last play, in +the details of all trades, the rhythm of all poems, the plots of +all novels, and indeed in the course of every manufacture. +And so for six years he went up and down, to and fro, gathering +information, imparting knowledge, and preparing himself, though +he knew not for what.</p> +<p>The attorney in Dublin grew anxious, and searched for +precedents of a son behaving like his, and rising to +eminence. Had his son got the legal mind?—which, +according to a keen observer, chiefly displays itself by +illustrating the obvious, explaining the evident, and expatiating +on the commonplace. Edmund’s powers of illustration, +explanation, and expatiation could not indeed be questioned; but +then the subjects selected for the exhibition of those powers +were very far indeed from being obvious, evident, or commonplace, +and the attorney’s heart grew heavy within him. The +paternal displeasure was signified in the usual manner—the +supplies were cut off. Edmund Burke, however, was no +ordinary prodigal, and his reply to his father’s +expostulations took the unexpected and unprecedented shape of a +copy of a second and enlarged edition of his treatise on the +<i>Sublime and <!-- page 146--><a name="page146"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 146</span>Beautiful</i>, which he had +published in 1756 at the price of three shillings. +Burke’s father promptly sent the author a bank-bill for +£100—conduct on his part which, considering he had +sent his son to London and maintained him there for six years to +study law, was, in my judgment, both sublime and beautiful. +In the same year Burke published another pamphlet—a +one-and-sixpenny affair—written ironically in the style of +Lord Bolingbroke, and called <i>A Vindication of Natural +Society</i>; <i>or</i>, <i>A View of the Miseries and Evils +arising to Mankind from Every Species of Civil Society</i>. +Irony is a dangerous weapon for a public man to have ever +employed, and in after-life Burke had frequently to explain that +he was not serious. On these two pamphlets’ airy +pinions Burke floated into the harbour of literary fame. No +less a man than the great David Hume referred to him, in a letter +to the hardly less great Adam Smith, as an Irish gentleman who +had written a ‘very pretty treatise on the +Sublime.’ After these efforts Burke, as became an +established wit, went to Bath to recruit, and there, fitly +enough, fell in love. The lady was Miss Jane Mary Nugent, +the daughter of a celebrated Bath physician, and it is pleasant +to be able to say of <!-- page 147--><a name="page147"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 147</span>the marriage that was shortly +solemnized between the young couple, that it was a happy one, and +then to go on our way, leaving them—where man and wife +ought to be left—alone. Oddly enough, Burke’s +wife was also the offspring of a ‘mixed +marriage’—only in her case it was the father who was +the Catholic; consequently both Mr. and Mrs. Edmund Burke were of +the same way of thinking, but each had a parent of the other +way. Although getting married is no part of the curriculum +of a law student, Burke’s father seems to have come to the +conclusion that after all it was a greater distinction for an +attorney in Dublin to have a son living amongst the wits in +London, and discoursing familiarly on the ‘Sublime and +Beautiful,’ than one prosecuting some poor countryman, with +a brogue as rich as his own, for stealing a pair of breeches; for +we find him generously allowing the young couple £200 a +year, which no doubt went some way towards maintaining +them. Burke, who was now in his twenty-eighth year, seems +to have given up all notion of the law. In 1758 he wrote +for Dodsley the first volume of the <i>Annual Register</i>, a +melancholy series which continues to this day. For doing +this he got £100. Burke was by this time a well-known +figure in London <!-- page 148--><a name="page148"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 148</span>literary society, and was busy +making for himself a huge private reputation. The Christmas +Day of 1758 witnessed a singular scene at the dinner table of +David Garrick. Dr. Johnson, then in full vigour of his +mind, and with the all-dreaded weapons of his dialectics kept +burnished by daily use, was flatly contradicted by a fellow-guest +some twenty years his junior, and, what is more, submitted to it +without a murmur. One of the diners, Arthur Murphy, was so +struck by this occurrence, unique in his long experience of the +Doctor, that on returning home he recorded the fact in his +journal, but ventured no explanation of it. It can only be +accounted for—so at least I venture to think—by the +combined effect of four wholly independent circumstances: +<i>First</i>, the day was Christmas Day, a day of peace and +goodwill, and our beloved Doctor was amongst the sincerest, +though most argumentative, of Christians, and a great observer of +days. <i>Second</i>, the house was David Garrick’s, +and consequently we may be certain that the dinner had been a +superlatively good one; and has not Boswell placed on record +Johnson’s opinion of the man who professed to be +indifferent about his dinner? <i>Third</i>, the subject +under discussion was India, about which Johnson knew he <!-- page +149--><a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +149</span>knew next to nothing. And <i>fourth</i>, the +offender was Edmund Burke, whom Johnson loved from the first day +he set eyes upon him to their last sad parting by the waters of +death.</p> +<p>In 1761 that shrewd old gossip, Horace Walpole, met Burke for +the first time at dinner, and remarks of him in a letter to +George Montague:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘I dined at Hamilton’s yesterday; +there were Garrick, and young Mr. Burke, who wrote a book in the +style of Lord Bolingbroke, that was much admired. He is a +sensible man, but has not worn off his authorism yet, and thinks +there is nothing so charming as writers, and to be one. He +will know better one of these days.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But great as were Burke’s literary powers, and +passionate as was his fondness for letters and for literary +society, he never seems to have felt that the main burden of his +life lay in that direction. He looked to the public +service, and this though he always believed that the pen of a +great writer was a more powerful and glorious weapon than any to +be found in the armoury of politics. This faith of his +comes out sometimes queerly enough. For example, when Dr. +Robertson in 1777 sent Burke his <!-- page 150--><a +name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 150</span>cheerful +<i>History of America</i>, in quarto volumes, Burke, in the most +perfect good faith, closes a long letter of thanks +thus:—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘You will smile when I send you a trifling +temporary production made for the occasion of the day, and to +perish with it, in return for your immortal work.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I have no desire, least of all in Edinburgh, to say anything +disrespectful of Principal Robertson; but still, when we remember +that the temporary production he got in exchange for his +<i>History of America</i> was Burke’s immortal letter to +the Sheriffs of Bristol on the American War, we must, I think, be +forced to admit that, as so often happens when a Scotchman and an +Irishman do business together, the former got the better of the +bargain.</p> +<p>Burke’s first public employment was of a humble +character, and might well have been passed over in a sentence, +had it not terminated in a most delightful quarrel, in which +Burke conducted himself like an Irishman of genius. Some +time in 1759 he became acquainted with William Gerard Hamilton, +commonly called ‘Single-speech Hamilton,’ on account +of the celebrity he gained from his first speech in Parliament, +and the steady way in which his <!-- page 151--><a +name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 151</span>oratorical +reputation went on waning ever after. In 1761 this +gentleman went over to Ireland as Chief Secretary, and Burke +accompanied him as the Secretary’s secretary, or, in the +unlicensed speech of Dublin, as Hamilton’s jackal. +This arrangement was eminently satisfactory to Hamilton, who +found, as generations of men have found after him, Burke’s +brains very useful, and he determined to borrow them for the +period of their joint lives. Animated by this desire, in +itself praiseworthy, he busied himself in procuring for Burke a +pension of £300 a year on the Irish establishment, and then +the simple ‘Single-speech’ thought the transaction +closed. He had bought his poor man of genius, and paid for +him on the nail with other people’s money. Nothing +remained but for Burke to draw his pension and devote the rest of +his life to maintaining Hamilton’s reputation. There +is nothing at all unusual in this, and I have no doubt Burke +would have stuck to his bargain, had not Hamilton conceived the +fatal idea that Burke’s brains were <i>exclusively</i> his +(Hamilton’s). Then the situation became one of risk +and apparent danger.</p> +<p>Burke’s imagination began playing round the subject: he +saw himself a slave, blotted out <!-- page 152--><a +name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 152</span>of +existence—mere fuel for Hamilton’s flame. In a +week he was in a towering passion. Few men can afford to be +angry. It is a run upon their intellectual resources they +cannot meet. But Burke’s treasury could well afford +the luxury; and his letters to Hamilton make delightful reading +to those who, like myself, dearly love a dispute when conducted +according to the rules of the game by men of great intellectual +wealth. Hamilton demolished and reduced to stony silence, +Burke sat down again and wrote long letters to all his friends, +telling them the whole story from beginning to end. I must +be allowed a quotation from one of these letters, for this really +is not so frivolous a matter as I am afraid I have made it +appear—a quotation of which this much may be said, that +nothing more delightfully Burkean is to be found +anywhere:—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘<span class="smcap">My dear +Mason</span>,—</p> +<p>‘I am hardly able to tell you how much satisfaction I +had in your letter. Your approbation of my conduct makes me +believe much the better of you and myself; and I assure you that +that approbation came to me very seasonably. Such proofs of +a warm, sincere, <!-- page 153--><a name="page153"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 153</span>and disinterested friendship were +not wholly unnecessary to my support at a time when I experienced +such bitter effects of the perfidy and ingratitude of much longer +and much closer connections. The way in which you take up +my affairs binds me to you in a manner I cannot express; for, to +tell you the truth, I never can (knowing as I do the principles +upon which I always endeavour to act) submit to any sort of +compromise of my character; and I shall never, therefore, look +upon those who, after hearing the whole story, do not think me +<i>perfectly</i> in the right, and do not consider Hamilton an +infamous scoundrel, to be in the smallest degree my friends, or +even to be persons for whom I am bound to have the slightest +esteem, as fair and just estimators of the characters and conduct +of men. Situated as I am, and feeling as I do, I should be +just as well pleased that they totally condemned me as that they +should say there were faults on both sides, or that it was a +disputable case, as I hear is (I cannot forbear saying) the +affected language of some persons. . . . You cannot avoid +remarking, my dear Mason, and I hope not without some +indignation, the unparalleled singularity of my situation. +<!-- page 154--><a name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +154</span>Was ever a man before me expected to enter into formal, +direct, and undisguised slavery? Did ever man before him +confess an attempt to decoy a man into such an alleged contract, +not to say anything of the impudence of regularly pleading +it? If such an attempt be wicked and unlawful (and I am +sure no one ever doubted it), I have only to confess his charge, +and to admit myself his dupe, to make him pass, on his own +showing, for the most consummate villain that ever lived. +The only difference between us is, not whether he is not a +rogue—for he not only admits but pleads the facts that +demonstrate him to be so; but only whether I was such a fool as +to sell myself absolutely for a consideration which, so far from +being adequate, if any such could be adequate, is not even so +much as certain. Not to value myself as a gentleman, a free +man, a man of education, and one pretending to literature; is +there any situation in life so low, or even so criminal, that can +subject a man to the possibility of such an engagement? +Would you dare attempt to bind your footman to such terms? +Will the law suffer a felon sent to the plantations to bind +himself for his life, and to renounce all possibility either of +elevation <!-- page 155--><a name="page155"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 155</span>or quiet? And am I to defend +myself for not doing what no man is suffered to do, and what it +would be criminal in any man to submit to? You will excuse +me for this heat.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I not only excuse Burke for his heat, but love him for letting +me warm my hands at it after a lapse of a hundred and twenty +years.</p> +<p>Burke was more fortunate in his second master, for in 1765 +being then thirty-six years of age, he became private secretary +to the new Prime Minister, the Marquis of Rockingham; was by the +interest of Lord Verney returned to Parliament for Wendover, in +Bucks; and on January 27th, 1766, his voice was first heard in +the House of Commons.</p> +<p>The Rockingham Ministry deserves well of the historian, and on +the whole has received its deserts. Lord Rockingham, the +Duke of Richmond, Lord John Cavendish, Mr. Dowdeswell, and the +rest of them, were good men and true, judged by an ordinary +standard; and when contrasted with most of their political +competitors, they almost approach the ranks of saints and +angels. However, after a year and twenty days, his Majesty +King George the Third managed to <!-- page 156--><a +name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 156</span>get rid of +them, and to keep them at bay for fifteen years. But their +first term of office, though short, lasted long enough to +establish a friendship of no ordinary powers of endurance between +the chief members of the party and the Prime Minister’s +private secretary, who was at first, so ran the report, supposed +to be a wild Irishman, whose real name was O’Bourke, and +whose brogue seemed to require the allegation that its owner was +a popish emissary. It is satisfactory to notice how from +the very first Burke’s intellectual pre-eminence, +character, and aims were clearly admitted and most cheerfully +recognised by his political and social superiors; and in the long +correspondence in which he engaged with most of them there is not +a trace to be found, on one side or the other, of anything +approaching to either patronage or servility. Burke advises +them, exhorts them, expostulates with them, condemns their +aristocratic languor, fans their feeble flames, drafts their +motions, dictates their protests, visits their houses, and +generally supplies them with facts, figures, poetry, and +romance. To all this they submit with much humility. +The Duke of Richmond once indeed ventured to hint to Burke, with +exceeding delicacy, that he (the Duke) had a <!-- page 157--><a +name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 157</span>small +private estate to attend to as well as public affairs; but the +validity of the excuse was not admitted. The part Burke +played for the next fifteen years with relation to the Rockingham +party reminds me of the functions I have observed performed in +lazy families by a soberly clad and eminently respectable person +who pays them domiciliary visits, and, having admission +everywhere, goes about mysteriously from room to room, winding up +all the clocks. This is what Burke did for the Rockingham +party—he kept it going.</p> +<p>But fortunately for us, Burke was not content with private +adjuration, or even public speech. His literary instincts, +his dominating desire to persuade everybody that he, Edmund +Burke, was absolutely in the right, and every one of his +opponents hopelessly wrong, made him turn to the pamphlet as a +propaganda, and in his hands</p> +<blockquote><p>‘The thing became a trumpet, whence he +blew<br /> +Soul-animating strains.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>So accustomed are we to regard Burke’s pamphlets as +specimens of our noblest literature, and to see them printed in +comfortable volumes, that we are apt to forget that in their +origin they were but the children of the pavement, <!-- page +158--><a name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +158</span>the publications of the hour. If, however, you +ever visit any old public library, and grope about a little, you +are likely enough to find a shelf holding some twenty-five or +thirty musty, ugly little books, usually lettered +‘Burke,’ and on opening any of them you will come +across one of Burke’s pamphlets as originally issued, bound +up with the replies and counter-pamphlets it occasioned. I +have frequently tried, but always in vain, to read these replies, +which are pretentious enough—usually the works of deans, +members of Parliament, and other dignitaries of the class Carlyle +used compendiously to describe as +‘shovel-hatted’—and each of whom was as much +entitled to publish pamphlets as Burke himself. There are +some things it is very easy to do, and to write a pamphlet is one +of them; but to write such a pamphlet as future generations will +read with delight is perhaps the most difficult feat in +literature. Milton, Swift, Burke, and Sydney Smith are, I +think, our only great pamphleteers.</p> +<p>I have now rather more than kept my word so far as +Burke’s pre-parliamentary life is concerned, and will +proceed to mention some of the circumstances that may serve to +account for the fact that, when the Rockingham party came into +<!-- page 159--><a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +159</span>power for the second time in 1782, Burke, who was their +life and soul, was only rewarded with a minor office. +First, then, it must be recorded sorrowfully of Burke that he was +always desperately in debt, and in this country no politician +under the rank of a baronet can ever safely be in debt. +Burke’s finances are, and always have been, marvels and +mysteries; but one thing must be said of them—that the +malignity of his enemies, both Tory enemies and Radical enemies, +has never succeeded in formulating any charge of dishonesty +against him that has not been at once completely pulverized, and +shown on the facts to be impossible. <a name="citation159"></a><a +href="#footnote159" class="citation">[159]</a> +Burke’s purchase of the estate at Beaconsfield in 1768, +only two years after he entered Parliament, consisting as it did +of a good house and 1,600 acres of land, has puzzled a great many +good men—<!-- page 160--><a name="page160"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 160</span>much more than it ever did Edmund +Burke. But how did he get the money? After an Irish +fashion—by not getting it at all. Two-thirds of the +purchase-money remained on mortgage, and the balance he borrowed; +or, as he puts it, ‘With all I could collect of my own, and +by the aid of my friends, I have established a root in the +country.’ That is how Burke bought Beaconsfield, +where he lived till his end came; whither he always hastened when +his sensitive mind was tortured by the thought of how badly men +governed the world; where he entertained all sorts and conditions +of men—Quakers, Brahmins (for whose ancient rites he +provided suitable accommodation in a greenhouse), nobles and +abbés flying from revolutionary France, poets, painters, +and peers; no one of whom ever long remained a stranger to his +charm. Burke flung himself into farming with all the +enthusiasm of his nature. His letters to Arthur Young on +the subject of carrots still tremble with emotion. You all +know Burke’s <i>Thoughts on the Present +Discontents</i>. You remember—it is hard to +forget—his speech on Conciliation with America, +particularly the magnificent passage beginning, +‘Magnanimity in politics is not seldom the truest wisdom, +and a great <!-- page 161--><a name="page161"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 161</span>empire and little minds go ill +together.’ You have echoed back the words in which, +in his letter to the Sheriffs of Bristol on the hateful American +War, he protests that it was not instantly he could be brought to +rejoice when he heard of the slaughter and captivity of long +lists of those whose names had been familiar in his ears from his +infancy, and you would all join with me in subscribing to a fund +which should have for its object the printing and hanging up over +every editor’s desk in town and country a subsequent +passage from the same letter:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘A conscientious man would be cautious how +he dealt in blood. He would feel some apprehension at being +called to a tremendous account for engaging in so deep a play +without any knowledge of the game. It is no excuse for +presumptuous ignorance that it is directed by insolent +passion. The poorest being that crawls on earth, contending +to save itself from injustice and oppression, is an object +respectable in the eyes of God and man. But I cannot +conceive any existence under heaven (which in the depths of its +wisdom tolerates all sorts of things) that is more truly odious +and disgusting than an impotent, helpless creature, without civil +wisdom or military skill, <!-- page 162--><a +name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 162</span>bloated +with pride and arrogance, calling for battles which he is not to +fight, and contending for a violent dominion which he can never +exercise. . . .</p> +<p>‘If you and I find our talents not of the great and +ruling kind, our conduct at least is conformable to our +faculties. No man’s life pays the forfeit of our +rashness. No desolate widow weeps tears of blood over our +ignorance. Scrupulous and sober in a well-grounded distrust +of ourselves, we would keep in the port of peace and security; +and perhaps in recommending to others something of the same +diffidence, we should show ourselves more charitable to their +welfare than injurious to their abilities.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>You have laughed over Burke’s account of how all Lord +Talbot’s schemes for the reform of the king’s +household were dashed to pieces, because the turnspit of the +king’s kitchen was a Member of Parliament. You have +often pondered over that miraculous passage in his speech on the +Nabob of Arcot’s debts, describing the devastation of the +Carnatic by Hyder Ali—a passage which Mr. John Morley says +fills the young orator with the same emotions of enthusiasm, +emulation, and despair that (according <!-- page 163--><a +name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 163</span>to the same +authority) invariably torment the artist who first gazes on +‘The Madonna’ at Dresden, or the figures of +‘Night’ and ‘Dawn’ at Florence. All +these things you know, else are you mighty self-denying of your +pleasures. But it is just possible you may have forgotten +the following extract from one of Burke’s farming letters +to Arthur Young:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘One of the grand points in controversy (a +controversy indeed chiefly carried on between practice and +speculation) is that of <i>deep ploughing</i>. In your last +volume you seem, on the whole, rather against that practice, and +have given several reasons for your judgment which deserve to be +very well considered. In order to know how we ought to +plough, we ought to know what end it is we propose to ourselves +in that operation. The first and instrumental end is to +divide the soil; the last and ultimate end, so far as regards the +plants, is to facilitate the pushing of the blade upwards, and +the shooting of the roots in all the inferior directions. +There is further proposed a more ready admission of external +influences—the rain, the sun, the air, charged with all +those heterogeneous contents, some, possibly all, of which are +necessary for the nourishment of the plants. <!-- page +164--><a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 164</span>By +ploughing deep you answer these ends in a greater mass of the +soil. This would seem in favour of deep ploughing as +nothing else than accomplishing, in a more perfect manner, those +very ends for which you are induced to plough at all. But +doubts here arise, only to be solved by experiment. First, +is it quite certain that it is good for the ear and grain of +farinaceous plants that their roots should spread and descend +into the ground to the greatest possible distances and +depths? Is there not some limit in this? We know that +in timber, what makes one part flourish does not equally conduce +to the benefit of all; and that which may be beneficial to the +wood, does not equally contribute to the quantity and goodness of +the fruit; and, <i>vice versâ</i>, that what increases the +fruit largely is often far from serviceable to the tree. +Secondly, is that looseness to great depths, supposing it is +useful to one of the species of plants, equally useful to +all? Thirdly, though the external influences—the +rain, the sun, the air—act undoubtedly a part, and a large +part, in vegetation, does it follow that they are equally +salutary in any quantities, at any depths? Or that, though +it may be useful to diffuse one of these agents as extensively as +<!-- page 165--><a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +165</span>may be in the earth, that therefore it will be equally +useful to render the earth in the same degree pervious to +all? It is a dangerous way of reasoning in physics, as well +as morals, to conclude, because a given proportion of anything is +advantageous, that the double will be quite as good, or that it +will be good at all. Neither in the one nor the other is it +always true that two and two make four.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>This is magnificent, but it is not farming, and you will +easily believe that Burke’s attempts to till the soil were +more costly than productive. Farming, if it is to pay, is a +pursuit of small economies; and Burke was far too Asiatic, +tropical, and splendid to have anything to do with small +economies. His expenditure, like his rhetoric, was in the +‘grand style.’ He belongs to Charles +Lamb’s great race, ‘the men who borrow.’ +But indeed it was not so much that Burke borrowed as that men +lent. Right-feeling men did not wait to be asked. Dr. +Brocklesby, that good physician, whose name breathes like a +benediction through the pages of the biographies of the best men +of his time, who soothed Dr. Johnson’s last melancholy +hours, and for whose supposed heterodoxy the dying man displayed +so tender a solicitude, <!-- page 166--><a +name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 166</span>wrote to +Burke, in the strain of a timid suitor proposing for the hand of +a proud heiress, to know whether Burke would be so good as to +accept £1,000 at once, instead of waiting for the +writer’s death. Burke felt no hesitation in obliging +so old a friend. Garrick, who, though fond of money, was as +generous-hearted a fellow as ever brought down a house, lent +Burke £1,000. Sir Joshua Reynolds, who has been +reckoned stingy, by his will left Burke £2,000, and forgave +him another £2,000 which he had lent him. The Marquis +of Rockingham by his will directed all Burke’s bonds held +by him to be cancelled. They amounted to +£30,000. Burke’s patrimonial estate was sold by +him for £4,000; and I have seen it stated that he had +received altogether from family sources as much as +£20,000. And yet he was always poor, and was glad at +the last to accept pensions from the Crown in order that he might +not leave his wife a beggar. This good lady survived her +illustrious husband twelve years, and seemed as his widow to have +had some success in paying his bills, for at her death all +remaining demands were found to be discharged. For +receiving this pension Burke was assailed by the Duke of Bedford, +a most pleasing act of ducal fatuity, <!-- page 167--><a +name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 167</span>since it +enabled the pensioner, not bankrupt of his wit, to write a +pamphlet, now of course a cherished classic, and introduce into +it a few paragraphs about the House of Russell and the cognate +subject of grants from the Crown. But enough of +Burke’s debts and difficulties, which I only mention +because all through his life they were cast up against him. +Had Burke been a moralist of the calibre of Charles James Fox, he +might have amassed a fortune large enough to keep up half a dozen +Beaconsfields, by simply doing what all his predecessors in the +office he held, including Fox’s own father, the truly +infamous first Lord Holland, had done—namely, by retaining +for his own use the interest on all balances of the public money +from time to time in his hands as Paymaster of the Forces. +But Burke carried his passion for good government into actual +practice, and, cutting down the emoluments of his office to a +salary (a high one, no doubt), effected a saving to the country +of some £25,000 a year, every farthing of which might have +gone without remark into his own pocket.</p> +<p>Burke had no vices, save of style and temper; nor was any of +his expenditure a profligate squandering of money. It all +went in giving <!-- page 168--><a name="page168"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 168</span>employment or disseminating +kindness. He sent the painter Barry to study art in +Italy. He saved the poet Crabbe from starvation and +despair, and thus secured to the country one who owns the +unrivalled distinction of having been the favourite poet of the +three greatest intellectual factors of the age (scientific men +excepted)—Lord Byron, Sir Walter Scott, and Cardinal +Newman. Yet so distorted are men’s views that the +odious and anti-social excesses of Fox at the gambling-table are +visited with a blame usually wreathed in smiles, whilst the +financial irregularities of a noble and pure-minded man are +thought fit matter for the fiercest censure or the most lordly +contempt.</p> +<p>Next to Burke’s debts, some of his companions and +intimates did him harm and injured his consequence. His +brother Richard, whose brogue we are given to understand was +simply appalling, was a good-for-nothing, with a dilapidated +reputation. Then there was another Mr. Burke, who was no +relation, but none the less was always about, and to whom it was +not safe to lend money. Burke’s son, too, whose death +he mourned so pathetically, seems to have been a failure, and is +described by a candid friend as <!-- page 169--><a +name="page169"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 169</span>a +nauseating person. To have a decent following is important +in politics.</p> +<p>A third reason must be given: Burke’s judgment of men +and things was often both wrong and violent. The story of +Powell and Bembridge, two knaves in Burke’s own office, +whose cause he espoused, and whom he insisted on reinstating in +the public service after they had been dismissed, and maintaining +them there, in spite of all protests, till the one had the grace +to cut his throat and the other was sentenced by the +Queen’s Bench to a term of imprisonment and a heavy fine, +is too long to be told, though it makes interesting reading in +the twenty-second volume of Howell’s <i>State Trials</i>, +where at the end of the report is to be found the following +note:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘The proceedings against Messrs. Powell and +Bembridge occasioned much animated discussion in the House of +Commons, in which Mr. Burke warmly supported the accused. +The compassion which on these and all other occasions was +manifested by Mr. Burke for the sufferings of those public +delinquents, the zeal with which he advocated their cause, and +the eagerness with which he endeavoured to extenuate their +criminality, have received severe <!-- page 170--><a +name="page170"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +170</span>reprehension, and in particular when contrasted with +his subsequent conduct in the prosecution of Mr. +Hastings.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The real reason for Burke’s belief in Bembridge is, I +think, to be found in the evidence Burke gave on his behalf at +the trial before Lord Mansfield. Bembridge had rendered +Burke invaluable assistance in carrying out his reforms at the +Paymaster’s Office, and Burke was constitutionally unable +to believe that a rogue could be on his side; but, indeed, Burke +was too apt to defend bad causes with a scream of passion, and a +politician who screams is never likely to occupy a commanding +place in the House of Commons. A last reason for +Burke’s exclusion from high office is to be found in his +aversion to any measure of Parliamentary Reform. An ardent +reformer like the Duke of Richmond—the then Duke of +Richmond—who was in favour of annual parliaments, universal +suffrage, and payment of members, was not likely to wish to +associate himself too closely with a politician who wept with +emotion at the bare thought of depriving Old Sarum of +parliamentary representation.</p> +<p>These reasons account for Burke’s exclusion, and jealous +as we naturally and properly are of <!-- page 171--><a +name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 171</span>genius +being snubbed by mediocrity, my reading at all events does not +justify me in blaming any one but the Fates for the circumstance +that Burke was never a Secretary of State. And after all, +does it matter much what he was? Burke no doubt +occasionally felt his exclusion a little hard; but he is the +victor who remains in possession of the field; and Burke is now, +for us and for all coming after us, in such possession.</p> +<p>It now only remains for me, drawing upon my stock of +assurance, to essay the analysis of the essential elements of +Burke’s mental character, and I therefore at once proceed +to say that it was Burke’s peculiarity and his glory to +apply the imagination of a poet of the first order to the facts +and the business of life. Arnold says of Sophocles:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘He saw life steadily, and saw it +whole.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Substitute for the word ‘life’ the words +‘organised society,’ and you get a peep into +Burke’s mind. There was a catholicity about his +gaze. He knew how the whole world lived. Everything +contributed to this: his vast desultory reading; his education, +neither wholly academical nor entirely professional; his long +years of apprenticeship in the service of knowledge; <!-- page +172--><a name="page172"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +172</span>his wanderings up and down the country; his vast +conversational powers; his enormous correspondence with all sorts +of people; his unfailing interest in all pursuits, trades, +manufactures—all helped to keep before him, like motes +dancing in a sunbeam, the huge organism of modern society, which +requires for its existence and for its development the +maintenance of credit and of order. Burke’s +imagination led him to look out over the whole land: the +legislator devising new laws, the judge expounding and enforcing +old ones, the merchant despatching his goods and extending his +credit, the banker advancing the money of his customers upon the +credit of the merchant, the frugal man slowly accumulating the +store which is to support him in old age, the ancient +institutions of Church and University with their seemly +provisions for sound learning and true religion, the parson in +his pulpit, the poet pondering his rhymes, the farmer eyeing his +crops, the painter covering his canvases, the player educating +the feelings. Burke saw all this with the fancy of a poet, +and dwelt on it with the eye of a lover. But love is the +parent of fear, and none knew better than Burke how thin is the +lava layer between the costly fabric of society and the <!-- page +173--><a name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +173</span>volcanic heats and destroying flames of anarchy. +He trembled for the fair frame of all established things, and to +his horror saw men, instead of covering the thin surface with the +concrete, digging in it for abstractions, and asking fundamental +questions about the origin of society, and why one man should be +born rich and another poor. Burke was no prating optimist: +it was his very knowledge how much could be said against society +that quickened his fears for it. There is no shallower +criticism than that which accuses Burke in his later years of +apostasy from so-called Liberal opinions. Burke was all his +life through a passionate maintainer of the established order of +things, and a ferocious hater of abstractions and metaphysical +politics. The same ideas that explode like bombs through +his diatribes against the French Revolution are to be found +shining with a mild effulgence in the comparative calm of his +earlier writings. I have often been struck with a +resemblance, which I hope is not wholly fanciful, between the +attitude of Burke’s mind towards government and that of +Cardinal Newman towards religion. Both these great men +belong, by virtue of their imaginations, to the poetic order, and +they both are to be found dwelling with amazing eloquence, <!-- +page 174--><a name="page174"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +174</span>detail, and wealth of illustration on the varied +elements of society. Both seem as they write to have one +hand on the pulse of the world, and to be for ever alive to the +throb of its action; and Burke, as he regarded humanity swarming +like bees into and out of their hives of industry, is ever asking +himself, How are these men to be saved from anarchy? whilst +Newman puts to himself the question, How are these men to be +saved from atheism? Both saw the perils of free inquiry +divorced from practical affairs.</p> +<p>‘Civil freedom,’ says Burke, ‘is not, as +many have endeavoured to persuade you, a thing that lies hid in +the depth of abstruse science. It is a blessing and a +benefit, not an abstract speculation, and all the just reasoning +that can be upon it is of so coarse a texture as perfectly to +suit the ordinary capacities of those who are to enjoy and of +those who are to defend it.’</p> +<p>‘Tell men,’ says Cardinal Newman, ‘to gain +notions of a Creator from His works, and if they were to set +about it (which nobody does), they would be jaded and wearied by +the labyrinth they were tracing; their minds would be gorged and +surfeited by the logical operation. To most men argument +makes the point in hand more doubtful and considerably <!-- page +175--><a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +175</span>less impressive. After all, man is not a +reasoning animal, he is a seeing, feeling, contemplating, actual +animal.’</p> +<p>Burke is fond of telling us that he is no lawyer, no +antiquarian, but a plain, practical man; and the Cardinal, in +like manner, is ever insisting that he is no theologian—he +leaves everything of that sort to the schools, whatever they may +be, and simply deals with religion on its practical side as a +benefit to mankind.