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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: Winterslow + Essays and Characters Written There + +Author: William Hazlitt + +Release Date: March 25, 2012 [EBook #39269] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WINTERSLOW *** + + + + +Produced by Sam W. and the Online Distributed Proofreading +Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 79px;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="79" height="600" +alt="Decorative spine of the book" /> +</div> + + +<h1>WINTERSLOW<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">ESSAYS AND CHARACTERS<br /> +WRITTEN THERE</span></h1> + +<p class="center smlfont">BY</p> + +<p class="center vlrgfont">WILLIAM HAZLITT</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 149px;"> +<img src="images/logo.jpg" width="149" height="200" +alt="Publisher's logo" /> +</div> + +<p class="center padbase"><span class="lrgfont">LONDON<br /> +GRANT RICHARDS</span><br /> +<span class="smlfont">48 LEICESTER SQUARE</span><br /> +<span class="lrgfont">1902</span></p> + + + + +<p class="center padtop lrgfont">The World’s Classics</p> + +<p class="center">XXV</p> + +<p class="center">THE WORKS OF<br /> +WILLIAM HAZLITT—III</p> + +<p class="center padbase">WINTERSLOW<br /> +<span class="smlfont">ESSAYS AND CHARACTERS<br /> +WRITTEN THERE</span></p> + + + +<p class="center padtop padbase"><i>These Essays were first published collectively +in the year 1839. In ‘The World’s Classics’ +they were first published in 1902.</i></p> + +<p class="center smlfont padbase">Edinburgh: Printed by T. and A. <span class="smcap">Constable</span></p> + + + + +<p class="center lrgfont padtop">The World’s Classics</p> + + +<div class="booklist"> +<p class="center"><small>I.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>JANE EYRE.</b> By <span class="smcap">Charlotte +Brontë</span>. [<i>Second Impression.</i></p> + +<p class="center"><small>II.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>THE ESSAYS OF ELIA.</b> By +<span class="smcap">Charles Lamb</span>. [<i>Second Impression.</i></p> + +<p class="center"><small>III.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>THE POEMS OF ALFRED, +LORD TENNYSON, 1830-1858.</b> [<i>Second Impression.</i></p> + +<p class="center"><small>IV.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.</b> +By <span class="smcap">Oliver Goldsmith</span>.</p> + +<p class="center"><small>V.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>TABLE-TALK: Essays on Men +and Manners.</b> By <span class="smcap">William +Hazlitt</span>. [<i>Second Impression.</i></p> + +<p class="center"><small>VI.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>ESSAYS.</b> By <span class="smcap">Ralph Waldo +Emerson</span>. [<i>Second Impression.</i></p> + +<p class="center"><small>VII.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>THE POETICAL WORKS OF +JOHN KEATS.</b> [<i>Second Impression.</i></p> + +<p class="center"><small>VIII.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>OLIVER TWIST.</b> By <span class="smcap">Charles +Dickens</span>.</p> + +<p class="center"><small>IX.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS.</b> +By <span class="smcap">Thomas Ingoldsby</span>. [<i>Second Impression.</i></p> + +<p class="center"><small>X.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>WUTHERING HEIGHTS.</b> By +<span class="smcap">Emily Brontë</span>.</p> + +<p class="center"><small>XI.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>ON THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES.</b> +By <span class="smcap">Charles Darwin</span>. [<i>Second Impression.</i></p> + +<p class="center"><small>XII.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>THE PILGRIM’S PROGRESS.</b> +By <span class="smcap">John Bunyan</span>.</p> + +<p class="center"><small>XIII.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>ENGLISH SONGS AND +BALLADS.</b> Selected by <span class="smcap">T. W. H. +Crosland</span>.</p> + +<p class="center"><small>XIV.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>SHIRLEY.</b> By <span class="smcap">Charlotte +Brontë</span>.</p> + +<p class="center"><small>XV.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>SKETCHES AND ESSAYS.</b> By +<span class="smcap">William Hazlitt</span>.</p> + +<p class="center"><small>XVI.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>THE POEMS OF ROBERT +HERRICK.</b></p> + +<p class="center"><small>XVII.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>ROBINSON CRUSOE.</b> By +<span class="smcap">Daniel Defoe</span>.</p> + +<p class="center"><small>XVIII.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>HOMER’S ILIAD.</b> Translated by +<span class="smcap">Alexander Pope</span>.</p> + +<p class="center"><small>XIX.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>SARTOR RESARTUS.</b> By +<span class="smcap">Thomas Carlyle</span>.</p> + +<p class="center"><small>XX.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>GULLIVER’S TRAVELS.</b> By +<span class="smcap">Jonathan Swift</span>.</p> + +<p class="center"><small>XXI.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>TALES OF MYSTERY AND +IMAGINATION.</b> By <span class="smcap">Edgar +Allan Poe</span>.</p> + +<p class="center"><small>XXII.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>NATURAL HISTORY OF SELBORNE.</b> +By <span class="smcap">Gilbert White</span>.</p> + +<p class="center"><small>XXIII.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH +OPIUM EATER.</b> By +<span class="smcap">T. De Quincey</span>.</p> + +<p class="center"><small>XXIV.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>BACON’S ESSAYS.</b></p> + +<p class="center"><small>XXV.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>WINTERSLOW.</b> By <span class="smcap">William +Hazlitt</span>.</p> + +<p class="center"><small>XXVI.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>THE SCARLET LETTER.</b> By +<span class="smcap">Nathaniel Hawthorne</span>.</p> + +<p class="center"><small>XXVII.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>LAYS OF ANCIENT ROME.</b> By +<span class="smcap">Lord Macaulay</span>.</p> + +<p class="center"><small>XXVIII.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>HENRY ESMOND.</b> By <span class="smcap">W. M. +Thackeray</span>.</p> + +<p class="center"><small>XXIX.</small></p> + +<p class="hang"><b>IVANHOE.</b> By <span class="smcap">Sir Walter Scott</span>.</p> +</div> + +<p class="center"><i>Other volumes in preparation.</i></p> + +<p class="center">Pott 8vo. Cloth, 1s. net. Leather, 2s. net.</p> + + + +<p class="ptop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>v]</a></span></p> + +<h2>PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1850</h2> + + +<p>Winterslow is a village of Wiltshire, between +Salisbury and Andover, where my father, during a +considerable portion of his life, spent several months +of each year, latterly, at an ancient inn on the Great +Western Road, called Winterslow Hut. One of his +chief attractions hither were the noble woods of +Tytherleigh or Tudorleigh, round Norman Court, the +seat of Mr. Baring Wall, M.P., whose proffered +kindness to my father, on a critical occasion, was +thoroughly appreciated by the very sensitiveness +which declined its acceptance, and will always be +gratefully remembered by myself. Another feature +was Clarendon Wood—whence the noble family of +Clarendon derived their title—famous besides for the +Constitutions signed in the palace which once rose +proudly amongst its stately trees, but of which scarce +a vestige remains. In another direction, within easy +distance, gloams Stonehenge, visited by my father, +less perhaps for its historical associations than for its +appeal to the imagination, the upright stones seeming +in the dim twilight, or in the drizzling mist, almost +continuous in the locality, so many spectre-Druids, +moaning over the past, and over their brethren prostrate +about them. At no great distance, in another +direction, are the fine pictures of Lord Radnor, and +somewhat further, those of Wilton House. But the +chief happiness was the thorough quiet of the place, +the sole interruption of which was the passage, to +and fro, of the London mails. The Hut stands in a +valley, equidistant about a mile from two tolerably +high hills, at the summit of which, on their approach +either way, the guards used to blow forth their +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>vi]</a></span> +admonition to the hostler. The sound, coming through +the clear, pure air, was another agreeable feature in the +day, reminiscentiary of the great city that my father +so loved and so loathed. In olden times, when we +lived in the village itself—a mile up the hill opposite—behind +the Hut, Salisbury Plain stretches away mile +after mile of open space—the reminiscence of the +metropolis would be, from time to time, furnished in +the pleasantest of ways by the presence of some +London friends; among these, dearly loved and +honoured there, as everywhere else, Charles and +Mary Lamb paid us frequent visits, rambling about +all the time, thorough Londoners in a thoroughly +country place, delighted and wondering and wondered +at. For such reasons, and for the other reason, +which I mention incidentally, that Winterslow is +my own native place, I have given its name to this +collection of ‘Essays and Characters written there’; +as, indeed, practically were very many of his works, +for it was there that most of his thinking was done.</p> + +<p class="sig smcap">William Hazlitt.