</p> +<p>If either of these great men has been guilty of intellectual +excesses, those of Burke may be attributed to his dread of +anarchy, those of Newman to his dread of atheism. Neither +of them was prepared to rest content with a scientific frontier, +an imaginary line. So much did they dread their enemy, so +alive were they to the terrible strength of some of his +positions, that they could not agree to dispense with the +protection afforded by the huge mountains of prejudice and the +ancient rivers of custom. The sincerity of either man can +only be doubted by the bigot and the fool.</p> +<p>But Burke, apart from his fears, had a constitutional love for +old things, simply because they were old. Anything mankind +had ever worshipped, or venerated, or obeyed, was dear <!-- page +176--><a name="page176"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 176</span>to +him. I have already referred to his providing his Brahmins +with a greenhouse for the purpose of their rites, which he +watched from outside with great interest. One cannot fancy +Cardinal Newman peeping through a window to see men worshipping +false though ancient gods. Warren Hastings’ +high-handed dealings with the temples and time-honoured if +scandalous customs of the Hindoos filled Burke with horror. +So, too, he respected Quakers, Presbyterians, Independents, +Baptists, and all those whom he called Constitutional +Dissenters. He has a fine passage somewhere about Rust, for +with all his passion for good government he dearly loved a little +rust. In this phase of character he reminds one not a +little of another great writer—whose death literature has +still reason to deplore—George Eliot; who, in her love for +old hedgerows and barns and crumbling moss-grown walls, was a +writer after Burke’s own heart, whose novels he would have +sat up all night to devour; for did he not deny with warmth +Gibbon’s statement that he had read all five volumes of +<i>Evelina</i> in a day? ‘The thing is +impossible,’ cried Burke; ‘they took me three days +doing nothing else.’ Now, <i>Evelina</i> is a good +novel, but <i>Silas Marner</i> is a better.</p> +<p><!-- page 177--><a name="page177"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +177</span>Wordsworth has been called the High Priest of +Nature. Burke may be called the High Priest of +Order—a lover of settled ways, of justice, peace, and +security. His writings are a storehouse of wisdom, not the +cheap shrewdness of the mere man of the world, but the noble, +animating wisdom of one who has the poet’s heart as well as +the statesman’s brain. Nobody is fit to govern this +country who has not drunk deep at the springs of Burke. +‘Have you read your Burke?’ is at least as sensible a +question to put to a parliamentary candidate, as to ask him +whether he is a total abstainer or a desperate drunkard. +Something there may be about Burke to regret, and more to +dispute; but that he loved justice and hated iniquity is certain, +as also it is that for the most part he dwelt in the paths of +purity, humanity, and good sense. May we be found adhering +to them!</p> +<h2><!-- page 178--><a name="page178"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 178</span>THE MUSE OF HISTORY.</h2> +<p>Two distinguished men of letters, each an admirable +representative of his University—Mr. John Morley and +Professor Seeley—have lately published opinions on the +subject of history, which, though very likely to prove right, +deserve to be carefully considered before assent is bestowed upon +them.</p> +<p>Mr. Morley, when President of the Midland Institute, and +speaking in the Town Hall of Birmingham, said: ‘I do not in +the least want to know what happened in the past, except as it +enables me to see my way more clearly through what is happening +to-day,’ and this same indifference is professed, though +certainly nowhere displayed, in other parts of Mr. Morley’s +writings. <a name="citation178"></a><a href="#footnote178" +class="citation">[178]</a></p> +<p>Professor Seeley never makes his point quite so sharp as this, +and probably would hesitate to <!-- page 179--><a +name="page179"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 179</span>do so, but +in the <i>Expansion of England</i> he expounds a theory of +history largely based upon an indifference like that which Mr. +Morley professed at Birmingham. His book opens thus: +‘It is a favourite maxim of mine that history, while it +should be scientific in its method, should pursue a practical +object—that is, it should not merely gratify the +reader’s curiosity about the past, but modify his view of +the present and his forecast of the future. Now, if this +maxim be sound, the history of England ought to end with +something that might be called a moral.’</p> +<p>This, it must be admitted, is a large order. The task of +the historian, as here explained, is not merely to tell us the +story of the past, and thus gratify our curiosity, but, pursuing +a practical object, to seek to modify our views of the present +and help us in our forecasts of the future, and this the +historian is to do, not unconsciously and incidentally, but +deliberately and of set purpose. One can well understand +how history, so written, will usually begin with a maxim, and +invariably end with a moral.</p> +<p>What we are afterwards told in the same book follows in +logical sequence upon our first quotation—namely, that +‘history fades into <i>mere <!-- page 180--><a +name="page180"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +180</span>literature</i> (the italics are ours), when it loses +sight of its relation to practical politics.’ In this +grim sentence we read the dethronement of Clio. The poor +thing must forswear her father’s house, her tuneful +sisters, the invocation of the poet, the worship of the +dramatist, and keep her terms at the University, where, if she is +really studious and steady, and avoids literary companions (which +ought not to be difficult), she may hope some day to be received +into the Royal Society as a second-rate science. The people +who do not usually go to the Royal Society will miss their old +playmate from her accustomed slopes, but, even were they to +succeed in tracing her to her new home, access would be denied +them; for Professor Seeley, that stern custodian, has his answer +ready for all such seekers. ‘If you want recreation, +you must find it in Poetry, particularly Lyrical Poetry. +Try Shelley. We can no longer allow you to disport +yourselves in the Fields of History as if they were a mere +playground. Clio is enclosed.’</p> +<p>At present, however, this is not quite the case; for the old +literary traditions are still alive, and prove somewhat +irritating to Professor Seeley, who, though one of the most +even-tempered <!-- page 181--><a name="page181"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 181</span>of writers, is to be found on p. 173 +almost angry with Thackeray, a charming person, who, as we all +know, had, after his lazy literary fashion, made an especial +study of Queen Anne’s time, and who cherished the pleasant +fancy that a man might lie in the heather with a pipe in his +mouth, and yet, if he had only an odd volume of the +<i>Spectator</i> or the <i>Tatler</i> in his hand, be learning +history all the time. ‘As we read in these delightful +pages,’ says the author of <i>Esmond</i>, ‘the past +age returns; the England of our ancestors is revivified; the +Maypole rises in the Strand; the beaux are gathering in the +coffee-houses;’ and so on, in the style we all know and +love so well, and none better, we may rest assured, than +Professor Seeley himself, if only he were not tortured by the +thought that people were taking this to be a specimen of the +science of which he is a Regius Professor. His comment on +this passage of Thackeray’s is almost a groan. +‘What is this but the old literary groove, leading to no +trustworthy knowledge?’ and certainly no one of us, from +letting his fancy gaze on the Maypole in the Strand, could ever +have foretold the Griffin. On the same page he cries: +‘Break the drowsy spell of narrative. Ask yourself +<!-- page 182--><a name="page182"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +182</span>questions, set yourself problems; your mind will at +once take up a new attitude. Now, modern English history +breaks up into two grand problems—the problem of the +Colonies and the problem of India.’ The Cambridge +School of History with a vengeance!</p> +<p>In a paper read at the South Kensington Museum in 1884, +Professor Seeley observes: ‘The essential point is this, +that we should recognise that to study history is to study not +merely a narrative, but <i>at the same time</i> certain +theoretical studies.’ He then proceeds to name +them:—Political philosophy, the comparative study of legal +institutions, political economy, and international law.</p> +<p>These passages are, I think, adequate to give a fair view of +Professor Seeley’s position. History is a science, to +be written scientifically and to be studied scientifically in +conjunction with other studies. It should pursue a +practical object and be read with direct reference to practical +politics—using the latter word, no doubt, in an enlightened +sense. History is not a narrative of all sorts of +facts—biographical, moral, political—but of such +facts as a scientific diagnosis has ascertained to be +historically interesting. In fine, history, if her study is +to <!-- page 183--><a name="page183"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +183</span>be profitable and not a mere pastime, less exhausting +than skittles and cheaper than horse exercise, must be dominated +by some theory capable of verification by reference to certain +ascertained facts belonging to a particular class. Is this +the right way of looking upon history? The dictionaries +tell us that history and story are the same word, and are derived +from a Greek source, signifying information obtained by +inquiry. The natural definition of history, therefore, +surely is the story of man upon earth, and the historian is he +who tells us any chapter or fragment of that story. All +things that on earth do dwell have, no doubt, their history as +well as man; but when a member, however humble, of the human race +speaks of history without any explanatory context, he may be +presumed to be alluding to his own family records, to the story +of humanity during its passage across the earth’s +surface.</p> +<p>‘A talent for history’—I am quoting from an +author whose style, let those mock at it who may, will reveal +him—‘may be said to be born with us as our chief +inheritance. History has been written with quipo-threads, +with feather pictures, with wampum belts, still oftener with +earth-mounds and monumental stone-heaps, <!-- page 184--><a +name="page184"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 184</span>whether as +pyramid or cairn; for the Celt and the Copt, the red man as well +as the white, lives between two eternities, and warring against +oblivion, he would fain unite himself in clear, conscious +relation, as in dim, unconscious relation he is already united, +with the whole future and the whole past.’</p> +<p>To keep the past alive for us is the pious function of the +historian. Our curiosity is endless, his the task of +gratifying it. We want to know what happened long +ago. Performance of this task is only proximately possible; +but none the less it must be attempted, for the demand for it is +born afresh with every infant’s cry. History is a +pageant, and not a philosophy.</p> +<p>Poets, no less than professors, occasionally say good things +even in prose, and the following oracular utterance of Shelley is +not pure nonsense:—‘History is the cyclic poem +written by Time upon the memories of men. The past, like an +inspired rhapsodist, fills the theatre of everlasting generations +with her harmony.’</p> +<p>If this be thought a little too fanciful, let me adorn these +pages with a passage from one of the great masters of English +prose—Walter <!-- page 185--><a name="page185"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 185</span>Savage Landor. Would that the +pious labour of transcription could confer the tiniest measure of +the gift! In that bundle of imaginary letters Landor called +<i>Pericles and Aspasia</i>, we find Aspasia writing to her +friend Cleone as follows:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘To-day there came to visit us a writer who +is not yet an author; his name is Thucydides. We understand +that he has been these several years engaged in preparation for a +history. Pericles invited him to meet Herodotus, when that +wonderful man had returned to our country, and was about to sail +from Athens. Until then it was believed by the intimate +friends of Thucydides that he would devote his life to poetry, +and, such is his vigour both of thought and expression, that he +would have been the rival of Pindar. Even now he is fonder +of talking on poetry than any other subject, and blushed when +history was mentioned. By degrees, however, he warmed, and +listened with deep interest to the discourse of Pericles on the +duties of a historian.</p> +<p>‘“May our first Athenian historian not be the +greatest,” said he, “as the first of our dramatists +has been, in the opinion of many. We are growing too +loquacious, both on the <!-- page 186--><a +name="page186"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 186</span>stage and +off. We make disquisitions which render us only more and +more dim-sighted, and excursions that only consume our +stores. If some among us who have acquired celebrity by +their compositions, calm, candid, contemplative men, were to +undertake the history of Athens from the invasion of Xerxes, I +should expect a fair and full criticism on the orations of +Antiphon, and experience no disappointment at their forgetting +the battle of Salamis. History, when she has lost her Muse, +will lose her dignity, her occupation, her character, her +name. She will wander about the Agora; she will start, she +will stop, she will look wild, she will look stupid, she will +take languidly to her bosom doubts, queries, essays, +dissertations, some of which ought to go before her, some to +follow, and all to stand apart. The field of history should +not merely be well tilled, but well peopled. None is +delightful to me or interesting in which I find not as many +illustrious names as have a right to enter it. We might as +well in a drama place the actors behind the scenes, and listen to +the dialogue there, as in a history push valiant men back and +protrude ourselves with <!-- page 187--><a +name="page187"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 187</span>husky +disputations. Show me rather how great projects were +executed, great advantages gained, and great calamities +averted. Show me the generals and the statesmen who stood +foremost, that I may bend to them in reverence; tell me their +names, that I may repeat them to my children. Teach me +whence laws were introduced, upon what foundation laid, by what +custody guarded, in what inner keep preserved. Let the +books of the treasury lie closed as religiously as the +Sibyl’s; leave weights and measures in the market-place, +Commerce in the harbour, the Arts in the light they love, +Philosophy in the shade; place History on her rightful throne, +and at the sides of her Eloquence and War.”’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>This is, doubtless, a somewhat full-dress view of +history. Landor was not one of our modern +dressing-gown-and-slippers kind of authors. He always took +pains to be splendid, and preferred stately magnificence to +chatty familiarity. But, after allowing for this, is not +the passage I have quoted infused with a great deal of the true +spirit which should animate the historian, and does it not seem +to take us by the hand and lead us very far away from Professor +Seeley’s <!-- page 188--><a name="page188"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 188</span>maxims and morals, his theoretical +studies, his political philosophy, his political economy, and his +desire to break the drowsy spell of narrative, and to set us all +problems? I ask this question in no spirit of enmity +towards these theoretical studies, nor do I doubt for one moment +that the student of history proper, who has a turn in their +directions, will find his pursuit made only the more fascinating +the more he studies them—just as a little botany is said to +add to the charm of a country walk; but—and surely the +assertion is not necessarily paradoxical—these studies +ought not to be allowed to disfigure the free-flowing outline of +the historical Muse, or to thicken her clear utterance, which in +her higher moods chants an epic, and in her ordinary moods +recites a narrative which need not be drowsy.</p> +<p>As for maxims, we all of us have our ‘little hoard of +maxims’ wherewith to preach down our hearts and justify +anything shabby we may have done; but the less we import their +cheap wisdom into history the better. The author of the +<i>Expansion of England</i> will probably agree with Burke in +thinking that ‘a great empire and little minds go ill +together,’ and so, surely, <i>à fortiori</i>, must a +mighty universe and any possible <!-- page 189--><a +name="page189"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +189</span>maxim. There have been plenty of brave historical +maxims before Professor Seeley’s, though only Lord +Bolingbroke’s has had the good luck to become itself +historical. <a name="citation189"></a><a href="#footnote189" +class="citation">[189]</a> And as for theories, Professor +Flint, a very learned writer, has been at the pains to enumerate +fourteen French and thirteen German philosophies of history +current (though some, I expect, never ran either fast or far) +since the revival of learning.</p> +<p>We are (are we not?) in these days in no little danger of +being philosophy-ridden, and of losing our love for facts simply +as facts. So long as Carlyle lived the concrete had a +representative, the strength of whose epithets sufficed, if not +to keep the philosophers in awe, at least to supply their +opponents with stones. But now it is different. +Carlyle is no more a model historian than is Shakspeare a model +dramatist. The merest tyro can count the faults of either +on his clumsy fingers. That born critic, the late Sir +George Lewis, had barely completed his tenth year before he was +able, in a letter to his <!-- page 190--><a +name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 190</span>mother, to +point out to her the essentially faulty structure of +<i>Hamlet</i>, and many a duller wit, a decade or two later in +his existence, has come to the conclusion that <i>Frederick the +Great</i> is far too long. But whatever were +Carlyle’s faults, his historical method was superbly +naturalistic. Have we a historian left us so honestly +possessed as he was with the genuine historical instinct, the +true enthusiasm to know what happened; or one half so fond of a +story for its own sake, or so in love with things, not for what +they were, but simply because they were? ‘What +wonderful things are events!’ wrote Lord Beaconsfield in +<i>Coningsby</i>; ‘the least are of greater importance than +the most sublime and comprehensive speculations.’ To +say this is to go perhaps too far; certainly it is to go farther +than Carlyle, who none the less was in sympathy with the remark; +for he also worshipped events, believing as he did that but for +the breath of God’s mouth they never would have been events +at all. We thus find him always treating even comparatively +insignificant facts with a measure of reverence, and handling +them lovingly, as does a book-hunter the shabbiest pamphlet in +his collection. We have only to think of Carlyle’s +essay on the <i>Diamond Necklace</i> to fill <!