</p> + +<p class="address"><span class="smcap">Chelsea</span>, <i>Jan. 1850</i>.</p> + + + +<p class="ptop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>vii]</a></span></p> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + + +<div class="centered"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary="Table of contents"> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt"> </td> + <td class="tdl"> </td> + <td class="tdrb"><small>PAGE</small></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">I.</td> + <td class="tdl">MY FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH POETS</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">II.</td> + <td class="tdl">OF PERSONS ONE WOULD WISH TO HAVE SEEN</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_24">24</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">III.</td> + <td class="tdl">ON PARTY SPIRIT</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_40">40</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">IV.</td> + <td class="tdl">ON THE FEELING OF IMMORTALITY IN YOUTH</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_45">45</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">V.</td> + <td class="tdl">ON PUBLIC OPINION</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_53">53</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">VI.</td> + <td class="tdl">ON PERSONAL IDENTITY</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_67">67</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">VII.</td> + <td class="tdl">MIND AND MOTIVE</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_82">82</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">VIII.</td> + <td class="tdl">ON MEANS AND ENDS</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_97">97</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">IX.</td> + <td class="tdl">MATTER AND MANNER</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_108">108</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">X.</td> + <td class="tdl">ON CONSISTENCY OF OPINION</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_115">115</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XI.</td> + <td class="tdl">PROJECT FOR A NEW THEORY OF CIVIL AND CRIMINAL LEGISLATION</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_130">130</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XII.</td> + <td class="tdl">ON THE CHARACTER OF BURKE</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_155">155</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XIII.</td> + <td class="tdl">ON THE CHARACTER OF FOX</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_173">173</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XIV.</td> + <td class="tdl">ON THE CHARACTER OF MR. PITT</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_185">185</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XV.</td> + <td class="tdl">ON THE CHARACTER OF LORD CHATHAM</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_191">191</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XVI.</td> + <td class="tdl">BELIEF, WHETHER VOLUNTARY?</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_196">196</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdrt">XVII.</td> + <td class="tdl">A FAREWELL TO ESSAY-WRITING</td> + <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_205">205</a></td> + </tr> +</table> +</div> + + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii"><!-- blank page --></a></span></p> + + + +<p class="ptop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>1]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center padtop padbase xlrgfont">HAZLITT’S ESSAYS</p> + + + +<h2>ESSAY I<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">MY FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH POETS</span></h2> + + +<p>My father was a Dissenting Minister, at Wem, in +Shropshire; and in the year 1798 (the figures that +compose the date are to me like the ‘dreaded name +of Demogorgon’) Mr. Coleridge came to Shrewsbury, +to succeed Mr. Rowe in the spiritual charge of a +Unitarian Congregation there. He did not come till +late on the Saturday afternoon before he was to +preach; and Mr. Rowe, who himself went down to +the coach, in a state of anxiety and expectation, to +look for the arrival of his successor, could find no one +at all answering the description but a round-faced +man, in a short black coat (like a shooting-jacket) +which hardly seemed to have been made for him, but +who seemed to be talking at a great rate to his fellow +passengers. Mr. Rowe had scarce returned to give +an account of his disappointment when the round-faced +man in black entered, and dissipated all doubts +on the subject by beginning to talk. He did not +cease while he stayed; nor has he since, that I know +of. He held the good town of Shrewsbury in delightful +suspense for three weeks that he remained there, +‘fluttering the <em>proud Salopians</em>, like an eagle in a +dove-cote’; and the Welch mountains that skirt the +horizon with their tempestuous confusion, agree to +have heard no such mystic sounds since the days of</p> + +<div class="cpoem26"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘High-born Hoel’s harp or soft Llewellyn’s lay.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>As we passed along between Wem and Shrewsbury, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>2]</a></span> +and I eyed their blue tops seen through the wintry +branches, or the red rustling leaves of the sturdy +oak-trees by the road-side, a sound was in my ears +as of a Syren’s song; I was stunned, startled with it, +as from deep sleep; but I had no notion then that I +should ever be able to express my admiration to +others in motley imagery or quaint allusion, till the +light of his genius shone into my soul, like the sun’s +rays glittering in the puddles of the road. I was at +that time dumb, inarticulate, helpless, like a worm +by the way-side, crushed, bleeding, lifeless; but now, +bursting the deadly bands that bound them,</p> + +<div class="cpoem20"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘With Styx nine times round them,’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>my ideas float on winged words, and as they expand +their plumes, catch the golden light of other years. +My soul has indeed remained in its original bondage, +dark, obscure, with longings infinite and unsatisfied; +my heart, shut up in the prison-house of this rude +clay, has never found, nor will it ever find, a heart to +speak to; but that my understanding also did not +remain dumb and brutish, or at length found a +language to express itself, I owe to Coleridge. But +this is not to my purpose.</p> + +<p>My father lived ten miles from Shrewsbury, and +was in the habit of exchanging visits with Mr. Rowe, +and with Mr. Jenkins of Whitchurch (nine miles +farther on), according to the custom of Dissenting +Ministers in each other’s neighbourhood. A line of +communication is thus established, by which the +flame of civil and religious liberty is kept alive, and +nourishes its smouldering fire unquenchable, like +the fires in the <i>Agamemnon</i> of Æschylus, placed at +different stations, that waited for ten long years to +announce with their blazing pyramids the destruction +of Troy. Coleridge had agreed to come over and see +my father, according to the courtesy of the country, +as Mr. Rowe’s probable successor; but in the meantime, +I had gone to hear him preach the Sunday after +his arrival. A poet and a philosopher getting up into +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>3]</a></span> +a Unitarian pulpit to preach the gospel, was a romance +in these degenerate days, a sort of revival of the +primitive spirit of Christianity, which was not to be +resisted.</p> + +<p>It was in January of 1798, that I rose one morning +before daylight, to walk ten miles in the mud, to hear +this celebrated person preach. Never, the longest +day I have to live, shall I have such another walk as +this cold, raw, comfortless one, in the winter of the +year 1798. <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Il y a des impressions que ni le tems ni les +circonstances peuvent effacer. Dussé-je vivre des siècles +entiers, le doux tems de ma jeunesse ne peut renaître +pour moi, ni s’effacer jamais dans ma mémoire.</i> When +I got there, the organ was playing the 100th Psalm, +and when it was done, Mr. Coleridge rose and gave +out his text, ‘And he went up into the mountain to +pray, <em class="smallcap">himself, alone</em>.’ As he gave out this text, his +voice ‘rose like a steam of rich distilled perfumes,’ +and when he came to the two last words, which he +pronounced loud, deep, and distinct, it seemed to +me, who was then young, as if the sounds had echoed +from the bottom of the human heart, and as if that +prayer might have floated in solemn silence through +the universe. The idea of St. John came into my +mind, ‘of one crying in the wilderness, who had his +loins girt about, and whose food was locusts and wild +honey.’ The preacher then launched into his subject, +like an eagle dallying with the wind. The sermon +was upon peace and war; upon church and state—not +their alliance but their separation—on the spirit of +the world and the spirit of Christianity, not as the +same, but as opposed to one another. He talked of +those who had ‘inscribed the cross of Christ on +banners dripping with human gore.’ He made a +poetical and pastoral excursion—and to show the +fatal effects of war, drew a striking contrast between +the simple shepherd-boy, driving his team afield, or +sitting under the hawthorn, piping to his flock, ‘as +though he should never be old.’ and the same poor +country lad, crimped, kidnapped, brought into town, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>4]</a></span> +made drunk at an alehouse, turned into a wretched +drummer-boy, with his hair sticking on end with +powder and pomatum, a long cue at his back, and +tricked out in the loathsome finery of the profession +of blood:</p> + +<div class="cpoem27"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Such were the notes our once-loved poet sung.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>And for myself, I could not have been more delighted +if I had heard the music of the spheres. Poetry and +Philosophy had met together. Truth and Genius had +embraced, under the eye and with the sanction of +Religion. This was even beyond my hopes. I returned +home well satisfied. The sun that was still +labouring pale and wan through the sky, obscured by +thick mists, seemed an emblem of the <em>good cause</em>; and +the cold dank drops of dew, that hung half melted on +the beard of the thistle, had something genial and +refreshing in them; for there was a spirit of hope and +youth in all nature, that turned everything into +good. The face of nature had not then the brand of +<em class="smallcap">Jus Divinum</em> on it:</p> + +<div class="cpoem27"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Like to that sanguine flower inscrib’d with woe.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>On the Tuesday following, the half-inspired speaker +came. I was called down into the room where he +was, and went half-hoping, half-afraid. He received +me very graciously, and I listened for a long time +without uttering a word. I did not suffer in his +opinion by my silence. ‘For those two hours,’ he +afterwards was pleased to say, ‘he was conversing +with William Hazlitt’s forehead!’ His appearance +was different from what I had anticipated from seeing +him before. At a distance, and in the dim light of the +chapel, there was to me a strange wildness in his +aspect, a dusky obscurity, and I thought him pitted +with the small-pox. His complexion was at that +time clear, and even bright—</p> + +<div class="cpoem23"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘As are the children of yon azure sheen.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>His forehead was broad and high, light as if built of +ivory, with large projecting eyebrows, and his eyes +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>5]</a></span> +rolling beneath them, like a sea with darkened lustre. +‘A certain tender bloom his face o’erspread,’ a purple +tinge as we see it in the pale thoughtful complexions +of the Spanish portrait-painters, Murillo and +Valasquez. His mouth was gross, voluptuous, open, +eloquent; his chin good-humoured and round; but +his nose, the rudder of the face, the index of the will, +was small, feeble, nothing—like what he has done. +It might seem that the genius of his face as from a +height surveyed and projected him (with sufficient +capacity and huge aspiration) into the world unknown +of thought and imagination, with nothing to support +or guide his veering purpose, as if Columbus had +launched his adventurous course for the New World +in a scallop, without oars or compass. So, at least, I +comment on it after the event. Coleridge, in his +person, was rather above the common size, inclining +to the corpulent, or like Lord Hamlet, ‘somewhat fat +and pursy.’ His hair (now, alas! grey) was then +black and glossy as the raven’s, and fell in smooth +masses over his forehead. This long pendulous hair +is peculiar to enthusiasts, to those whose minds tend +heavenward; and is traditionally inseparable (though +of a different colour) from the pictures of Christ. It +ought to belong, as a character, to all who preach +<em>Christ crucified</em>, and Coleridge was at that time one of +those!</p> + +<p>It was curious to observe the contrast between him +and my father, who was a veteran in the cause, and +then declining into the vale of years. He had been a +poor Irish lad, carefully brought up by his parents, +and sent to the University of Glasgow (where he +studied under Adam Smith) to prepare him for his +future destination. It was his mother’s proudest +wish to see her son a Dissenting Minister. So, if we +look back to past generations (as far as eye can +reach), we see the same hopes, fears, wishes, followed +by the same disappointments, throbbing in the human +heart; and so we may see them (if we look forward) +rising up for ever, and disappearing, like vapourish +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>6]</a></span> +bubbles, in the human breast! After being tossed +about from congregation to congregation in the heats +of the Unitarian controversy, and squabbles about +the American war, he had been relegated to an +obscure village, where he was to spend the last thirty +years of his life, far from the only converse that he +loved, the talk about disputed texts of Scripture, and +the cause of civil and religious liberty. Here he +passed his days, repining, but resigned, in the study +of the Bible, and the perusal of the Commentators—huge +folios, not easily got through, one of which +would outlast a winter! Why did he pore on these +from morn to night (with the exception of a walk in +the fields or a turn in the garden to gather broccoli-plants +or kidney beans of his own rearing, with no +small degree of pride and pleasure)? Here were ‘no +figures nor no fantasies’—neither poetry nor philosophy—nothing +to dazzle, nothing to excite modern +curiosity; but to his lack-lustre eyes there appeared +within the pages of the ponderous, unwieldy, neglected +tomes, the sacred name of JEHOVAH in Hebrew +capitals: pressed down by the weight of the style, +worn to the last fading thinness of the understanding, +there were glimpses, glimmering notions of the patriarchal +wanderings, with palm-trees hovering in the +horizon, and processions of camels at the distance of +three thousand years; there was Moses with the +Burning Bush, the number of the Twelve Tribes, +types, shadows, glosses on the law and the prophets; +there were discussions (dull enough) on the age of +Methuselah, a mighty speculation! there were outlines, +rude guesses at the shape of Noah’s Ark and of +the riches of Solomon’s Temple; questions as to the +date of the creation, predictions of the end of all +things; the great lapses of time, the strange mutations +of the globe were unfolded with the voluminous +leaf, as it turned over; and though the soul might +slumber with an hieroglyphic veil of inscrutable +mysteries drawn over it, yet it was in a slumber ill-exchanged +for all the sharpened realities of sense, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>7]</a></span> +wit, fancy, or reason. My father’s life was comparatively +a dream; but it was a dream of infinity +and eternity, of death, the resurrection, and a judgment +to come!</p> + +<p>No two individuals were ever more unlike than +were the host and his guest. A poet was to my father +a sort of nondescript; yet whatever added grace to +the Unitarian cause was to him welcome. He could +hardly have been more surprised or pleased, if our +visitor had worn wings. Indeed, his thoughts had +wings: and as the silken sounds rustled round our +little wainscoted parlour, my father threw back his +spectacles over his forehead, his white hairs mixing +with its sanguine hue; and a smile of delight beamed +across his rugged, cordial face, to think that Truth +had found a new ally in Fancy!<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> Besides, Coleridge +seemed to take considerable notice of me, and that of +itself was enough. He talked very familiarly, but +agreeably, and glanced over a variety of subjects. +At dinner-time he grew more animated, and dilated +in a very edifying manner on Mary Wolstonecraft and +Mackintosh. The last, he said, he considered (on my +father’s speaking of his <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Vindiciæ Gallicæ</i> as a capital +performance) as a clever, scholastic man—a master of +the topics—or, as the ready warehouseman of letters, +who knew exactly where to lay his hand on what he +wanted, though the goods were not his own. He +thought him no match for Burke, either in style or +matter. Burke was a metaphysician, Mackintosh a +mere logician. Burke was an orator (almost a poet) +who reasoned in figures, because he had an eye for +nature: Mackintosh, on the other hand, was a +rhetorician, who had only an eye to commonplaces. +On this I ventured to say that I had always entertained +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>8]</a></span> +a great opinion of Burke, and that (as far as I could +find) the speaking of him with contempt might be +made the test of a vulgar, democratical mind. This +was the first observation I ever made to Coleridge, +and he said it was a very just and striking one. I +remember the leg of Welsh mutton and the turnips +on the table that day had the finest flavour imaginable. +Coleridge added that Mackintosh and Tom Wedgwood +(of whom, however, he spoke highly) had expressed a +very indifferent opinion of his friend Mr. Wordsworth, +on which he remarked to them—‘He strides +on so far before you, that he dwindles in the distance!’ +Godwin had once boasted to him of having carried on +an argument with Mackintosh for three hours with +dubious success; Coleridge told him—‘If there had +been a man of genius in the room he would have +settled the question in five minutes.’ He asked me +if I had ever seen Mary Wolstonecraft, and I said, I +had once for a few moments, and that she seemed to +me to turn off Godwin’s objections to something she +advanced with quite a playful, easy air. He replied, +that ‘this was only one instance of the ascendency +which people of imagination exercised over those of +mere intellect.’ He did not rate Godwin very high<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> +(this was caprice or prejudice, real or affected), but he +had a great idea of Mrs. Wolstonecraft’s powers of +conversation; none at all of her talent for bookmaking. +We talked a little about Holcroft. He had +been asked if he was not much struck <em>with</em> him, and +he said, he thought himself in more danger of being +struck <em>by</em> him. I complained that he would not let +me get on at all, for he required a definition of every +the commonest word, exclaiming, ‘What do you mean +by a <em>sensation</em>, Sir? What do you mean by an <em>idea</em>?’ +This, Coleridge said, was barricadoing the road to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>9]</a></span> +truth; it was setting up a turnpike-gate at every step +we took. I forget a great number of things, many +more than I remember; but the day passed off +pleasantly, and the next morning Mr. Coleridge was +to return to Shrewsbury. When I came down to breakfast, +I found that he had just received a letter from his +friend, T. Wedgwood, making him an offer of 150<i>l.</i> a +year if he chose to waive his present pursuit, and +devote himself entirely to the study of poetry and +philosophy. Coleridge seemed to make up his mind +to close with this proposal in the act of tying on one +of his shoes. It threw an additional damp on his +departure. It took the wayward enthusiast quite +from us to cast him into Deva’s winding vales, or by +the shores of old romance. Instead of living at ten +miles’ distance, of being the pastor of a Dissenting +congregation at Shrewsbury, he was henceforth to +inhabit the Hill of Parnassus, to be a Shepherd on +the Delectable Mountains. Alas! I knew not the +way thither, and felt very little gratitude for Mr. +Wedgwood’s bounty. I was presently relieved from +this dilemma; for Mr. Coleridge, asking for a pen +and ink, and going to a table to write something on a +bit of card, advanced towards me with undulating step, +and giving me the precious document, said that that +was his address, <i>Mr. Coleridge, Nether-Stowey, Somersetshire</i>; +and that he should be glad to see me there in a +few weeks’ time, and, if I chose, would come half-way +to meet me. I was not less surprised than the +shepherd-boy (this simile is to be found in <i>Cassandra</i>), +when he sees a thunderbolt fall close at his feet. I +stammered out my acknowledgments and acceptance +of this offer (I thought Mr. Wedgwood’s annuity a +trifle to it) as well as I could; and this mighty business +being settled, the poet preacher took leave, and +I accompanied him six miles on the road. It was a +fine morning in the middle of winter, and he talked +the whole way. The scholar in Chaucer is described +as going</p> + +<div class="cpoem16"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">——‘Sounding on his way.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>10]</a></span> +So Coleridge went on his. In digressing, in dilating, +in passing from subject to subject, he appeared to me +to float in air, to slide on ice. He told me in confidence +(going along) that he should have preached +two sermons before he accepted the situation at +Shrewsbury, one on Infant Baptism, the other on the +Lord’s Supper, showing that he could not administer +either, which would have effectually disqualified +him for the object in view. I observed that +he continually crossed me on the way by shifting +from one side of the footpath to the other. This +struck me as an odd movement; but I did not at that +time connect it with any instability of purpose or +involuntary change of principle, as I have done since. +He seemed unable to keep on in a straight line. He +spoke slightingly of Hume (whose <i>Essay on Miracles</i> +he said was stolen from an objection started in one of +South’s sermons—<em lang="la" xml:lang="la">Credat Judæus Appella!</em>) I was not +very much pleased at this account of Hume, for I had +just been reading, with infinite relish, that completest +of all metaphysical <em>chokepears</em>, his <i>Treatise on Human +Nature</i>, to which the <i>Essays</i> in point of scholastic +subtility and close reasoning, are mere elegant +trifling, light summer reading. Coleridge even denied +the excellence of Hume’s general style, which I think +betrayed a want of taste or candour. He however +made me amends by the manner in which he spoke of +Berkeley. He dwelt particularly on his <i>Essay on +Vision</i> as a masterpiece of analytical reasoning. So +it undoubtedly is. He was exceedingly angry with +Dr. Johnson for striking the stone with his foot, in +allusion to this author’s <i>Theory of Matter and Spirit</i>, +and saying, ‘Thus I confute him, Sir.’ Coleridge +drew a parallel (I don’t know how he brought about +the connection) between Bishop Berkeley and Tom +Paine. He said the one was an instance of a subtle, +the other of an acute mind, than which no two things +could be more distinct. The one was a shop-boy’s +quality, the other the characteristic of a philosopher. +He considered Bishop Butler as a true philosopher, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>11]</a></span> +a profound and conscientious thinker, a genuine +reader of nature and his own mind. He did not speak +of his <i>Analogy</i>, but of his <i>Sermons at the Rolls’ Chapel</i>, +of which I had never heard. Coleridge somehow +always contrived to prefer the <em>unknown</em> to the <em>known</em>. +In this instance he was right. The <i>Analogy</i> is a tissue +of sophistry, of wire-drawn, theological special-pleading; +the <i>Sermons</i> (with the preface to them) are +in a fine vein of deep, matured reflection, a candid +appeal to our observation of human nature, without +pedantry and without bias. I told Coleridge I had +written a few remarks, and was sometimes foolish +enough to believe that I had made a discovery on the +same subject (the <em>Natural disinterestedness of the +Human Mind</em>)—and I tried to explain my view of it +to Coleridge, who listened with great willingness, but +I did not succeed in making myself understood. I sat +down to the task shortly afterwards for the twentieth +time, got new pens and paper, determined to make +clear work of it, wrote a few meagre sentences in the +skeleton style of a mathematical demonstration, +stopped half-way down the second page; and, after +trying in vain to pump up any words, images, notions, +apprehensions, facts, or observations, from that gulf +of abstraction in which I had plunged myself for four +or five years preceding, gave up the attempt as labour +in vain, and shed tears of helpless despondency on the +blank, unfinished paper. I can write fast enough +now. Am I better than I was then? Oh no! One +truth discovered, one pang of regret at not being able +to express it, is better than all the fluency and +flippancy in the world. Would that I could go back +to what I then was! Why can we not revive past +times as we can revisit old places? If I had the quaint +Muse of Sir Philip Sidney to assist me, I would write +a <i>Sonnet to the Road between Wem and Shrewsbury</i>, and +immortalise every step of it by some fond enigmatical +conceit. I would swear that the very milestones had +ears, and that Harmer hill stooped with all its pines, +to listen to a poet, as he passed! I remember but one +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>12]</a></span> +other topic of discourse in this walk. He mentioned +Paley, praised the naturalness and clearness of his +style, but condemned his sentiments, thought him a +mere time-serving casuist, and said that ‘the fact of +his work on Moral and Political Philosophy being +made a text-book in our Universities was a disgrace +to the national character.’ We parted at the six-mile +stone; and I returned homeward, pensive, but +much pleased. I had met with unexpected notice from +a person whom I believed to have been prejudiced +against me. ‘Kind and affable to me had been his +condescension, and should be honoured ever with +suitable regard.’ He was the first poet I had known, +and he certainly answered to that inspired name. I +had heard a great deal of his powers of conversation +and was not disappointed. In fact, I never met with +anything at all like them, either before or since. I +could easily credit the accounts which were circulated +of his holding forth to a large party of ladies and +gentlemen, an evening or two before, on the Berkeleian +Theory, when he made the whole material universe +look like a transparency of fine words; and another +story (which I believe he has somewhere told himself) +of his being asked to a party at Birmingham, of his +smoking tobacco and going to sleep after dinner on a +sofa, where the company found him, to their no small +surprise, which was increased to wonder when he +started up of a sudden, and rubbing his eyes, looked +about him, and launched into a three hours’ description +of the third heaven, of which he had had a dream, +very different from Mr. Southey’s <i>Vision of Judgment</i>, +and also from that other <i>Vision of Judgment</i>, which +Mr. Murray, the Secretary of the Bridge-street +Junta, took into his especial keeping.