-- page 191--><a +name="page191"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 191</span>our minds +with his qualifications for the proud office of the +historian. Were that inimitable piece of workmanship to be +submitted to the criticisms of the new scientific school, we +doubt whether it would be so much as classed, whilst the +celebrated description of the night before the battle of Dunbar +in <i>Cromwell</i>, or any hundred scenes from the <i>French +Revolution</i>, would, we expect, be catalogued as good examples +of that degrading process whereby history fades into mere +literature.</p> +<p>This is not a question, be it observed, of style. What +is called a picturesque style is generally a great trial. +Who was it who called Professor Masson’s style Carlyle on +wooden legs? What can be drearier than when a plain +matter-of-fact writer attempts to be animated, and tries to make +his characters live by the easy but futile expedient of writing +about them in the present tense? What is wanted is a +passion for facts; the style may be left to take care of +itself. Let me name a historian who detested fine writing, +and who never said to himself, ‘Go to, I will make a +description,’ and who yet was dominated by a love for +facts, whose one desire always was to know what happened, to +dispel illusion, and establish the true account—Dr. S. R. +Maitland, <!-- page 192--><a name="page192"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 192</span>of the Lambeth Library, whose +volumes entitled <i>The Dark Ages</i> and <i>The Reformation</i> +are to history what Milton’s <i>Lycidas</i> is said to be +to poetry: if they do not interest you, your tastes are not +historical.</p> +<p>The difference, we repeat, is not of style, but of aim. +Is history a pageant or a philosophy? That eminent +historian, Lord Macaulay, whose passion for letters and for +‘mere literature’ ennobled his whole life, has +expressed himself in some places, I need scarcely add in a most +forcible manner, in the same sense as Mr. Morley. In his +well-known essay on history, contributed to the <i>Edinburgh +Review</i> in 1828, we find him writing as follows: ‘Facts +are the mere dross of history. It is from the abstract +truth which interpenetrates them, and lies latent amongst them +like gold in the ore, that the mass derives its whole +value.’ And again: ‘No past event has any +intrinsic importance. The knowledge of it is valuable only +as it leads us to form just calculations with respect to the +future.’ These are strong passages; but Lord Macaulay +was a royal eclectic, and was quite out of sympathy with the +majority of that brotherhood who are content to tone down their +contradictories to the dull level of ineptitudes. <!-- page +193--><a name="page193"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +193</span>Macaulay never toned down his contradictories, but, +heightening everything all round, went on his sublime way, +rejoicing like a strong man to run a race, and well knowing that +he could give anybody five yards in fifty and win easily. +It is, therefore, no surprise to find him, in the very essay in +which he speaks so contemptuously of facts, laying on with his +vigorous brush a celebrated purple patch I would gladly transfer +to my own dull page were it not too long and too well +known. A line or two taken at random will give its +purport:</p> +<p>‘A truly great historian would reclaim those materials +the novelist has appropriated. We should not then have to +look for the wars and votes of the Puritans in Clarendon and for +their phraseology in <i>Old Mortality</i>, for one half of King +James in Hume and for the other half in the <i>Fortunes of +Nigel</i>. . . . Society would be shown from the highest to the +lowest, from the royal cloth of state to the den of the outlaw, +from the throne of the legate to the chimney-corner where the +begging friar regaled himself. Palmers, minstrels, +crusaders, the stately monastery with the good cheer in its +refectory, and the tournament with the heralds and ladies, the +trumpets and the cloth of gold, would give <!-- page 194--><a +name="page194"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 194</span>truth and +life to the representation.’ It is difficult to see +what abstract truth interpenetrates the cheer of the refectory, +or what just calculations with respect to the future even an +upholsterer could draw from a cloth, either of state or of gold; +whilst most people will admit that, when the brilliant essayist a +few years later set himself to compose his own magnificent +history, so far as he interpenetrated it with the abstract truths +of Whiggism, and calculated that the future would be satisfied +with the first Reform Bill, he did ill and guessed wrong.</p> +<p>To reconcile Macaulay’s utterances on this subject is +beyond my powers, but of two things I am satisfied: the first is +that, were he to come to life again, a good many of us would be +more careful than we are how we write about him; and the second +is that, on the happening of the same event, he would be found +protesting against the threatened domination of all things by +scientific theory. A Western American, who was once +compelled to spend some days in Boston, was accustomed in +after-life to describe that seat of polite learning to his +horrified companions in California as a city in whose streets +Respectability stalked unchecked. This is just what +philosophical theories are doing amongst <!-- page 195--><a +name="page195"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 195</span>us, and a +decent person can hardly venture abroad without one, though it +does not much matter which one. Everybody is expected to +have ‘a system of philosophy with principles coherent, +interdependent, subordinate, and derivative,’ and to be +able to account for everything, even for things it used not to be +thought sensible to believe in, like ghosts and haunted +houses. Keats remarks in one of his letters with great +admiration upon what he christens Shakspeare’s +‘negative capability,’ meaning thereby +Shakspeare’s habit of complaisant observation from outside +of theory, and his keen enjoyment of the unexplained facts of +life. He did not pour himself out in every strife. We +have but little of this negative capability. The ruddy +qualities of delightfulness, of pleasantness, are all +‘sicklied o’er with the pale cast of +thought.’ The varied elements of life—the</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Murmur of living,<br /> +Stir of existence,<br /> +Soul of the world!’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>seem to be fading from literature. Pure literary +enthusiasm sheds but few rays. To be lively is to be +flippant, and epigram is dubbed paradox.</p> +<p><!-- page 196--><a name="page196"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +196</span>That many people appear to like a drab-coloured world +hung round with dusky shreds of philosophy is sufficiently +obvious. These persons find any relaxation they may require +from a too severe course of theories, religious, political, +social, or now, alas! historical, in the novels of Mr. W. D. +Howells, an American gentleman who has not been allowed to forget +that he once asserted of fiction what Professor Seeley would be +glad to be able to assert of history, that the drowsy spell of +narrative has been broken. We are to look for no more Sir +Walters, no more Thackerays, no more Dickens. The stories +have all been told. Plots are exploded. Incident is +over. In moods of dejection these dark sayings seemed only +too true. Shakspeare’s saddest of sad lines rose to +one’s lips:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘My grief lies onward and my joy +behind.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Behind us are <i>Ivanhoe</i> and <i>Guy Mannering</i>, +<i>Pendennis</i> and <i>The Virginians</i>, Pecksniff and +Micawber. In front of us stretch a never-ending series, a +dreary vista of <i>Foregone Conclusions</i>, <i>Counterfeit +Presentments</i>, and <i>Undiscovered Countries</i>. But +the darkest watch of the night is the one before the dawn, and +relief is often <!-- page 197--><a name="page197"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 197</span>nearest us when we least expect +it. All this gloomy nonsense was suddenly dispelled, and +the fact that really and truly, and behind this philosophical +arras, we were all inwardly ravening for stories was most +satisfactorily established by the incontinent manner in which we +flung ourselves into the arms of Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson, to +whom we could almost have raised a statue in the market-place for +having written <i>Treasure Island</i>.</p> +<p>But to return to history. The interests of our poor +human life, which seems to become duller every day, require that +the fields of history should be kept for ever unenclosed, and be +a free breathing-place for a pallid population well-nigh stifled +with the fumes of philosophy.</p> +<p>Were we, imaginatively, to propel ourselves forward to the +middle of the next century, and to fancy a well-equipped +historian armed with the digested learning of Gibbon, endowed +with the eye of Carlyle, and say one-fifteenth of his humour +(even then a dangerous allotment in a dull world), the moral +gravity of Dr. Arnold, the critical sympathy of Sainte-Beuve, and +the style of Dr. Newman, approaching the period through which we +have lived, should we desire this <!-- page 198--><a +name="page198"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 198</span>talented +mortal to encumber himself with a theory into which to thrust all +our doings as we toss clothes into a portmanteau; to set himself +to extract the essence of some new political philosophy, capable +of being applied to the practical politics of his own day, or to +busy himself with problems or economics? To us personally, +of course, it is a matter of indifference how the historians of +the twentieth century conduct themselves; but ought not our +altruism to bear the strain of a hope that at least one of the +band may avoid all these things, and, leaving political +philosophy to the political philosopher and political economy to +the political economist, remember that the first, if not the +last, duty of the historian is to narrate, to supply the text not +the comment, the subject not the sermon, and proceed to tell our +grandchildren and remoter issue the story of our lives? The +clash of arms will resound through his pages as musically as ever +it does through those of the elder historians as he tells of the +encounter between the Northern and Southern States of America, in +which Right and Might, those great twin-brethren, fought side by +side; but Romance, that ancient parasite, clung affectionately +with her tendril-hands to the mouldering walls of an ancient +wrong, <!-- page 199--><a name="page199"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 199</span>thus enabling the historian, whilst +awarding the victor’s palm to General Grant, to write +kindly of the lost cause, dear to the heart of a nobler and more +chivalrous man, General Lee, of the Virginian army. And +again, is it not almost possible to envy the historian to whom +will belong the task of writing with full information, and all +the advantage of the true historic distance, the history of that +series of struggles and heroisms, of plots and counter-plots, of +crimes and counter-crimes, resulting in the freedom of Italy, and +of telling to a world, eager to listen, the life-story of Joseph +Mazzini?</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Of God nor man was ever this thing said,<br +/> + That he could give<br /> +Life back to her who gave him, whence his dead<br /> + Mother might live.<br /> +But this man found his mother dead and slain,<br /> + With fast sealed eyes,<br /> +And bade the dead rise up and live again,<br /> + And she did rise.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Nor will our imaginary historian be unmindful of Cavour, or +fail to thrill his readers by telling them how, when the great +Italian statesman, with many sins upon his conscience, lay in the +very grasp of death, he interrupted the priests, busy at their +work of intercession, almost <!-- page 200--><a +name="page200"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 200</span>roughly, +with the exclamation, ‘Pray not for me.’ +‘Pray for Italy!’ whilst if he be one who has a turn +for that ironical pastime, the dissection of a king, the curious +character, and muddle of motives, calling itself Carlo Alberto, +will afford him material for at least two paragraphs of subtle +interest. Lastly, if our historian is ambitious of a larger +canvas and of deeper colours, what is there to prevent him, +bracing himself to the task,—</p> +<blockquote><p> ‘As when some mighty +painter dips<br /> +His pencil in the hues of earthquake and eclipse,’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>from writing the epitaph of the Napoleonic legend?</p> +<p>But all this time I hear Professor Seeley whispering in my +ear, ‘What is this but the old literary groove leading to +no trustworthy knowledge?’ If by trustworthy +knowledge is meant demonstrable conclusions, capable of being +expressed in terms at once exact and final, trustworthy knowledge +is not to be gained from the witness of history, whose testimony +none the less must be received, weighed, and taken into +account. Truly observes Carlyle: ‘If history is +philosophy teaching by examples, the writer fitted to compose +history is hitherto an <!-- page 201--><a +name="page201"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 201</span>unknown +man. Better were it that mere earthly historians should +lower such pretensions, and, aiming only at some picture of the +thing acted, which picture itself will be but a poor +approximation, leave the inscrutable purport of them an +acknowledged secret.’ ‘Some picture of the +thing acted.’ Here we behold the task of the +historian; nor is it an idle, fruitless task. Science is +not the only, or the chief source of knowledge. The +<i>Iliad</i>, Shakspeare’s plays, have taught the world +more than the <i>Politics</i> of Aristotle or the <i>Novum +Organum</i> of Bacon.</p> +<p>Facts are not the dross of history, but the true metal, and +the historian is a worker in that metal. He has nothing to +do with abstract truth, or with practical politics, or with +forecasts of the future. A worker in metal he is, and has +certainly plenty of what Lord Bacon used to call +‘stuff’ to work upon; but if he is to be a great +historian, and not a mere chronicler, he must be an artist as +well as an artisan, and have something of the spirit which +animated such a man as Francesco Francia of Bologna, now only +famous as a painter, but in his own day equally celebrated as a +worker in gold, and whose practice it was to sign his pictures +with the word Goldsmith <!-- page 202--><a +name="page202"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 202</span>after his +name, whilst he engraved Painter on his golden crucifixes.</p> +<p>The true historian, therefore, seeking to compose a true +picture of the thing acted, must collect facts, select facts, and +combine facts. Methods will differ, styles will +differ. Nobody ever does anything exactly like anybody +else; but the end in view is generally the same, and the +historian’s end is truthful narration. Maxims he will +have, if he is wise, never a one; and as for a moral, if he tell +his story well, it will need none; if he tell it ill, it will +deserve none.</p> +<p>The stream of narrative flowing swiftly, as it does, over the +jagged rocks of human destiny, must often be turbulent and +tossed; it is, therefore, all the more the duty of every good +citizen to keep it as undefiled as possible, and to do what in +him lies to prevent peripatetic philosophers on the banks from +throwing their theories into it, either dead ones to decay, or +living ones to drown. Let the philosophers ventilate their +theories, construct their blow-holes, extract their essences, +discuss their maxims, and point their morals as much as they +will; but let them do so apart. History must not lose her +Muse, or ‘take to her bosom doubts, queries, essays, +dissertations, <!-- page 203--><a name="page203"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 203</span>some of which ought to go before +her, some to follow, and all to stand apart.’ Let us +at all events secure our narrative first—sermons and +philosophy the day after.</p> +<h2><!-- page 204--><a name="page204"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 204</span>CHARLES LAMB. <a +name="citation204"></a><a href="#footnote204" +class="citation">[204]</a></h2> +<p>Mr. Walter Bagehot preferred Hazlitt to Lamb, reckoning the +former much the greater writer. The preferences of such a +man as Bagehot are not to be lightly disregarded, least of all +when their sincerity is vouched for, as in the present case, by +half a hundred quotations from the favoured author. +Certainly no writer repays a literary man’s devotion better +than Hazlitt, of whose twenty seldom read volumes hardly a page +but glitters with quotable matter; the true ore, to be had for +the cost of cartage. You may live like a gentleman for a +twelvemonth on Hazlitt’s ideas. Opinions, no doubt, +differ as to how many quotations a writer is entitled to; but, +for my part, I like to see an author leap-frog into his subject +over the back of a brother.</p> +<p><!-- page 205--><a name="page205"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +205</span>I do not remember whether Bagehot has anywhere given +his reasons for his preference—the open avowal whereof +drove Crabb Robinson well-nigh distracted; and it is always rash +to find reasons for a faith you do not share; but probably they +partook of the nature of a complaint that Elia’s treatment +of men and things (meaning by things, books) is often +fantastical, unreal, even a shade insincere; whilst Hazlitt +always at least aims at the centre, whether he hits it or +not. Lamb dances round a subject; Hazlitt grapples with +it. So far as Hazlitt is concerned, doubtless this is so; +his literary method seems to realize the agreeable aspiration of +Mr. Browning’s <i>Italian in England</i>:—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘I would grasp Metternich until<br /> +I felt his wet red throat distil<br /> +In blood thro’ these two hands.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Hazlitt is always grasping some Metternich. He said +himself that Lamb’s talk was like snap-dragon, and his own +not very much ‘unlike a game of nine-pins.’ +Lamb, writing to him on one occasion about his son, wishes the +little fellow a ‘smoother head of hair and somewhat of a +better temper than his father;’ and the pleasant words seem +to call back from the past the stormy figure of the man who loved +<!-- page 206--><a name="page206"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +206</span>art, literature, and the drama with a consuming +passion, who has described books and plays, authors and actors, +with a fiery enthusiasm and reality quite unsurpassable, and who +yet, neither living nor dead, has received his due meed of +praise. Men still continue to hold aloof from Hazlitt; his +shaggy head and fierce scowling temper still seem to terrorize; +and his very books, telling us though they do about all things +most delightful—poems, pictures, and the cheerful +playhouse—frown upon us from their upper shelf. From +this it appears that would a genius ensure for himself +immortality, he must brush his hair and keep his temper; but, +alas! how seldom can he be persuaded to do either. Charles +Lamb did both; and the years as they roll do but swell the rich +revenues of his praise. Lamb’s popularity shows no +sign of waning. Even that most extraordinary compound, the +rising generation of readers, whose taste in literature is as +erratic as it is pronounced; who have never heard of James +Thomson who sang <i>The Seasons</i> (including the pleasant +episode of Musidora bathing), but understand by any reference to +that name only the striking author of <i>The City of Dreadful +Night</i>; even these wayward folk—the dogs of whose +criticism, not yet full <!