</p> + +<p>On my way back I had a sound in my ears—it was the +voice of Fancy; I had a light before me—it was the +face of Poetry. The one still lingers there, the other +has not quitted my side! Coleridge, in truth, met me +half-way on the ground of philosophy, or I should not +have been won over to his imaginative creed. I had +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>13]</a></span> +an uneasy, pleasurable sensation all the time, till I +was to visit him. During those months the chill +breath of winter gave me a welcoming; the vernal air +was balm and inspiration to me. The golden sunsets, +the silver star of evening, lighted me on my way to +new hopes and prospects. <em>I was to visit Coleridge in +the spring.</em> This circumstance was never absent from +my thoughts, and mingled with all my feelings. I +wrote to him at the time proposed, and received an +answer postponing my intended visit for a week or +two, but very cordially urging me to complete my +promise then. This delay did not damp, but rather +increased my ardour. In the meantime, I went to +Llangollen Vale, by way of initiating myself in the +mysteries of natural scenery; and I must say I was +enchanted with it. I had been reading Coleridge’s +description of England in his fine <i>Ode on the Departing +Year</i>, and I applied it, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">con amore</i>, to the objects +before me. That valley was to me (in a manner) the +cradle of a new existence: in the river that winds +through it, my spirit was baptized in the waters of +Helicon!</p> + +<p>I returned home, and soon after set out on my +journey with unworn heart, and untired feet. My +way lay through Worcester and Gloucester, and by +Upton, where I thought of Tom Jones and the adventure +of the muff. I remember getting completely wet +through one day, and stopping at an inn (I think it +was at Tewkesbury) where I sat up all night to read +<i>Paul and Virginia</i>. Sweet were the showers in early +youth that drenched my body, and sweet the drops of +pity that fell upon the books I read! I recollect a +remark of Coleridge’s upon this very book that +nothing could show the gross indelicacy of French +manners and the entire corruption of their imagination +more strongly than the behaviour of the heroine +in the last fatal scene, who turns away from a person +on board the sinking vessel, that offers to save her +life, because he has thrown off his clothes to assist +him in swimming. Was this a time to think of such +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>14]</a></span> +a circumstance? I once hinted to Wordsworth, as we +were sailing in his boat on Grasmere lake, that I +thought he had borrowed the idea of his <i>Poems on the +Naming of Places</i> from the local inscriptions of the +same kind in <i>Paul and Virginia</i>. He did not own the +obligation, and stated some distinction without a +difference in defence of his claim to originality. Any, +the slightest variation, would be sufficient for this +purpose in his mind; for whatever <em>he</em> added or altered +would inevitably be worth all that any one else had +done, and contain the marrow of the sentiment. I +was still two days before the time fixed for my arrival, +for I had taken care to set out early enough. I +stopped these two days at Bridgewater; and when I +was tired of sauntering on the banks of its muddy +river, returned to the inn and read <i>Camilla</i>. So have +I loitered my life away, reading books, looking at +pictures, going to plays, hearing, thinking, writing +on what pleased me best. I have wanted only one +thing to make me happy; but wanting that have +wanted everything!</p> + +<p>I arrived, and was well received. The country +about Nether Stowey is beautiful, green and hilly, +and near the sea-shore. I saw it but the other day, +after an interval of twenty years, from a hill near +Taunton. How was the map of my life spread out +before me, as the map of the country lay at my feet! +In the afternoon, Coleridge took me over to All-Foxden, +a romantic old family mansion of the St. +Aubins, where Wordsworth lived. It was then in the +possession of a friend of the poet’s, who gave him the +free use of it. Somehow, that period (the time just +after the French Revolution) was not a time when +<em>nothing was given for nothing</em>. The mind opened and +a softness might be perceived coming over the heart +of individuals, beneath ‘the scales that fence’ our +self-interest. Wordsworth himself was from home, +but his sister kept house, and set before us a frugal +repast; and we had free access to her brother’s poems, +the <i>Lyrical Ballads</i>, which were still in manuscript, or +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>15]</a></span> +in the form of <i>Sybilline Leaves</i>. I dipped into a few +of these with great satisfaction, and with the faith of +a novice. I slept that night in an old room with blue +hangings, and covered with the round-faced family +portraits of the age of George <small>I.</small> and <small>II.</small>, and from the +wooded declivity of the adjoining park that overlooked +my window, at the dawn of day, could</p> + +<div class="cpoem18"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">——‘hear the loud stag speak.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>In the outset of life (and particularly at this time I +felt it so) our imagination has a body to it. We are +in a state between sleeping and waking, and have indistinct +but glorious glimpses of strange shapes, and +there is always something to come better than what +we see. As in our dreams the fulness of the blood +gives warmth and reality to the coinage of the brain, +so in youth our ideas are clothed, and fed, and pampered +with our good spirits; we breathe thick with +thoughtless happiness, the weight of future years +presses on the strong pulses of the heart, and we +repose with undisturbed faith in truth and good. As +we advance, we exhaust our fund of enjoyment and +of hope. We are no longer wrapped in <em>lamb’s-wool</em>, +lulled in Elysium. As we taste the pleasures of life, +their spirit evaporates, the sense palls; and nothing +is left but the phantoms, the lifeless shadows of what +<em>has been</em>!</p> + +<p>That morning, as soon as breakfast was over, we +strolled out into the park, and seating ourselves on +the trunk of an old ash-tree that stretched along the +ground, Coleridge read aloud with a sonorous and +musical voice, the ballad of <i>Betty Foy</i>. I was not +critically or sceptically inclined. I saw touches of +truth and nature, and took the rest for granted. But +in the <i>Thorn</i>, the <i>Mad Mother</i>, and the <i>Complaint of a +Poor Indian Woman</i>, I felt that deeper power and +pathos which have been since acknowledged,</p> + +<div class="cpoem23"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘In spite of pride, in erring reason’s spite,’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>16]</a></span> +as the characteristics of this author; and the sense of +a new style and a new spirit in poetry came over me. +It had to me something of the effect that arises from +the turning up of the fresh soil, or of the first +welcome breath of Spring:</p> + +<div class="cpoem26"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘While yet the trembling year is unconfirmed.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Coleridge and myself walked back to Stowey that +evening, and his voice sounded high</p> + +<div class="cpoem26"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Of Providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fix’d fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute,’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>as we passed through echoing grove, by fairy stream +or waterfall, gleaming in the summer moonlight! He +lamented that Wordsworth was not prone enough to +believe in the traditional superstitions of the place, +and that there was a something corporeal, a <em>matter-of-fact-ness</em>, +a clinging to the palpable, or often to the +petty, in his poetry, in consequence. His genius was +not a spirit that descended to him through the air; it +sprung out of the ground like a flower, or unfolded +itself from a green spray, on which the goldfinch +sang. He said, however (if I remember right), that +this objection must be confined to his descriptive +pieces, that his philosophic poetry had a grand and +comprehensive spirit in it, so that his soul seemed to +inhabit the universe like a palace, and to discover +truth by intuition, rather than by deduction. The +next day Wordsworth arrived from Bristol at Coleridge’s +cottage. I think I see him now. He answered +in some degree to his friend’s description of him, but +was more gaunt and Don Quixote-like. He was +quaintly dressed (according to the <em>costume</em> of that unconstrained +period) in a brown fustian jacket and +striped pantaloons. There was something of a roll, a +lounge in his gait, not unlike his own <i>Peter Bell</i>. +There was a severe, worn pressure of thought about +his temples, a fire in his eye (as if he saw something +in objects more than the outward appearance), an +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>17]</a></span> +intense, high, narrow forehead, a Roman nose, cheeks +furrowed by strong purpose and feeling, and a convulsive +inclination to laughter about the mouth, a +good deal at variance with the solemn, stately expression +of the rest of his face. Chantrey’s bust +wants the marking traits; but he was teased into +making it regular and heavy: Haydon’s head of +him, introduced into the <i>Entrance of Christ into +Jerusalem</i>, is the most like his drooping weight of +thought and expression. He sat down and talked +very naturally and freely, with a mixture of clear, +gushing accents in his voice, a deep guttural intonation, +and a strong tincture of the northern <em>burr</em>, like +the crust on wine. He instantly began to make +havoc of the half of a Cheshire cheese on the table, +and said, triumphantly, that ‘his marriage with experience +had not been so productive as Mr. Southey’s +in teaching him a knowledge of the good things of +this life.’ He had been to see the <i>Castle Spectre</i> by +Monk Lewis, while at Bristol, and described it very +well. He said ‘it fitted the taste of the audience +like a glove.’ This <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">ad captandum</i> merit was however +by no means a recommendation of it, according +to the severe principles of the new school, which +reject rather than court popular effect. Wordsworth, +looking out of the low, latticed window, said, +‘How beautifully the sun sets on that yellow bank!’ +I thought within myself, ‘With what eyes these +poets see nature!’ and ever after, when I saw the +sun-set stream upon the objects facing it, conceived I +had made a discovery, or thanked Mr. Wordsworth +for having made one for me! We went over to All-Foxden +again the day following, and Wordsworth +read us the story of <i>Peter Bell</i> in the open air; and +the comment upon it by his face and voice was very +different from that of some later critics! Whatever +might be thought of the poem, ‘his face was as a +book where men might read strange matters,’ and he +announced the fate of his hero in prophetic tones. +There is a <em>chaunt</em> in the recitation both of Coleridge +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>18]</a></span> +and Wordsworth, which acts as a spell upon the +hearer, and disarms the judgment. Perhaps they +have deceived themselves by making habitual use of +this ambiguous accompaniment. Coleridge’s manner +is more full, animated, and varied; Wordsworth’s +more equable, sustained, and internal. The one +might be termed more <em>dramatic</em>, the other more +<em>lyrical</em>. Coleridge has told me that he himself liked +to compose in walking over uneven ground, or breaking +through the straggling branches of a copse-wood; +whereas Wordsworth always wrote (if he could) +walking up and down a straight gravel walk, or in +some spot where the continuity of his verse met +with no collateral interruption. Returning that +same evening, I got into a metaphysical argument +with Wordsworth, while Coleridge was explaining +the different notes of the nightingale to his sister, in +which we neither of us succeeded in making ourselves +perfectly clear and intelligible. Thus I passed three +weeks at Nether Stowey and in the neighbourhood, +generally devoting the afternoons to a delightful chat +in an arbour made of bark by the poet’s friend Tom +Poole, sitting under two fine elm-trees, and listening +to the bees humming round us, while we quaffed our +<i>flip</i>. It was agreed, among other things, that we +should make a jaunt down the Bristol Channel, as +far as Linton. We set off together on foot, Coleridge, +John Chester, and I. This Chester was a +native of Nether Stowey, one of those who were +attracted to Coleridge’s discourse as flies are to +honey, or bees in swarming-time to the sound of a +brass pan. He ‘followed in the chase like a dog +who hunts, not like one that made up the cry.’ He +had on a brown cloth coat, boots, and corduroy +breeches, was low in stature, bow-legged, had a drag +in his walk like a drover, which he assisted by a hazel +switch, and kept on a sort of trot by the side of Coleridge, +like a running footman by a state coach, that +he might not lose a syllable or sound that fell from +Coleridge’s lips. He told me his private opinion, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>19]</a></span> +that Coleridge was a wonderful man. He scarcely +opened his lips, much less offered an opinion the +whole way: yet of the three, had I to choose during +that journey, I would be John Chester. He afterwards +followed Coleridge into Germany, where the +Kantean philosophers were puzzled how to bring him +under any of their categories. When he sat down at +table with his idol, John’s felicity was complete; Sir +Walter Scott’s, or Mr. Blackwood’s, when they sat +down at the same table with the King, was not more +so. We passed Dunster on our right, a small town +between the brow of a hill and the sea. I remember +eyeing it wistfully as it lay below us: contrasted +with the woody scene around, it looked as clear, as +pure, as <em>embrowned</em> and ideal as any landscape I have +seen since, of Gaspar Poussin’s or Domenichino’s. +We had a long day’s march (our feet kept time to the +echoes of Coleridge’s tongue) through Minehead and +by the Blue Anchor, and on to Linton, which we did +not reach till near midnight, and where we had some +difficulty in making a lodgment. We, however, +knocked the people of the house up at last, and we +were repaid for our apprehensions and fatigue by +some excellent rashers of fried bacon and eggs. The +view in coming along had been splendid. We walked +for miles and miles on dark brown heaths overlooking +the Channel, with the Welsh hills beyond, and +at times descended into little sheltered valleys close +by the sea-side, with a smuggler’s face scowling by +us, and then had to ascend conical hills with a path +winding up through a coppice to a barren top, like a +monk’s shaven crown, from one of which I pointed +out to Coleridge’s notice the bare masts of a vessel on +the very edge of the horizon, and within the red-orbed +disk of the setting sun, like his own spectre-ship +in the <i>Ancient Mariner</i>. At Linton the character +of the sea-coast becomes more marked and rugged. +There is a place called the <i>Valley of Rocks</i> (I suspect +this was only the poetical name for it), bedded among +precipices overhanging the sea, with rocky caverns +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>20]</a></span> +beneath, into which the waves dash, and where the +sea-gull for ever wheels its screaming flight. On the +tops of these are huge stones thrown transverse, as if +an earthquake had tossed them there, and behind +these is a fretwork of perpendicular rocks, something +like the <i>Giant’s Causeway</i>. A thunder-storm came on +while we were at the inn, and Coleridge was running +out bare-headed to enjoy the commotion of the +elements in the <i>Valley of Rocks</i>, but as if in spite, +the clouds only muttered a few angry sounds, and +let fall a few refreshing drops. Coleridge told me +that he and Wordsworth were to have made this +place the scene of a prose-tale, which was to have +been in the manner of, but far superior to, the <i>Death +of Abel</i>, but they had relinquished the design. In +the morning of the second day, we breakfasted +luxuriously in an old-fashioned parlour on tea, toast, +eggs, and honey, in the very sight of the bee-hives +from which it had been taken, and a garden full of +thyme and wild flowers that had produced it. On +this occasion Coleridge spoke of Virgil’s <i>Georgics</i>, +but not well. I do not think he had much feeling +for the classical or elegant.<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> It was in this room +that we found a little worn-out copy of the <i>Seasons</i>, +lying in a window-seat, on which Coleridge exclaimed, +‘<em>That</em> is true fame!’ He said Thomson was a great +poet, rather than a good one; his style was as meretricious +as his thoughts were natural. He spoke of +Cowper as the best modern poet. He said the <i>Lyrical +Ballads</i> were an experiment about to be tried by him +and Wordsworth, to see how far the public taste +would endure poetry written in a more natural and +simple style than had hitherto been attempted; totally +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>21]</a></span> +discarding the artifices of poetical diction, and making +use only of such words as had probably been common +in the most ordinary language since the days of +Henry <small>II.</small> Some comparison was introduced between +Shakspeare and Milton. He said ‘he hardly knew +which to prefer. Shakspeare appeared to him a +mere stripling in the art; he was as tall and as +strong, with infinitely more activity than Milton, but +he never appeared to have come to man’s estate; or +if he had, he would not have been a man, but a +monster.’ He spoke with contempt of Gray, and +with intolerance of Pope. He did not like the versification +of the latter. He observed that ‘the ears of +these couplet-writers might be charged with having +short memories, that could not retain the harmony of +whole passages.’ He thought little of Junius as a +writer; he had a dislike of Dr. Johnson; and a +much higher opinion of Burke as an orator and +politician, than of Fox or Pitt. He, however, thought +him very inferior in richness of style and imagery to +some of our elder prose-writers, particularly Jeremy +Taylor. He liked Richardson, but not Fielding; nor +could I get him to enter into the merits of <i>Caleb +Williams</i>. In short, he was profound and discriminating +with respect to those authors whom he liked, +and where he gave his judgment fair play; capricious, +perverse, and prejudiced in his antipathies and distastes. +We loitered on the ‘ribbed sea-sands,’ in +such talk as this a whole morning, and, I recollect, +met with a curious seaweed, of which John Chester +told us the country name! A fisherman gave Coleridge +an account of a boy that had been drowned the +day before, and that they had tried to save him at the +risk of their own lives. He said ‘he did not know +how it was that they ventured, but, Sir, we have a +<em>nature</em> towards one another.’ This expression, Coleridge +remarked to me, was a fine illustration of that +theory of disinterestedness which I (in common with +Butler) had adopted. I broached to him an argument +of mine to prove that <em>likeness</em> was not mere association +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>22]</a></span> +of ideas. I said that the mark in the sand put one in +mind of a man’s foot, not because it was part of a +former impression of a man’s foot (for it was quite +new), but because it was like the shape of a man’s +foot. He assented to the justness of this distinction +(which I have explained at length elsewhere, for the +benefit of the curious) and John Chester listened; +not from any interest in the subject, but because he +was astonished that I should be able to suggest anything +to Coleridge that he did not already know. We +returned on the third morning, and Coleridge remarked +the silent cottage-smoke curling up the +valleys where, a few evenings before, we had seen +the lights gleaming through the dark.</p> + +<p>In a day or two after we arrived at Stowey, we set +out, I on my return home, and he for Germany. It +was a Sunday morning, and he was to preach that +day for Dr. Toulmin of Taunton. I asked him if he +had prepared anything for the occasion? He said he +had not even thought of the text, but should as soon +as we parted. I did not go to hear him—this was a +fault—but we met in the evening at Bridgewater. +The next day we had a long day’s walk to Bristol, +and sat down, I recollect, by a well-side on the road, +to cool ourselves and satisfy our thirst, when Coleridge +repeated to me some descriptive lines of his tragedy +of <i>Remorse</i>; which I must say became his mouth and +that occasion better than they, some years after, did +Mr. Elliston’s and the Drury-lane boards—</p> + +<div class="cpoem29"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Oh memory! shield me from the world’s poor strife,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And give those scenes thine everlasting life.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>I saw no more of him for a year or two, during +which period he had been wandering in the Hartz +Forest, in Germany; and his return was cometary, +meteorous, unlike his setting out. It was not till +some time after that I knew his friends Lamb and +Southey. The last always appears to me (as I first +saw him) with a commonplace book under his arm, +and the first with a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">bon-mot</i> in his mouth. It was at +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>23]</a></span> +Godwin’s that I met him with Holcroft and Coleridge, +where they were disputing fiercely which was the +best—<em>Man as he was, or man as he is to be</em>. ‘Give +me,’ says Lamb, ‘man as he is <em>not</em> to be.’ This saying +was the beginning of a friendship between us, which +I believe still continues. Enough of this for the +present.</p> + +<div class="cpoem22"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘But there is matter for another rhyme,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I to this may add a second tale.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<h3>FOOTNOTES</h3> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> +My father was one of those who mistook his talent, after +all. He used to be very much dissatisfied that I preferred +his <i>Letters</i> to his <i>Sermons</i>. The last were forced and dry; +the first came naturally from him. For ease, half-plays on +words, and a supine, monkish, indolent pleasantry, I have +never seen them equalled.</p> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> +He complained in particular of the presumption of his +attempting to establish the future immortality of man, +‘without’ (as he said) ‘knowing what Death was or what Life +was’—and the tone in which he pronounced these two words +seemed to convey a complete image of both.</p> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> +He had no idea of pictures, of Claude or Raphael, and at +this time I had as little as he. He sometimes gives a striking +account at present of the Cartoons at Pisa by Buffamalco and +others; of one in particular, where Death is seen in the air +brandishing his scythe, and the great and mighty of the earth +shudder at his approach, while the beggars and the wretched +kneel to him as their deliverer. He would, of course, understand +so broad and fine a moral as this at any time.</p> +</div> + + + +<p class="ptop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>24]</a></span></p> + +<h2>ESSAY II<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">OF PERSONS ONE WOULD WISH TO HAVE SEEN</span></h2> + +<div class="cpoem19"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Come like shadows—so depart.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + + +<p>Lamb it was, I think, who suggested this subject, as +well as the defence of Guy Faux, which I urged him +to execute. As, however, he would undertake neither, +I suppose I must do both, a task for which he would +have been much fitter, no less from the temerity than +the felicity of his pen—</p> + +<div class="cpoem25"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Never so sure our rapture to create<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As when it touch’d the brink of all we hate.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Compared with him, I shall, I fear, make but a +commonplace piece of business of it; but I should +be loth the idea was entirely lost, and besides I may +avail myself of some hints of his in the progress of it. +I am sometimes, I suspect, a better reporter of the +ideas of other people than expounder of my own. I +pursue the one too far into paradox or mysticism; +the others I am not bound to follow farther than I +like, or than seems fair and reasonable.</p> + +<p>On the question being started, Ayrton said, ‘I +suppose the two first persons you would choose to +see would be the two greatest names in English +literature, Sir Isaac Newton and Mr. Locke?’ In +this Ayrton, as usual, reckoned without his host. +Every one burst out a laughing at the expression of +Lamb’s face, in which impatience was restrained by +courtesy. ‘Yes, the greatest names,’ he stammered +out hastily, ‘but they were not persons—not persons.’—‘Not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>25]</a></span> +persons?’ said Ayrton, looking wise and +foolish at the same time, afraid his triumph might +be premature. ‘That is,’ rejoined Lamb, ‘not characters, +you know. By Mr. Locke and Sir Isaac +Newton, you mean the <i>Essay on the Human Understanding</i>, +and the <i>Principia</i>, which we have to this +day. Beyond their contents there is nothing personally +interesting in the men. But what we want +to see any one <em>bodily</em> for, is when there is something +peculiar, striking in the individuals, more than we +can learn from their writings, and yet are curious to +know. I dare say Locke and Newton were very like +Kneller’s portraits of them. But who could paint +Shakspeare?’—‘Ay,’ retorted Ayrton, ‘there it is; +then I suppose you would prefer seeing him and +Milton instead?’—‘No,’ said Lamb, ‘neither. I +have seen so much of Shakspeare on the stage and +on bookstalls, in frontispieces and on mantel-pieces, +that I am quite tired of the everlasting repetition: +and as to Milton’s face, the impressions that have +come down to us of it I do not like; it is too starched +and puritanical; and I should be afraid of losing +some of the manna of his poetry in the leaven of his +countenance and the precisian’s band and gown.’—‘I +shall guess no more,’ said Ayrton. ‘Who is it, +then, you would like to see “in his habit as he lived,” +if you had your choice of the whole range of English +literature?’ Lamb then named Sir Thomas Browne +and Fulke Greville, the friend of Sir Philip Sidney, +as the two worthies whom he should feel the greatest +pleasure to encounter on the floor of his apartment in +their nightgown and slippers, and to exchange friendly +greeting with them. At this Ayrton laughed outright, +and conceived Lamb was jesting with him; but +as no one followed his example, he thought there +might be something in it, and waited for an explanation +in a state of whimsical suspense. Lamb then +(as well as I can remember a conversation that passed +twenty years ago—how time slips!) went on as follows. +‘The reason why I pitch upon these two authors is, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>26]</a></span> +that their writings are riddles, and they themselves +the most mysterious of personages. They resemble +the soothsayers of old, who dealt in dark hints and +doubtful oracles; and I should like to ask them the +meaning of what no mortal but themselves, I should +suppose, can fathom. There is Dr. Johnson: I have +no curiosity, no strange uncertainty about him; he +and Boswell together have pretty well let me into +the secret of what passed through his mind. He and +other writers like him are sufficiently explicit: my +friends whose repose I should be tempted to disturb +(were it in my power), are implicit, inextricable, +inscrutable.