-- page 207--><a +name="page207"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 207</span>grown, +will, when let loose, as some day they must be, cry +‘havoc’ amongst established reputations—read +their Lamb, letters as well as essays, with laughter and with +love.</p> +<p>If it be really seriously urged against Lamb as an author that +he is fantastical and artistically artificial, it must be owned +he is so. His humour, exquisite as it is, is modish. +It may not be for all markets. How it affected the Scottish +Thersites we know only too well—that dour spirit required +more potent draughts to make him forget his misery and +laugh. It took Swift or Smollett to move his mirth, which +was always, three parts of it, derision. Lamb’s +elaborateness, what he himself calls his affected array of +antique modes and phrases, is sometimes overlooked in these +strange days, when it is thought better to read about an author +than to read him. To read aloud the <i>Praise of Chimney +Sweepers</i> without stumbling, or halting, not to say +mispronouncing, and to set in motion every one of its +carefully-swung sentences, is a very pretty feat in elocution, +for there is not what can be called a natural sentence in it from +beginning to end. Many people have not patience for this +sort of thing; they like to laugh and move on. Other +people, again, like <!-- page 208--><a name="page208"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 208</span>an essay to be about something +really important, and to conduct them to conclusions they deem +worth carrying away. Lamb’s views about +indiscriminate almsgiving, so far as these can be extracted from +his paper <i>On the Decay of Beggars in the Metropolis</i>, are +unsound, whilst there are at least three ladies still living (in +Brighton) quite respectably on their means, who consider the +essay entitled <i>A Bachelor’s Complaint of the Behaviour +of Married People</i> improper. But, as a rule, +Lamb’s essays are neither unsound nor improper; none the +less they are, in the judgment of some, things of +naught—not only lacking, as Southey complained they did, +‘sound religious feeling,’ but everything else really +worthy of attention.</p> +<p>To discuss such congenital differences of taste is idle; but +it is not idle to observe that when Lamb is read, as he surely +deserves to be, as a whole—letters and poems no less than +essays—these notes of fantasy and artificiality no longer +dominate. The man Charles Lamb was far more real, far more +serious, despite his jesting, more self-contained and +self-restrained, than Hazlitt, who wasted his life in the pursuit +of the veriest will-o’-the-wisps that ever danced over the +most miasmatic of swamps, who was <!-- page 209--><a +name="page209"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 209</span>never his +own man, and who died, like Brian de Bois Gilbert, ‘the +victim of contending passions.’ It should never be +forgotten that Lamb’s vocation was his life. +Literature was but his byplay, his avocation in the true sense of +that much-abused word. He was not a fisherman, but an +angler in the lake of letters; an author by chance and on the +sly. He had a right to disport himself on paper, to play +the frolic with his own fancies, to give the decalogue the slip, +whose life was made up of the sternest stuff, of self-sacrifice, +devotion, honesty, and good sense.</p> +<p>Lamb’s letters from first to last are full of the +philosophy of life; he was as sensible a man as Dr. +Johnson. One grows sick of the expressions, ‘poor +Charles Lamb,’ ‘gentle Charles ‘Lamb,’ as +if he were one of those grown-up children of the Leigh Hunt type, +who are perpetually begging and borrowing through the round of +every man’s acquaintance. Charles Lamb earned his own +living, paid his own way, was the helper, not the helped; a man +who was beholden to no one, who always came with gifts in his +hand, a shrewd man, capable of advice, strong in council. +Poor Lamb, indeed! Poor Coleridge, robbed of his will; poor +Wordsworth, devoured by his own <i>ego</i>; poor Southey, writing +<!-- page 210--><a name="page210"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +210</span>his tomes and deeming himself a classic; poor Carlyle, +with his nine volumes of memoirs, where he</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong +way,<br /> +Tormenting himself with his prickles’—</p> +</blockquote> +<p>call these men poor, if you feel it decent to do so, but not +Lamb, who was rich in all that makes life valuable or memory +sweet. But he used to get drunk. This explains +all. Be untruthful, unfaithful, unkind; darken the lives of +all who have to live under your shadow, rob youth of joy, take +peace from age, live unsought for, die unmourned—and +remaining sober you will escape the curse of men’s pity, +and be spoken of as a worthy person. But if ever, amidst +what Burns called ‘social noise,’ you so far forget +yourself as to get drunk, think not to plead a spotless life +spent with those for whom you have laboured and saved; talk not +of the love of friends or of help given to the needy; least of +all make reference to a noble self-sacrifice passing the love of +women, for all will avail you nothing. You get +drunk—and the heartless and the selfish and the lewd crave +the privilege of pitying you, and receiving your name with an +odious smile. It is really too bad.</p> +<p><!-- page 211--><a name="page211"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +211</span>The completion of Mr. Ainger’s edition of +Lamb’s works deserves a word of commemoration. In our +judgment it is all an edition of Lamb’s works should +be. Upon the vexed question, nowadays so much agitated, +whether an editor is to be allowed any discretion in the +exclusion from his edition of the rinsings of his author’s +desk, we side with Mr. Ainger, and think more nobly of the editor +than to deny him such a discretion. An editor is not a +sweep, and, by the love he bears the author whose fame he seeks +to spread abroad, it is his duty to exclude what he believes does +not bear the due impress of the author’s mind. No +doubt as a rule editors have no discretion to be trusted; but +happily Mr. Ainger has plenty, and most sincerely do we thank him +for withholding from us <i>A Vision of Horns</i> and <i>The +Pawnbroker’s Daughter</i>. Boldly to assert, as some +are found to do, that the editor of a master of style has no +choice but to reprint the scraps or notelets that a misdirected +energy may succeed in disinterring from the grave the writer had +dug for them, is to fail to grasp the distinction between a +collector of <i>curios</i> and a lover of books. But this +policy of exclusion is no doubt a perilous one. Like the +Irish <!-- page 212--><a name="page212"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 212</span>members, or Mark Antony’s +wife—the ‘shrill-toned Fulvia’—the +missing essays are ‘good, being gone.’ Surely, +so we are inclined to grumble, the taste was severe that led Mr. +Ainger to dismiss <i>Juke Judkins</i>. We are not, indeed, +prepared to say that Judkins has been wrongfully dismissed, or +that he has any right of action against Mr. Ainger, but we could +have put up better with his presence than his absence.</p> +<p>Mr. Ainger’s introduction to the <i>Essays of Elia</i> +is admirable; here is a bit of it:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Another feature of Lamb’s style is +its allusiveness. He is rich in quotations, and in my notes +I have succeeded in tracing most of them to their source, a +matter of some difficulty in Lamb’s case, for his +inaccuracy is all but perverse. But besides those avowedly +introduced as such, his style is full of quotations held, if the +expression may be allowed, in solution. One feels, rather +than recognises, that a phrase or idiom or turn of expression is +an echo of something that one has heard or read before. Yet +such is the use made of the material, that a charm is added by +the very fact that we are thus continually renewing our +experience of an older day. This style <!-- page 213--><a +name="page213"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 213</span>becomes +aromatic, like the perfume of faded rose-leaves in a china +jar. With such allusiveness as this I need not say that I +have not meddled in my notes; its whole charm lies in recognising +it for ourselves. The “prosperity” of an +allusion, as of a jest, “lies in the ear of him that hears +it,” and it were doing a poor service to Lamb or his +readers to draw out and arrange in order the threads he has +wrought into the very fabric of his English.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Then Mr. Ainger’s notes are not meddlesome notes, but +truly explanatory ones, genuine aids to enjoyment. Lamb +needs notes, and yet the task of adding them to a structure so +fine and of such nicely studied proportions is a difficult one; +it is like building a tool-house against La Sainte +Chapelle. Deftly has Mr. Ainger inserted his notes, and +capital reading do they make; they tell us all we ought to want +to know. He is no true lover of Elia who does not care to +know who the ‘Distant Correspondent’ was. And +Barbara S---. ‘It was not much that Barbara had to +claim.’ No, dear child! it was not—‘a +bare half-guinea’; but you are surely also entitled to be +known to us by your real name. When Lamb tells us +Barbara’s maiden name was <!-- page 214--><a +name="page214"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 214</span>Street, and +that she was three times married—first to a Mr. Dancer, +then to a Mr. Barry, and finally to a Mr. Crawford, whose widow +she was when he first knew her—he is telling us things that +were not, for the true Barbara died a spinster, and was born a +Kelly.</p> +<p>Mr. Ainger, as was to be expected, has a full, instructive +note anent the Old Benchers of the Inner Temple. Some hasty +editors, with a sorrowfully large experience of Lamb’s +unblushing fictions and Defoe-like falsehoods, and who, perhaps, +have wasted good hours trying to find out all about Miss +Barbara’s third husband, have sometimes assumed that at all +events most of the names mentioned by Lamb in his immortal essay +on the Benchers are fictitious. Mr. Ainger, however, +assures us that the fact is otherwise. Jekyl, Coventry, +Pierson, Parton, Read, Wharry, Jackson, and Mingay, no less than +‘unruffled Samuel Salt,’ were all real persons, and +were called to the Bench of the Honourable Society by those very +names. One mistake, indeed, Lamb makes—he writes of +Mr. Twopenny as if he had been a Bencher. Now, there never +yet was a Bencher of the name of Twopenny; though the mistake is +easily accounted for. There was a Mr. Twopenny, <!-- page +215--><a name="page215"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 215</span>a +very thin man too, just as Lamb described him, who lived in the +Temple; but he was not a Bencher, he was not even a barrister; he +was a much better thing, namely, stockbroker to the Bank of +England. The holding of this office, which Mr. Ainger +rightly calls important, doubtless accounts for Twopenny’s +constant good-humour and felicitous jesting about his own +person. A man who has a snug berth other people want feels +free to crack such jokes.</p> +<p>Of the contents of these three volumes we can say deliberately +what Dr. Johnson said, surely in his haste, of Baxter’s +three hundred works, ‘Read them all, they are all +good.’ Do not be content with the essays alone. +It is shabby treatment of an author who has given you pleasure to +leave him half unread; it is nearly as bad as keeping a friend +waiting. Anyhow, read <i>Mrs. Leicester’s School</i>; +it is nearly all Mary Lamb’s, but the more you like it on +that account the better pleased her brother would have been.</p> +<p>We are especially glad to notice that Mr. Ainger holds us out +hopes of an edition, uniform with the works, of the letters of +Charles Lamb. Until he has given us these, also with <!-- +page 216--><a name="page216"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +216</span>notes, his pious labours are incomplete. +Lamb’s letters are not only the best text of his life, but +the best comment upon it. They reveal all the heroism of +the man and all the cunning of the author; they do the reader +good by stealth. Let us have them speedily, so that honest +men may have in their houses a complete edition of at least one +author of whom they can truthfully say, that they never know +whether they most admire the writer or love the man.</p> +<h2><!-- page 217--><a name="page217"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 217</span>EMERSON.</h2> +<p>There are men whose charm is in their entirety. Their +words occasionally utter what their looks invariably +express. We read their thoughts by the light of their +smiles. Not to see and hear these men is not to know them, +and criticism without personal knowledge is in their case +mutilation. Those who did know them listen in despair to +the half-hearted praise and clumsy disparagement of critical +strangers, and are apt to exclaim, as did the younger Pitt, when +some extraneous person was expressing wonder at the enormous +reputation of Fox, ‘Ah! you have never been under the wand +of the magician.’</p> +<p>Of such was Ralph Waldo Emerson. When we find so +cool-brained a critic as Mr. Lowell writing and quoting thus of +Emerson:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Those who heard him while their natures +<!-- page 218--><a name="page218"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +218</span>were yet plastic, and their mental nerves trembled +under the slightest breath of divine air, will never cease to +feel and say:</p> +<p>‘“Was never eye did see that face<br /> + Was never ear did hear that tongue,<br /> +Was never mind did mind his grace<br /> + That ever thought the travail long;<br /> +But eyes, and ears, and every thought<br /> +Were with his sweet perfections caught;”’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>we recognise at once that the sooner we take off our shoes the +better, for that the ground upon which we are standing is +holy. How can we sufficiently honour the men who, in this +secular, work-a-day world, habitually breathe</p> +<blockquote><p>‘An ampler ether, a diviner air,’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>than ours!</p> +<p>But testimony of this kind, conclusive as it is upon the +question of Emerson’s personal influence, will not always +be admissible in support of his claims as an author. In the +long-run an author’s only witnesses are his own books.</p> +<p>In Dr. Holmes’s estimate of Emerson’s books +everyone must wish to concur. <a name="citation218"></a><a +href="#footnote218" class="citation">[218]</a> These are +not the days, nor is this dry and thirsty land of ours the place, +when or where we can afford <!-- page 219--><a +name="page219"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 219</span>to pass by +any well of spiritual influence. It is matter, therefore, +for rejoicing that, in the opinion of so many good judges, +Emerson’s well can never be choked up. His essays, so +at least we are told by no less a critic than Mr. Arnold, are the +most valuable prose contributions to English literature of the +century; his letters to Mr. Carlyle carried into all our homes +the charm of a most delightful personality; the quaint melody of +his poems abides in many ears. He would, indeed, be a churl +who grudged Emerson his fame.</p> +<p>But when we are considering a writer so full of intelligence +as Emerson—one so remote and detached from the +world’s bluster and brag—it is especially incumbent +upon us to charge our own language with intelligence, and to make +sure that what we say is at least truth for us.</p> +<p>Were we at liberty to agree with Dr. Holmes in his unmeasured +praise—did we, in short, find Emerson full of +inspiration—our task would be as easy as it would be +pleasant; but not entirely agreeing with Dr. Holmes, and somehow +missing the inspiration, the difficulty we began by mentioning +presses heavily upon us.</p> +<p>Pleasant reading as the introductory thirty-five <!-- page +220--><a name="page220"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +220</span>pages of Dr. Holmes’s book make, we doubt the +wisdom of so very sketchy an account of Emerson’s lineage +and intellectual environment. Attracted towards Emerson +everybody must be; but there are many who have never been able to +get quit of an uneasy fear as to his ‘staying +power.’ He has seemed to some of us a little thin and +vague. A really great author dissipates all such +fears. Read a page and they are gone. To inquire +after the intellectual health of such a one would be an +impertinence. Emerson hardly succeeds in inspiring this +confidence, but is more like a clever invalid who says, and is +encouraged by his friends to say, brilliant things, but of whom +it would be cruel to expect prolonged mental exertion. A +man, he himself has said, ‘should give us a sense of +mass.’ He perhaps does not do so. This gloomy +and possibly distorted view is fostered rather than discouraged +by Dr. Holmes’s introductory pages about Boston life and +intellect. It does not seem to have been a very strong +place. We lack performance. It is of small avail to +write, as Dr. Holmes does, about ‘brilliant circles,’ +and ‘literary luminaries,’ and then to pass on, and +leave the circles circulating and the luminaries shining <i>in +vacuo</i>. We want <!-- page 221--><a +name="page221"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 221</span>to know how +they were brilliant, and what they illuminated. If you wish +me to believe that you are witty I must really trouble you to +make a joke. Dr. Holmes’s own wit, for example, is as +certain as the law of gravitation, but over all these pages of +his hangs vagueness, and we scan them in vain for reassuring +details.</p> +<p>‘Mild orthodoxy, ripened in Unitarian sunshine,’ +does not sound very appetising, though we are assured by Dr. +Holmes that it is ‘a very agreeable aspect of +Christianity.’ Emerson himself does not seem to have +found it very lively, for in 1832, after three years’ +experience of the ministry of the ‘Second Church’ of +Boston, he retires from it, not tumultuously or with any deep +feeling, but with something very like a yawn. He concludes +his farewell sermon to his people as follows:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Having said this I have said all. I +have no hostility to this institution. <a +name="citation221"></a><a href="#footnote221" +class="citation">[221]</a> I am only stating my want of +sympathy with it.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Dr. Holmes makes short work of Emerson’s +childhood. He was born in Boston on the 25th May, 1803, and +used to sit upon a wall and drive his mother’s cow to +pasture. In fact, Dr. Holmes adds nothing to what we +already <!-- page 222--><a name="page222"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 222</span>knew of the quiet and blameless life +that came to its appointed end on the 27th April, 1882. On +the completion of his college education, Emerson became a student +of theology, and after a turn at teaching, was ordained, in +March, 1829, minister of the ‘Second Church’ in +Boston. In September of the same year he married; and the +death of his young wife, in February, 1832, perhaps quickened the +doubts and disinclinations which severed his connection with his +‘Church’ on the 9th September, 1832. The +following year he visited Europe for the first time, and made his +celebrated call upon Carlyle at Craigenputtock, and laid the keel +of a famous friendship. In the summer of 1834 he settled at +Concord. He married again, visited England again, wrote +essays, delivered lectures, made orations, published poems, +carried on a long and most remarkable correspondence with +Carlyle, enjoyed after the most temperate and serene of fashions +many things and much happiness. And then he died.</p> +<p>‘Can you emit sparks?’ said the cat to the ugly +duckling in the fairy tale, and the poor abashed creature had to +admit that it could not. Emerson could emit sparks with the +most electrical of cats. He is all sparks and shocks. +<!-- page 223--><a name="page223"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +223</span>If one were required to name the most non-sequacious +author one had ever read, I do not see how one could help +nominating Emerson. But, say some of his warmest admirers, +‘What then? It does not matter!’ It +appears to me to matter a great deal.</p> +<p>A wise author never allows his reader’s mind to be at +large, but casts about from the very first how to secure it all +for himself. He takes you (seemingly) into his confidence, +perhaps pretends to consult you as to the best route, but at all +events points out to you the road, lying far ahead, which you are +to travel in his company. How carefully does a really great +writer, like Dr. Newman or M. Rénan, explain to you what +he is going to do and how he is going to do it! His humour, +wit, and fancy, however abundant they may be, spring up like +wayside flowers, and do but adorn and render more attractive the +path along which it is his object to conduct you. The +reader’s mind, interested from the beginning, and desirous +of ascertaining whether the author keeps his word and adheres to +his plan, feels the glow of healthy exercise, and pays a real +though unconscious attention. But Emerson makes no terms +with his readers—he gives them neither <!-- page 224--><a +name="page224"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 224</span>thread nor +clue, and thus robs them of one of the keenest pleasures of +reading—the being beforehand with your author, and going +shares with him in his own thoughts.</p> +<p>If it be said that it is manifestly unfair to compare a +mystical writer like Emerson with a polemical or historical one, +I am not concerned to answer the objection, for let the +comparison be made with whom you will, the unparalleled +non-sequaciousness of Emerson is as certain as the Correggiosity +of Correggio. You never know what he will be at. His +sentences fall over you in glittering cascades, beautiful and +bright, and for the moment refreshing, but after a very brief +while the mind, having nothing to do on its own account but to +remain wide open, and see what Emerson sends it, grows first +restive and then torpid. Admiration gives way to +astonishment, astonishment to bewilderment, and bewilderment to +stupefaction.</p> +<p>‘Napoleon is not a man, but a system,’ once said, +in her most impressive tones, Madame de Staël to Sir James +Mackintosh, across a dinner-table. +‘Magnificent!’ murmured Sir James. ‘But +what does she mean?’ whispered one of those helplessly +commonplace creatures who, like the present writer, go about +spoiling everything. <!-- page 225--><a +name="page225"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +225</span>‘Mass! I cannot tell!’ was the frank +acknowledgment and apt Shakspearian quotation of +Mackintosh. Emerson’s meaning, owing to his +non-sequacious style, is often very difficult to apprehend. +Hear him for a moment on ‘Experience’:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘I gossip for my hour concerning the eternal +politic. I have seen many fair pictures, not in vain. +A wonderful time I have lived in. I am not the novice I was +fourteen, nor yet seven years ago. Let who will ask, Where +is the fruit? I find a private fruit sufficient. This +is a fruit, that I should not ask for a rash effect from +meditations, counsels, and the hiving of truths.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>This surely is an odd way of hiving truths. It follows +from it that Emerson is more striking than suggestive. He +likes things on a large scale—he is fond of ethnical +remarks and typical persons. Notwithstanding his habit of +introducing the names of common things into his discourses and +poetry (‘Hay, corn, roots, hemp, flax, apples, wool, and +wood,’ is a line from one of his poems), his familiarity +therewith is evidently not great. ‘Take care, +papa,’ cried his little son, seeing him at work with his +spade, ‘you will dig your leg.’</p> +<p><!-- page 226--><a name="page226"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +226</span>His essay on <i>Friendship</i> will not be found +satisfactory. Here is a subject on which surely we are +entitled to ‘body.’ The <i>Over Soul</i> was +different; <i>there</i> it was easy to agree with Carlyle, who, +writing to Emerson, says: ‘Those voices of yours which I +likened to unembodied souls and censure sometimes for having no +body—how <i>can</i> they have a body? They are light +rays darting upwards in the east!’ But friendship is +a word the very sight of which in print makes the heart +warm. One remembers Elia: ‘Oh! it is pleasant as it +is rare to find the same arm linked in yours at forty which at +thirteen helped it to turn over the Cicero <i>De +Amicitiâ</i>, or some other tale of antique friendship +which the young heart even then was burning to +anticipate.’ With this in your ear it is rather +chilling to read, ‘I do, then, with my friends as I do with +my books. I would have them where I can find them, but I +seldom use them. We must have society on our own terms, and +admit or exclude it on the slightest cause. I cannot afford +to speak much with my friend.’ These are not genial +terms.</p> +<p>For authors and books his affection, real as it was, was +singularly impersonal. In his treatment of literary +subjects, we miss the purely <!-- page 227--><a +name="page227"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 227</span>human +touch, the grip of affection, the accent of scorn, that so +pleasantly characterize the writings of Mr. Lowell. +Emerson, it is to be feared, regarded a company of books but as a +congeries of ideas. For one idea he is indebted to Plato, +for another to Dr. Channing. <i>Sartor Resartus</i>, so +Emerson writes, is a noble philosophical poem, but ‘have +you read Sampson Read’s <i>Growth of the +Mind</i>?’ We read somewhere of ‘Pindar, +Raphael, Angelo, Dryden, and De Staël.’ +Emerson’s notions of literary perspective are certainly +‘very early.’ Dr. Holmes himself is every bit +as bad. In this very book of his, speaking about the +dangerous liberty some poets—Emerson amongst the +number—take of crowding a redundant syllable into a line, +he reminds us ‘that Shakspeare and Milton knew how to use +it effectively; Shelley employed it freely: Bryant indulged in +it; Willis was fond of it.’ One has heard of the +<i>Republic of Letters</i>, but this surely does not mean that +one author is as good as another. ‘Willis was fond of +it.’ I dare say he was, but we are not fond of +Willis, and cannot help regarding the citation of his poetical +example as an outrage.</p> +<p>None the less, if we will have but a little <!-- page 228--><a +name="page228"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 228</span>patience, +and bid our occasional wonderment be still, and read Emerson at +the right times and in small quantities, we shall not remain +strangers to his charm. He bathes the universe in his +thoughts. Nothing less than the Whole ever contented +Emerson. His was no parochial spirit. He cries +out:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘From air and ocean bring me foods,<br /> +From all zones and altitudes.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>How beautiful, too, are some of his sentences! Here is a +bit from his essay on Shakspeare in <i>Representative +Men</i>:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘It is the essence of poetry to spring like +the rainbow daughter of Wonder from the invisible, to abolish the +past, and refuse all history. Malone, Warburton, Dyce, and +Collier have wasted their life. The famed theatres have +vainly assisted. Betterton, Garrick, Kemble, Kean, and +Macready dedicate their lives to his genius—him they crown, +elucidate, obey, and express—the genius knows them +not. The recitation begins, <i>one golden word leaps out +immortal from all this painful pedantry</i>, <i>and sweetly +torments us with invitations to his own inaccessible +homes</i>.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The words we have ventured to italicize seem <!-- page +229--><a name="page229"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 229</span>to +us to be of surpassing beauty, and to express what many a +play-goer of late years must often have dimly felt.</p> +<p>Patience should indeed be the motto for any Emerson reader who +is not by nature ‘author’s kin.’ For +example, in the essay on <i>Character</i>, after reading, +‘Everything in nature is bipolar, or has a positive and +negative pole. There is a male and a female, a spirit and a +fact, a north and a south. Spirit is the positive, the +event is the negative; will is the north, action the south +pole. Character may be ranked as having its natural place +in the north’—how easy to lay the book down and read +no more that day; but a moment’s patience is amply +rewarded, for but sixteen lines farther on we may read as +follows: ‘We boast our emancipation from many +superstitions, but if we have broken any idols it is through a +transfer of the idolatry. What have I gained that I no +longer immolate a bull to Jove or to Neptune, or a mouse to +Hecate; that I do not tremble before the Eumenides or the +Catholic Purgatory, or the Calvinistic Judgment Day—if I +quake at opinion, the public opinion as we call it, or the threat +of assault or contumely, or bad neighbours, or poverty, or +mutilation, or at the <!-- page 230--><a name="page230"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 230</span>rumour of revolution or of +wonder! If I quake, what matters it what I quake +at?’ Well and truly did Carlyle write to Emerson, +‘You are a new era, my man, in your huge +country.’</p> +<p>Emerson’s poetry has at least one of the qualities of +true poetry—it always pleases and occasionally +delights. Great poetry it may not be, but it has the happy +knack of slipping in between our fancies, and of clinging like +ivy to the masonry of the thought-structure beneath which each +one of us has his dwelling. I must be allowed room for two +quotations, one from the stanzas called <i>Give all to Love</i>, +the other from <i>Wood Notes</i>.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Cling with life to the maid;<br /> +But when the surprise,<br /> +First shadow of surmise,<br /> +Flits across her bosom young<br /> +Of a joy apart from thee,<br /> +Free be she, fancy-free,<br /> +Nor thou detain her vesture’s hem,<br /> +Nor the palest rose she flung<br /> +From her summer’s diadem.<br /> +Though thou loved her as thyself,<br /> +As a self of purer clay,<br /> +Though her parting dims the day,<br /> +Stealing grace from all alive;<br /> + Heartily know<br /> + When half-gods go,<br /> +The gods arrive.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p><!-- page 231--><a name="page231"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +231</span>The lines from <i>Wood Notes</i> run as follows:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Come learn with me the fatal song<br /> +Which knits the world in music strong,<br /> +Whereto every bosom dances,<br /> +Kindled with courageous fancies;<br /> +Come lift thine eyes to lofty rhymes<br /> +Of things with things, of times with times,<br /> +Primal chimes of sun and shade,<br /> +Of sound and echo, man and maid;<br /> +The land reflected in the flood;<br /> +Body with shadow still pursued.<br /> +For nature beats in perfect tune<br /> +And rounds with rhyme her every rune;<br /> +Whether she work in land or sea<br /> +Or hide underground her alchemy.<br /> +Thou canst not wave thy staff in air,<br /> +Or dip thy paddle in the lake,<br /> +But it carves the bow of beauty there,<br /> +And the ripples in rhymes the oar forsake.<br /> +Not unrelated, unaffied,<br /> +But to each thought and thing allied,<br /> +Is perfect nature’s every part,<br /> +Rooted in the mighty heart.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>What place Emerson is to occupy in American literature is for +America to determine. Some authoritative remarks on this +subject are to be found in Mr. Lowell’s essay on +‘Thoreau,’ in <i>My Study Windows</i>; but here at +home, where we are sorely pressed for room, it is certain he must +be content with a small allotment, where, <!-- page 232--><a +name="page232"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 232</span>however, he +may for ever sit beneath his own vine and fig-tree, none daring +to make him afraid. Emerson will always be the favourite +author of somebody; and to be always read by somebody is better +than to be read first by everybody and then by nobody. +Indeed, it is hard to fancy a pleasanter destiny than to join the +company of lesser authors. All their readers are sworn +friends. They are spared the harsh discords of ill-judged +praise and feigned rapture. Once or twice in a century some +enthusiastic and expansive admirer insists upon dragging them +from their shy retreats, and trumpeting their fame in the +market-place, asserting, possibly with loud asseverations (after +the fashion of Mr. Swinburne), that they are precisely as much +above Otway and Collins and George Eliot as they are below +Shakespeare and Hugo and Emily Brontë. The great world +looks on good-humouredly for a moment or two, and then proceeds +as before, and the disconcerted author is left free to scuttle +back to his corner, where he is all the happier, sharing the +raptures of the lonely student, for his brief experience of +publicity.</p> +<p>Let us bid farewell to Emerson, who has bidden farewell to the +world in the words of his own <i>Good-bye</i>:</p> +<blockquote><p><!-- page 233--><a name="page233"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 233</span>‘Good-bye to flattery’s +fawning face,<br /> +To grandeur with his wise grimace,<br /> +To upstart wealth’s averted eye,<br /> +To supple office low and high,<br /> +To crowded halls, to court and street,<br /> +To frozen hearts and hasting feet,<br /> +To those who go and those who come,—<br /> +Good-bye, proud world, I’m going home,<br /> +I am going to my own hearth-stone<br /> +Bosomed in yon green hills, alone,<br /> +A secret nook in a pleasant land,<br /> +Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;<br /> +Where arches green the livelong day<br /> +Echo the blackbird’s roundelay,<br /> +And vulgar feet have never trod,<br /> +A spot that is sacred to thought and God.’</p> +</blockquote> +<h2><!-- page 234--><a name="page234"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 234</span>THE OFFICE OF LITERATURE.</h2> +<p>Dr. John Brown’s pleasant story has become well known, +of the countryman who, being asked to account for the gravity of +his dog, replied, ‘Oh, sir! life is full of sairiousness to +him—he can just never get eneugh o’ +fechtin’.’ Something of the spirit of this +saddened dog seems lately to have entered into the very people +who ought to be freest from it—our men of letters. +They are all very serious and very quarrelsome. To some of +them it is dangerous even to allude. Many are wedded to a +theory or period, and are the most uxorious of +husbands—ever ready to resent an affront to their +lady. This devotion makes them very grave, and possibly +very happy after a pedantic fashion. One remembers what +Hazlitt, who was neither happy nor pedantic, has said about +pedantry:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘The power of attaching an interest to the +most trifling or painful pursuits is one of the <!-- page +235--><a name="page235"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +235</span>greatest happinesses of our nature. The common +soldier mounts the breach with joy, the miser deliberately +starves himself to death, the mathematician sets about extracting +the cube-root with a feeling of enthusiasm, and the lawyer sheds +tears of delight over <i>Coke upon Lyttleton</i>. He who is +not in some measure a pedant, though he may be a wise, cannot be +a very happy man.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Possibly not; but then we are surely not content that our +authors should be pedants in order that they may be happy and +devoted. As one of the great class for whose sole use and +behalf literature exists—the class of readers—I +protest that it is to me a matter of indifference whether an +author is happy or not. I want him to make me happy. +That is his office. Let him discharge it.</p> +<p>I recognise in this connection the corresponding truth of what +Sydney Smith makes his Peter Plymley say about the private +virtues of Mr. Perceval, the Prime Minister:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘You spend a great deal of ink about the +character of the present Prime Minister. Grant all that you +write—I say, I fear that he will ruin Ireland, and pursue a +line of policy destructive to the true interests of his country; +<!-- page 236--><a name="page236"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +236</span>and then you tell me that he is faithful to Mrs. +Perceval, and kind to the Master Percevals. I should prefer +that he whipped his boys and saved his country.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>We should never confuse functions or apply wrong tests. +What can books do for us? Dr. Johnson, the least pedantic +of men, put the whole matter into a nutshell (a cocoanut shell, +if you will—Heaven forbid that I should seek to compress +the great Doctor within any narrower limits than my metaphor +requires!), when he wrote that a book should teach us either to +enjoy life or endure it. ‘Give us +enjoyment!’ ‘Teach us endurance!’ +Hearken to the ceaseless demand and the perpetual prayer of an +ever unsatisfied and always suffering humanity!</p> +<p>How is a book to answer the ceaseless demand?</p> +<p>Self-forgetfulness is of the essence of enjoyment, and the +author who would confer pleasure must possess the art, or know +the trick, of destroying for the time the reader’s own +personality. Undoubtedly the easiest way of doing this is +by the creation of a host of rival personalities—hence the +number and the popularity of novels. Whenever a novelist +fails his <!-- page 237--><a name="page237"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 237</span>book is said to flag; that is, the +reader suddenly (as in skating) comes bump down upon his own +personality, and curses the unskilful author. No lack of +characters and continual motion is the easiest recipe for a +novel, which, like a beggar, should always be kept ‘moving +on.’ Nobody knew this better than Fielding, whose +novels, like most good ones, are full of inns.</p> +<p>When those who are addicted to what is called ‘improving +reading’ inquire of you petulantly why you cannot find +change of company and scene in books of travel, you should answer +cautiously that when books of travel are full of inns, +atmosphere, and motion, they are as good as any novel; nor is +there any reason in the nature of things why they should not +always be so, though experience proves the contrary.</p> +<p>The truth or falsehood of a book is immaterial. George +Borrow’s <i>Bible in Spain</i> is, I suppose, true; though +now that I come to think of it, in what is to me a new light, one +remembers that it contains some odd things. But was not +Borrow the accredited agent of the British and Foreign Bible +Society? Did he not travel (and he had a free hand) at +their charges? Was he not befriended by our minister at +<!-- page 238--><a name="page238"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +238</span>Madrid, Mr. Villiers, subsequently Earl of Clarendon in +the peerage of England? It must be true; and yet at this +moment I would as lief read a chapter of the <i>Bible in +Spain</i> as I would <i>Gil Blas</i>; nay, I positively would +give the preference to Don Jorge.</p> +<p>Nobody can sit down to read Borrow’s books without as +completely forgetting himself as if he were a boy in the forest +with Gurth and Wamba.</p> +<p>Borrow is provoking, and has his full share of faults, and, +though the owner of a style, is capable of excruciating +offences. His habitual use of the odious word +‘individual’ as a noun-substantive (seven times in +three pages of <i>The Romany Rye</i>) elicits the frequent groan, +and he is certainly once guilty of calling fish the ‘finny +tribe.’ He believed himself to be animated by an +intense hatred of the Church of Rome, and disfigures many of his +pages by Lawrence-Boythorn-like tirades against that institution; +but no Catholic of sense need on this account deny himself the +pleasure of reading Borrow, whose one dominating passion was +<i>camaraderie</i>, and who hob-a-nobbed in the friendliest +spirit with priest and gipsy in a fashion as far beyond praise as +it is beyond description by any pen <!-- page 239--><a +name="page239"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 239</span>other than +his own. Hail to thee, George Borrow! Cervantes +himself, Gil Blas, do not more effectually carry their readers +into the land of the Cid than does this miraculous agent of the +Bible Society, by favour of whose pleasantness we can, any hour +of the week, enter Villafranca by night, or ride into Galicia on +an Andalusian stallion (which proved to be a foolish thing to +do), without costing anybody a <i>peseta</i>, and at no risk +whatever to our necks—be they long or short.</p> +<p>Cooks, warriors, and authors must be judged by the effects +they produce: toothsome dishes, glorious victories, pleasant +books—these are our demands. We have nothing to do +with ingredients, tactics, or methods. We have no desire to +be admitted into the kitchen, the council, or the study. +The cook may clean her saucepans how she pleases—the +warrior place his men as he likes—the author handle his +material or weave his plot as best he can—when the dish is +served we only ask, Is it good? when the battle has been fought, +Who won? when the book comes out, Does it read?</p> +<p>Authors ought not to be above being reminded that it is their +first duty to write agreeably—some very disagreeable men +have succeeded <!-- page 240--><a name="page240"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 240</span>in doing so, and there is therefore +no need for anyone to despair. Every author, be he grave or +gay, should try to make his book as ingratiating as +possible. Reading is not a duty, and has consequently no +business to be made disagreeable. Nobody is under any +obligation to read any other man’s book.</p> +<p>Literature exists to please—to lighten the burden of +men’s lives; to make them for a short while forget their +sorrows and their sins, their silenced hearths, their +disappointed hopes, their grim futures—and those men of +letters are the best loved who have best performed +literature’s truest office. Their name is happily +legion, and I will conclude these disjointed remarks by quoting +from one of them, as honest a parson as ever took tithe or voted +for the Tory candidate, the Rev. George Crabbe. Hear him in +<i>The Frank Courtship</i>:—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘“I must be loved;” said Sybil; +“I must see<br /> +The man in terrors, who aspires to me:<br /> +At my forbidding frown his heart must ache,<br /> +His tongue must falter, and his frame must shake;<br /> +And if I grant him at my feet to kneel,<br /> +What trembling fearful pleasure must he feel:<br /> +Nay, such the raptures that my smiles inspire,<br /> +That reason’s self must for a time retire.”</p> +<p><!-- page 241--><a name="page241"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +241</span>“Alas! for good Josiah,” said the dame,<br +/> +“These wicked thoughts would fill his soul with shame;<br +/> +He kneel and tremble at a thing of dust!<br /> +He cannot, child:”—the child replied, “He +must.”’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Were an office to be opened for the insurance of literary +reputations, no critic at all likely to be in the society’s +service would refuse the life of a poet who could write like +Crabbe. Cardinal Newman, Mr. Leslie Stephen, Mr. Swinburne, +are not always of the same way of thinking, but all three hold +the one true faith about Crabbe.</p> +<p>But even were Crabbe now left unread, which is very far from +being the case, his would be an enviable fame—for was he +not one of the favourite poets of Walter Scott, and whenever the +closing scene of the great magician’s life is read in the +pages of Lockhart, must not Crabbe’s name be brought upon +the reader’s quivering lip?</p> +<p>To soothe the sorrow of the soothers of sorrow, to bring tears +to the eyes and smiles to the cheeks of the lords of human smiles +and tears, is no mean ministry, and it is Crabbe’s.</p> +<h2><!-- page 242--><a name="page242"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 242</span>WORN-OUT TYPES.</h2> +<p>It is now a complaint of quite respectably antiquity that the +types in which humanity was originally set up by a humour-loving +Providence are worn out and require recasting. The surface +of society has become smooth. It ought to be a +bas-relief—it is a plane. Even a Chaucer (so it is +said) could make nothing of us as we wend our way to +Brighton. We have tempers, it is true—bad ones for +the most part; but no humours to be in or out of. We are +all far too much alike; we do not group well; we only mix. +All this, and more, is alleged against us. A +cheerfully-disposed person might perhaps think that, assuming the +prevailing type to be a good, plain, readable one, this +uniformity need not necessarily be a bad thing; but had he the +courage to give expression to this opinion he would most +certainly be at once told, with that mixture of asperity and +contempt so <!-- page 243--><a name="page243"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 243</span>properly reserved for those who take +cheerful views of anything, that without well-defined types of +character there can be neither national comedy nor whimsical +novel; and as it is impossible to imagine any person sufficiently +cheerful to carry the argument further by inquiring ingenuously, +‘And how would that matter?’ the position of things +becomes serious, and demands a few minutes’ +investigation.</p> +<p>As we said at the beginning, the complaint is an old +one—most complaints are. When Montaigne was in Rome +in 1580 he complained bitterly that he was always knocking up +against his own countrymen, and might as well have been in +Paris. And yet some people would have you believe that this +curse of the Continent is quite new. More than seventy +years ago that most quotable of English authors, Hazlitt, wrote +as follows:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘It is, indeed, the evident tendency of all +literature to generalize and dissipate character by giving men +the same artificial education and the same common stock of ideas; +so that we see all objects from the same point of view, and +through the same reflected medium; we learn to exist not in +ourselves, but in books; all men become alike, mere +readers—spectators, <!-- page 244--><a +name="page244"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 244</span>not actors +in the scene and lose all proper personal identity. The +templar—the wit—the man of pleasure and the man of +fashion, the courtier and the citizen, the knight and the squire, +the lover and the miser—Lovelace, Lothario, Will Honeycomb +and Sir Roger de Coverley, Sparkish and Lord Foppington, Western +and Tom Jones, my Father and my Uncle Toby, Millament and Sir +Sampson Legend, Don Quixote and Sancho, Gil Blas and Guzman +d’Alfarache, Count Fathom and Joseph Surface—have all +met and exchanged commonplaces on the barren plains of the +<i>haute littérature</i>—toil slowly on to the +Temple of Science, seen a long way off upon a level, and end in +one dull compound of politics, criticism, chemistry, and +metaphysics.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Very pretty writing, certainly; <a name="citation244"></a><a +href="#footnote244" class="citation">[244]</a> nor can it be +disputed that uniformity of surroundings puts a tax upon +originality. To make bricks and find your own straw are +terms of bondage. Modern <!-- page 245--><a +name="page245"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 245</span>characters, +like modern houses, are possibly built too much on the same +lines, Dickens’s description of Coketown is not easily +forgotten:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘All the public inscriptions in the town +were painted alike, in severe characters of black and +white. The jail might have been the infirmary, the +infirmary might have been the jail, the town hall might have been +either, or both, or anything else, for anything that appeared to +the contrary in the graces of their construction.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And the inhabitants of Coketown are exposed to the same +objection as their buildings. Every one sinks all traces of +what he vulgarly calls ‘the shop’ (that is, his +lawful calling), and busily pretends to be nothing. +Distinctions of dress are found irksome. A barrister of +feeling hates to be seen in his robes save when actually engaged +in a case. An officer wears his uniform only when +obliged. Doctors have long since shed all outward signs of +their healing art. Court dress excites a smile. A +countess in her jewels is reckoned indecent by the British +workman, who, all unemployed, puffs his tobacco smoke against the +window-pane of the carriage that is conveying her ladyship to a +drawing-room; and a West-end clergyman is with difficulty <!-- +page 246--><a name="page246"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +246</span>restrained from telling his congregation what he had +been told the British workman said on that occasion. Had he +but had the courage to repeat those stirring words, his hearers +(so he said) could hardly have failed to have felt their +force—so unusual in such a place; but he had not the +courage, and that sermon of the pavement remains +unpreached. The toe of the peasant is indeed kibing the +heel of the courtier. The passion for equality in externals +cannot be denied. We are all woven strangely in the same +piece, and so it comes about that, though our modern society has +invented new callings, those callings have not created new +types. Stockbrokers, directors, official liquidators, +philanthropists, secretaries—not of State, but of +companies—speculative builders, are a new kind of people +known to many—indeed, playing a great part among +us—but who, for all that, have not enriched the stage with +a single character. Were they to disappear to-morrow, to be +blown dancing away like the leaves before Shelley’s west +wind, where in reading or playgoing would posterity encounter +them? Alone amongst the children of men, the pale student +of the law, burning the midnight oil in some one of the +‘high lonely towers’ <!-- page 247--><a +name="page247"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 247</span>recently +built by the Benchers of the Middle Temple (in the Italian +taste), would, whilst losing his youth over that interminable +series, <i>The Law Reports</i>, every now and again strike across +the old track, once so noisy with the bayings of the well-paid +hounds of justice, and, pushing his way along it, trace the +history of the bogus company, from the acclamations attendant +upon its illegitimate birth to the hour of disgrace when it dies +by strangulation at the hands of the professional wrecker. +The pale student will not be a wholly unsympathetic reader. +Great swindles have ere now made great reputations, and lawyers +may surely be permitted to take a pensive interest in such +matters.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Not one except the Attorney was +amused—<br /> +He, like Achilles, faithful to the tomb,<br /> +So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause,<br /> +Knowing they must be settled by the laws.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But our elder dramatists would not have let any of these +characters swim out of their ken. A glance over Ben Jonson, +Massinger, Beaumont and Fletcher, is enough to reveal their frank +and easy method. Their characters, like an +apothecary’s drugs, wear labels round their necks. +Mr. Justice Clement and Mr. <!-- page 248--><a +name="page248"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 248</span>Justice +Greedy; Master Matthew, the town gull; Sir Giles Overreach, Sir +Epicure Mammon, Mr. Plenty, Sir John Frugal, need no explanatory +context. Are our dramatists to blame for withholding from +us the heroes of our modern society? Ought we to +have—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Sir Moses, Sir Aaron, Sir Jamramagee,<br /> +Two stock-jobbing Jews, and a shuffling Parsee’?</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Baron Contango, the Hon. Mr. Guinea-Pig, poor Miss Impulsia +Allottee, Mr. Jeremiah Builder—Rare Old Ben, who was fond +of the city, would have given us them all and many more; but +though we may well wish he were here to do it, we ought, I think, +to confess that the humour of these typical persons who so swell +the <i>dramatis personæ</i>; of an Elizabethan is, to say +the least of it, far to seek. There is a certain +warm-hearted tradition about their very names which makes +disrespect painful. It seems a churl’s part not to +laugh, as did our fathers before us, at the humours of the +conventional parasite or impossible serving-man; but we laugh +because we will, and not because we must.</p> +<p>Genuine comedy—the true tickling scene, exquisite +absurdity, soul-rejoicing incongruity—<!-- page 249--><a +name="page249"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 249</span>has really +nothing to do with types, prevailing fashions, and such-like +vulgarities. Sir Andrew Aguecheek is not a typical fool; he +<i>is</i> a fool, seised in fee simple of his folly.</p> +<p>Humour lies not in generalizations, but in the individual; not +in his hat nor in his hose, even though the latter be +‘cross-gartered’; but in the deep heart of him, in +his high-flying vanities, his low-lying oddities—what we +call his ‘ways’—nay, in the very motions of his +back as he crosses the road. These stir our laughter whilst +he lives and our tears when he dies, for in mourning over him we +know full well we are taking part in our own obsequies. +‘But indeed,’ wrote Charles Lamb, ‘we die many +deaths before we die, and I am almost sick when I think that such +a hold as I had of you is gone.’</p> +<p>Literature is but the reflex of life, and the humour of it +lies in the portrayal of the individual, not the type; and though +the young man in <i>Locksley Hall</i> no doubt observes that the +‘individual withers,’ we have but to take down George +Meredith’s novels to find the fact is otherwise, and that +we have still one amongst us who takes notes, and against the +battery of whose quick wits even the costly raiment of Poole is +no protection. We are forced as we <!-- page 250--><a +name="page250"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 250</span>read to +exclaim with Petruchio: ‘Thou hast hit it; come sit on +me.’ No doubt the task of the modern humorist is not +so easy as it was. The surface ore has been mostly picked +up. In order to win the precious metal you must now work +with in-stroke and out-stroke after the most approved +methods. Sometimes one would enjoy it a little more if we +did not hear quite so distinctly the snorting of the engine, and +the groaning and the creaking of the gear as it painfully winds +up its prize: but what would you? Methods, no less than +men, must have the defects of their qualities.</p> +<p>If, therefore, it be the fact that our national comedy is in +decline, we must look for some other reasons for it than those +suggested by Hazlitt in 1817. When Mr. Chadband inquired, +‘Why can we not fly, my friends?’ Mr. Snagsby +ventured to observe, ‘in a cheerful and rather knowing +tone, “No wings!”’ but he was immediately +frowned down by Mrs. Snagsby. We lack courage to suggest +that the somewhat heavy-footed movements of our recent dramatists +are in any way due to their not being provided with those twin +adjuncts indispensable for the genius who would soar.</p> +<h2><!-- page 251--><a name="page251"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 251</span>CAMBRIDGE AND THE POETS.</h2> +<p>Why all the English poets, with a barely decent number of +exceptions, have been Cambridge men, has always struck me, as did +the abstinence of the Greeks from malt Mr. Calverley, ‘as +extremely curious.’ But in this age of detail, one +must, however reluctantly, submit to prove one’s facts, and +I, therefore, propose to institute a ‘Modest Inquiry’ +into this subject. Imaginatively, I shall don proctorial +robes, and armed with a duster, saunter up and down the library, +putting to each poet as I meet him the once dreaded question, +‘Sir, are you a member of this University?’</p> +<p>But whilst I am arranging myself for this function, let me +utilize the time by making two preliminary observations—the +first one being that, as to-day is Sunday, only such free +libraries are open as may happen to be attached to public-houses, +and I am consequently confined <!-- page 252--><a +name="page252"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 252</span>to my own +poor shelves, and must be forgiven even though I make some +palpable omissions. The second is that I exclude from my +survey living authors. I must do so; their very names would +excite controversy about a subject which, when wisely handled, +admits of none.</p> +<p>I now pursue my inquiry. That Chaucer was a Cambridge +man cannot be proved. It is the better opinion that he was +(how else should he have known anything about the Trumpington +Road?), but it is only an opinion, and as no one has ever been +found reckless enough to assert that he was an Oxford man, he +must be content to ‘sit out’ this inquiry along with +Shakspeare, Webster, Ford, Pope, Cowper, Burns, and Keats, no one +of whom ever kept his terms at either University. Spenser +is, of course, the glory of the Cambridge Pembroke, though were +the fellowships of that college made to depend upon passing a +yearly examination in the <i>Faerie Queen</i>, to be conducted by +Dean Church, there would be wailing and lamentation within her +rubicund walls. Sir Thomas Wyatt was at St. John’s, +Fulke Greville Lord Brooke at Jesus, Giles and Phineas Fletcher +were at King’s, Herrick was first at St. John’s, but +migrated to the Hall, <!-- page 253--><a name="page253"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 253</span>where he is still reckoned very +pretty reading, even by boating men. Cowley, most +precocious of poets, and Suckling were at Trinity, Waller at +King’s, Francis Quarles was of Christ’s. The +Herbert family were divided, some going to Oxford and some to +Cambridge, George, of course, falling to the lot of +Cambridge. John Milton’s name alone would deify the +University where he pursued his almost sacred studies. +Andrew Marvell, a pleasant poet and savage satirist, was of +Trinity. The author of <i>Hudibras</i> is frequently +attributed to Cambridge, but, on being interrogated, he declined +to name his college—always a suspicious circumstance.</p> +<p>I must not forget Richard Crashaw, of Peterhouse. +Willingly would I relieve the intolerable tedium of this dry +inquiry by transcribing the few lines of his now beneath my +eye. But I forbear, and ‘steer right on.’</p> +<p>Of dramatists we find Marlowe (untimelier death than his was +never any) at Corpus; Greene (I do not lay much stress on Greene) +was both at St. John’s and Clare. Ben Jonson was at +St. John’s, so was Nash. John Fletcher (whose claims +to be considered the senior partner in his well-known firm are +simply <!-- page 254--><a name="page254"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 254</span>paramount) was at Corpus. +James Shirley, the author of <i>The Maid’s Revenge</i> and +of the beautiful lyric beginning ‘The glories of our birth +and state,’ in the innocence of his heart first went to St. +John’s College, Oxford, from whence he was speedily sent +down, for reasons which the delightful author of <i>Athenæ +Oxonienses</i> must really be allowed to state for himself. +‘At the same time (1612) Dr. William Laud presiding at that +house, he had a very great affection for Shirley, especially for +the pregnant parts that were visible in him, but then, having a +broad or large mole upon his left cheek, which some esteemed a +deformity, that worthy doctor would often tell him that he was an +unfit person to take the sacred function upon him, and should +never have his consent to do so.’ Thus treated, +Shirley left Oxford, that ‘home of lost causes,’ but +not apparently of large moles, and came to Cambridge, and entered +at St. Catharine’s Hall, where, either because the +authorities were not amongst those who esteemed a broad or large +mole upon the left cheek to be a deformity, or because a mole, +more or less, made no sort of difference in the personal +appearance of the college, or for other good and sufficient +reasons, poor Shirley was <!-- page 255--><a +name="page255"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 255</span>allowed, +without, I trust, being often told of his mole, to proceed to his +degree and to Holy Orders.</p> +<p>Starting off again, we find John Dryden, whose very name is a +tower of strength (were he to come to life again he would, like +Mr. Brown of Calaveras, ‘clean out half the town’), +at Trinity. In this poet’s later life he said he +liked Oxford better. His lines on this subject are well +known:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Oxford to him a dearer name shall be<br /> +Than his own Mother-University.<br /> +Thebes did his rude, unknowing youth engage,<br /> +He chooses Athens in his riper age.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But idle preferences of this sort are beyond the scope of my +present inquiry. After Dryden we find Garth at Peterhouse +and charming Matthew Prior at John’s. Then comes the +great name of Gray. Perhaps I ought not to mention poor +Christopher Smart, who was a Fellow of Pembroke; and yet the +author of <i>David</i>, under happier circumstances, might have +conferred additional poetic lustre even upon the college of +Spenser. <a name="citation255"></a><a href="#footnote255" +class="citation">[255]</a></p> +<p><!-- page 256--><a name="page256"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +256</span>In the present century, we find Byron and his bear at +Trinity, Coleridge at Jesus, and Wordsworth at St. +John’s. The last-named poet was fully alive to the +honour of belonging to the same University as Milton. In +language not unworthy of Mr. Trumbull, the well-known auctioneer +in <i>Middlemarch</i>, he has recorded as follows:</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Among the band of my compeers was one<br /> +Whom chance had stationed in the very room<br /> +Honoured by Milton’s name. O temperate Bard,<br /> +Be it confest that for the first time seated<br /> +Within thy innocent lodge and oratory,<br /> +One of a festive circle, I poured out<br /> +Libations, to thy memory drank, till pride<br /> +And gratitude grew dizzy in a brain<br /> +Never excited by the fumes of wine<br /> +Before that hour or since.’ <a name="citation256"></a><a +href="#footnote256" class="citation">[256]</a></p> +</blockquote> +<p>I know of no more amiable trait in the character of Cambridge +men than their willingness to admit having been drunk +<i>once</i>.</p> +<p>After the great name of Wordsworth any other must seem small, +but I must, before concluding, place on record Praed, Macaulay, +Kingsley, and Calverley.</p> +<p>A glorious Roll-call indeed!</p> +<blockquote><p><!-- page 257--><a name="page257"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 257</span>‘Earth shows to Heaven the +names by thousands told<br /> + That crown her fame.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>So may Cambridge.</p> +<p>Oxford leads off with one I could find it in my heart to +grudge her, beautiful as she is—Sir Philip Sidney. +Why, I wonder, did he not accompany his friend and future +biographer, Fulke Greville, to Cambridge? As Dr. Johnson +once said to Boswell, ‘Sir, you <i>may</i> +wonder!’ Sidney most indisputably was at +Christchurch. Old George Chapman, who I suppose was young +once, was (I believe) at Oxford, though I have known Cambridge to +claim him. Lodge and Peele were at Oxford, so were Francis +Beaumont and his brother Sir John. Philip Massinger, +Shakerley Marmion, and John Marston are of Oxford, also Watson +and Warner. Henry Vaughan the Silurist, Sir John Davies, +George Sandys, Samuel Daniel, Dr. Donne, Lovelace, and Wither +belong to the sister University, so did Dr. Brady—but +Oxford must not claim all the merit of the metrical version of +the Psalms, for Brady’s colleague, Dr. Nahum Tate, was a +Dublin man. Otway and Collins, Young, Johnson, Charles +Wesley, Southey, Landor, Hartley Coleridge, Beddoes, Keble, Isaac +Williams, Faber, and Clough are names of <!-- page 258--><a +name="page258"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 258</span>which their +University may well be proud. But surely, when compared +with the Cambridge list, a falling-off must be admitted.</p> +<p>A poet indeed once came into residence at University College, +whose single name—for, after all, poets must be weighed and +not counted—would have gone far to right the balance, but +is Oxford bold enough to claim Shelley as her own? She sent +him down, not for riotous living, for no purer soul than his ever +haunted her courts, but for wanting to discuss with those whose +business it was to teach him questions of high philosophy. +Had Shelley only gone to Trinity in 1810, I feel sure wise and +witty old Dr. Mansel would never have sent him down. +Spenser, Milton, and Shelley! What a triad of immortal +fames they would have made. As it is, we expect Oxford, +with her accustomed composure, will insist upon adding Shelley to +her score—but even when she has been allowed to do so, she +must own herself beaten both in men and metal.</p> +<p>But this being so—why was it so? It is now my turn +to own myself defeated. I cannot for the life of me tell +how it happened.</p> +<h2>BOOK-BUYING.</h2> +<p><!-- page 259--><a name="page259"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +259</span>The most distinguished of living Englishmen, who, great +as he is in many directions, is perhaps inherently more a man of +letters than anything else, has been overheard mournfully to +declare that there were more booksellers’ shops in his +native town sixty years ago, when he was a boy in it, than are +to-day to be found within its boundaries. And yet the place +‘all unabashed’ now boasts its bookless self a +city!</p> +<p>Mr. Gladstone was, of course, referring to second-hand +bookshops. Neither he nor any other sensible man puts +himself out about new books. When a new book is published, +read an old one, was the advice of a sound though surly +critic. It is one of the boasts of letters to have +glorified the term ‘second-hand,’ which other crafts +have ‘soiled to all ignoble use.’ But why it +has been able to do this is obvious. All the best books are +necessarily second-hand. <!-- page 260--><a +name="page260"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 260</span>The writers +of to-day need not grumble. Let them ‘bide a +wee.’ If their books are worth anything, they, too, +one day will be second-hand. If their books are not worth +anything there are ancient trades still in full operation amongst +us—the pastrycooks and the trunkmakers—who must have +paper.</p> +<p>But is there any substance in the plaint that nobody now buys +books, meaning thereby second-hand books? The late Mark +Pattison, who had 16,000 volumes, and whose lightest word has +therefore weight, once stated that he had been informed, and +verily believed, that there were men of his own University of +Oxford who, being in uncontrolled possession of annual incomes of +not less than £500, thought they were doing the thing +handsomely if they expended £50 a year upon their +libraries. But we are not bound to believe this unless we +like. There was a touch of morosity about the late Rector +of Lincoln which led him to take gloomy views of men, +particularly Oxford men.</p> +<p>No doubt arguments <i>à priori</i> may readily be found +to support the contention that the habit of book-buying is on the +decline. I confess to knowing one or two men, not Oxford +men <!-- page 261--><a name="page261"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 261</span>either, but Cambridge men (and the +passion of Cambridge for literature is a by-word), who, on the +plea of being pressed with business, or because they were going +to a funeral, have passed a bookshop in a strange town without so +much as stepping inside ‘just to see whether the fellow had +anything.’ But painful as facts of this sort +necessarily are, any damaging inference we might feel disposed to +draw from them is dispelled by a comparison of price-lists. +Compare a bookseller’s catalogue of 1862 with one of the +present year, and your pessimism is washed away by the tears +which unrestrainedly flow as you see what <i>bonnes fortunes</i> +you have lost. A young book-buyer might well turn out upon +Primrose Hill and bemoan his youth, after comparing old +catalogues with new.</p> +<p>Nothing but American competition, grumble some old +stagers.</p> +<p>Well! why not? This new battle for the books is a free +fight, not a private one, and Columbia has ‘joined +in.’ Lower prices are not to be looked for. The +book-buyer of 1900 will be glad to buy at to-day’s +prices. I take pleasure in thinking he will not be able to +do so. Good finds grow scarcer and scarcer. <!-- page +262--><a name="page262"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +262</span>True it is that but a few short weeks ago I picked up +(such is the happy phrase, most apt to describe what was indeed a +‘street casualty’) a copy of the original edition of +<i>Endymion</i> (Keats’s poem—O subscriber to +Mudie’s!—not Lord Beaconsfield’s novel) for the +easy equivalent of half-a-crown—but then that was one of my +lucky days. The enormous increase of booksellers’ +catalogues and their wide circulation amongst the trade has +already produced a hateful uniformity of prices. Go where +you will it is all the same to the odd sixpence. Time was +when you could map out the country for yourself with some +hopefulness of plunder. There were districts where the +Elizabethan dramatists were but slenderly protected. A raid +into the ‘bonnie North Countrie’ sent you home again +cheered with chap-books and weighted with old pamphlets of +curious interests; whilst the West of England seldom failed to +yield a crop of novels. I remember getting a complete set +of the Brontë books in the original issues at Torquay, I may +say, for nothing. Those days are over. Your country +bookseller is, in fact, more likely, such tales does he hear of +London auctions, and such <!-- page 263--><a +name="page263"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 263</span>catalogues +does he receive by every post, to exaggerate the value of his +wares than to part with them pleasantly, and as a country +bookseller should, ‘just to clear my shelves, you know, and +give me a bit of room.’ The only compensation for +this is the catalogues themselves. You get <i>them</i>, at +least, for nothing, and it cannot be denied that they make mighty +pretty reading.</p> +<p>These high prices tell their own tale, and force upon us the +conviction that there never were so many private libraries in +course of growth as there are to-day.</p> +<p>Libraries are not made; they grow. Your first two +thousand volumes present no difficulty, and cost astonishingly +little money. Given £400 and five years, and an +ordinary man can in the ordinary course, without undue haste or +putting any pressure upon his taste, surround himself with this +number of books, all in his own language, and thenceforward have +at least one place in the world in which it is possible to be +happy. But pride is still out of the question. To be +proud of having two thousand books would be absurd. You +might as well be proud of having two top coats. After your +first two <!-- page 264--><a name="page264"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 264</span>thousand difficulty begins, but +until you have ten thousand volumes the less you say about your +library the better. <i>Then</i> you may begin to speak.</p> +<p>It is no doubt a pleasant thing to have a library left +you. The present writer will disclaim no such legacy, but +hereby undertakes to accept it, however dusty. But good as +it is to inherit a library, it is better to collect one. +Each volume then, however lightly a stranger’s eye may roam +from shelf to shelf, has its own individuality, a history of its +own. You remember where you got it, and how much you gave +for it; and your word may safely be taken for the first of these +facts, but not for the second.</p> +<p>The man who has a library of his own collection is able to +contemplate himself objectively, and is justified in believing in +his own existence. No other man but he would have made +precisely such a combination as his. Had he been in any +single respect different from what he is, his library, as it +exists, never would have existed. Therefore, surely he may +exclaim, as in the gloaming he contemplates the backs of his +loved ones, ‘They are mine, and I am theirs.’</p> +<p><!-- page 265--><a name="page265"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +265</span>But the eternal note of sadness will find its way even +through the keyhole of a library. You turn some familiar +page, of Shakspeare it may be, and his ‘infinite +variety,’ his ‘multitudinous mind,’ suggests +some new thought, and as you are wondering over it you think of +Lycidas, your friend, and promise yourself the pleasure of having +his opinion of your discovery the very next time when by the fire +you two ‘help waste a sullen day.’ Or it is, +perhaps, some quainter, tenderer fancy that engages your solitary +attention, something in Sir Philip Sydney or Henry Vaughan, and +then you turn to look for Phyllis, ever the best interpreter of +love, human or divine. Alas! the printed page grows hazy +beneath a filmy eye as you suddenly remember that Lycidas is +dead—‘dead ere his prime’—and that the +pale cheek of Phyllis will never again be relumined by the white +light of her pure enthusiasm. And then you fall to thinking +of the inevitable, and perhaps, in your present mood, not +unwelcome hour, when the ‘ancient peace’ of your old +friends will be disturbed, when rude hands will dislodge them +from their accustomed nooks and break up their goodly +company.</p> +<blockquote><p><!-- page 266--><a name="page266"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 266</span>‘Death bursts amongst them +like a shell,<br /> +And strews them over half the town.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>They will form new combinations, lighten other men’s +toil, and soothe another’s sorrow. Fool that I was to +call anything <i>mine</i>!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Elliot Stock</i>, <i>Paternoster +Row</i>, <i>London</i>.</p> +<h2>Footnotes:</h2> +<p><a name="footnote27"></a><a href="#citation27" +class="footnote">[27]</a> See note to Mitford’s +<i>Milton</i>, vol. i., clii.</p> +<p><a name="footnote59"></a><a href="#citation59" +class="footnote">[59]</a> Not Horace Walpole’s +opinion. ‘Sir Joshua Reynolds has lent me Dr. +Johnson’s <i>Life of Pope</i>, which Sir Joshua holds to be +a <i>chef d’œuvre</i>. It is a most trumpery +performance, and stuffed with all his crabbed phrases and +vulgarisms, and much trash as +anecdotes.’—<i>Letters</i>, vol. viii., p. 26.</p> +<p><a name="footnote65"></a><a href="#citation65" +class="footnote">[65]</a> Howell’s <i>State +Trials</i>, vol. xvii., p. 159.</p> +<p><a name="footnote76"></a><a href="#citation76" +class="footnote">[76]</a> In <i>Oxford Essays</i> for +1858.</p> +<p><a name="footnote79"></a><a href="#citation79" +class="footnote">[79]</a> <i>Lectures and Essays on +University Subjects</i>: Lecture on Literature.</p> +<p><a name="footnote101"></a><a href="#citation101" +class="footnote">[101]</a> “The late Mr. Carlyle was +a brute and a boor.”—<i>The World</i>, October 29th, +1884.</p> +<p><a name="footnote102"></a><a href="#citation102" +class="footnote">[102]</a> In the first edition, by a +strange and distressing freak of the imagination, I took the +‘old struggler’ out of Lockhart and put her into +Boswell.</p> +<p><a name="footnote117"></a><a href="#citation117" +class="footnote">[117]</a> Anyone who does not wish this +story to be true, will find good reasons for disbelieving it +stated in Mr. Napier’s edition of Boswell, vol. iv., p. +385.</p> +<p><a name="footnote159"></a><a href="#citation159" +class="footnote">[159]</a> All the difficulties connected +with this subject will be found collected, and somewhat unkindly +considered, in Mr. Dilke’s <i>Papers of a Critic</i>, vol. +ii. The equity draughtsman will be indisposed to attach +importance to statements made in a Bill of Complaint filed in +Chancery by Lord Verney against Burke fourteen years after the +transaction to which it had reference, in a suit which was +abandoned after answer put in. But, in justice to a +deceased plaintiff, it should be remembered that in those days a +defendant could not be cross-examined upon his sworn answer.</p> +<p><a name="footnote178"></a><a href="#citation178" +class="footnote">[178]</a> <i>Critical Miscellanies</i>, +vol. iii., p. 9.</p> +<p><a name="footnote189"></a><a href="#citation189" +class="footnote">[189]</a> ‘I will answer you by +quoting what I have read somewhere or other, in Dionysius +Halicarnassensis I think, that history is philosophy teaching by +examples.’ See Lord Bolingbroke’s <i>Second +Letter on the Study and Use of History</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote204"></a><a href="#citation204" +class="footnote">[204]</a> <i>The Works of Charles +Lamb</i>. Edited, with notes and introduction, by the Rev. +Alfred Ainger. Three volumes. London: 1883-5.</p> +<p><a name="footnote218"></a><a href="#citation218" +class="footnote">[218]</a> See <i>Life of Emerson</i>, by +O. W. Holmes.</p> +<p><a name="footnote221"></a><a href="#citation221" +class="footnote">[221]</a> The institution referred to was +the Eucharist.</p> +<p><a name="footnote244"></a><a href="#citation244" +class="footnote">[244]</a> Yet in his essay <i>On Londoners +and Country People</i> we find Hazlitt writing: ‘London is +the only place in which the child grows completely up into the +man. I have known characters of this kind, which, in the +way of childish ignorance and self-pleasing delusion, exceeded +anything to be met with in Shakespeare or Ben Jonson, or the Old +Comedy.’</p> +<p><a name="footnote255"></a><a href="#citation255" +class="footnote">[255]</a> This passage was written before +Mr. Browning’s ‘Parleyings’ had appeared. +Christopher is now ‘a person of importance,’ and +needs no apology.</p> +<p><a name="footnote256"></a><a href="#citation256" +class="footnote">[256]</a> <i>The Prelude</i>, p. 55.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OBITER DICTA***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 21793-h.htm or 21793-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/1/7/9/21793 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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