</p> + +<p>‘When I look at that obscure but gorgeous prose +composition the <i>Urn-burial</i>, I seem to myself to look +into a deep abyss, at the bottom of which are hid +pearls and rich treasure; or it is like a stately labyrinth +of doubt and withering speculation, and I would +invoke the spirit of the author to lead me through it. +Besides, who would not be curious to see the lineaments +of a man who, having himself been twice +married, wished that mankind were propagated like +trees! As to Fulke Greville, he is like nothing but +one of his own “Prologues spoken by the ghost of an +old king of Ormus,” a truly formidable and inviting +personage: his style is apocalyptical, cabalistical, a +knot worthy of such an apparition to untie; and for +the unravelling a passage or two, I would stand the +brunt of an encounter with so portentous a commentator!’—‘I +am afraid, in that case,’ said Ayrton, +‘that if the mystery were once cleared up, the merit +might be lost’; and turning to me, whispered a +friendly apprehension, that while Lamb continued to +admire these old crabbed authors, he would never +become a popular writer. Dr. Donne was mentioned +as a writer of the same period, with a very interesting +countenance, whose history was singular, and whose +meaning was often quite as <em>uncomeatable</em>, without a personal +citation from the dead, as that of any of his contemporaries. +The volume was produced; and while +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>27]</a></span> +some one was expatiating on the exquisite simplicity +and beauty of the portrait prefixed to the old edition, +Ayrton got hold of the poetry, and exclaiming ‘What +have we here?’ read the following:</p> + +<div class="cpoem25"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Here lies a She-Sun and a He-Moon there—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She gives the best light to his sphear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or each is both, and all, and so<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They unto one another nothing owe.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>There was no resisting this, till Lamb, seizing the +volume, turned to the beautiful <i>Lines to his Mistress</i>, +dissuading her from accompanying him abroad, and +read them with suffused features and a faltering +tongue:</p> + +<div class="cpoem28"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘By our first strange and fatal interview,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By all desires which thereof did ensue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By our long starving hopes, by that remorse<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which my words’ masculine perswasive force<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Begot in thee, and by the memory<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of hurts, which spies and rivals threatned me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I calmely beg. But by thy father’s wrath,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By all paines which want and divorcement hath,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I conjure thee; and all the oathes which I<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thou have sworne to seale joynt constancy<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here I unsweare, and overswear them thus—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou shalt not love by wayes so dangerous.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Temper, O fair love! love’s impetuous rage,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be my true mistris still, not my faign’d Page;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I’ll goe, and, by thy kinde leave, leave behinde<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thee! onely worthy to nurse in my minde.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thirst to come backe; O, if thou die before,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My soule, from other lands to thee shall soare.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy (else almighty) beauty cannot move<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rage from the seas, nor thy love teach them love.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor tame wild Boreas’ harshnesse; thou hast reade<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How roughly hee in pieces shivered<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fair Orithea, whom he swore he lov’d.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fall ill or good, ’tis madnesse to have prov’d<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dangers unurg’d: Feed on this flattery,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That absent lovers one in th’ other be.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dissemble nothing, not a boy; nor change<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy bodie’s habite, nor minde; be not strange<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To thyeselfe onely. All will spie in thy face<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A blushing, womanly, discovering grace.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>28]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Richly-cloath’d apes are call’d apes, and as soone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Eclips’d as bright, we call the moone the moon.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Men of France, changeable camelions,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Spittles of diseases, shops of fashions,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Love’s fuellers, and the rightest company<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of players, which upon the world’s stage be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Will quickly know thee ...<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O stay here! for for thee<br /></span> +<span class="i0">England is onely a worthy gallerie,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To walke in expectation; till from thence<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our greatest King call thee to his presence.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When I am gone, dreame me some happinesse,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor let thy lookes our long-hid love confesse,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor praise, nor dispraise me; nor blesse, nor curse<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Openly love’s force, nor in bed fright thy nurse<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With midnight’s startings, crying out, Oh, oh,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nurse, oh, my love is slaine, I saw him goe<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O’er the white Alpes alone; I saw him, I,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Assail’d, fight, taken, stabb’d, bleed, fall, and die.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Augure me better chance, except dread Jove<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thinke it enough for me to have had thy love.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Some one then inquired of Lamb if we could not +see from the window the Temple walk in which +Chaucer used to take his exercise; and on his name +being put to the vote, I was pleased to find that +there was a general sensation in his favour in all but +Ayrton, who said something about the ruggedness +of the metre, and even objected to the quaintness of +the orthography. I was vexed at this superficial +gloss, pertinaciously reducing everything to its own +trite level, and asked ‘if he did not think it would +be worth while to scan the eye that had first greeted +the Muse in that dim twilight and early dawn of +English literature; to see the head round which the +visions of fancy must have played like gleams of inspiration +or a sudden glory; to watch those lips that +“lisped in numbers, for the numbers came”—as by a +miracle, or as if the dumb should speak? Nor was +it alone that he had been the first to tune his native +tongue (however imperfectly to modern ears); but +he was himself a noble, manly character, standing +before his age and striving to advance it; a pleasant +humourist withal, who has not only handed down to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>29]</a></span> +us the living manners of his time, but had, no doubt, +store of curious and quaint devices, and would make +as hearty a companion as mine Host of the Tabard. +His interview with Petrarch is fraught with interest. +Yet I would rather have seen Chaucer in company +with the author of the <i>Decameron</i>, and have heard +them exchange their best stories together—the <i>Squire’s +Tale</i> against the Story of the <i>Falcon</i>, the <i>Wife of Bath’s +Prologue</i> against the <i>Adventures of Friar Albert</i>. How +fine to see the high mysterious brow which learning +then wore, relieved by the gay, familiar tone of men +of the world, and by the courtesies of genius! Surely, +the thoughts and feelings which passed through the +minds of these great revivers of learning, these +Cadmuses who sowed the teeth of letters, must have +stamped an expression on their features as different +from the moderns as their books, and well worth the +perusal. Dante,’ I continued, ‘is as interesting a +person as his own Ugolino, one whose lineaments +curiosity would as eagerly devour in order to penetrate +his spirit, and the only one of the Italian poets I +should care much to see. There is a fine portrait +of Ariosto by no less a hand than Titian’s; light, +Moorish, spirited, but not answering our idea. The +same artist’s large colossal profile of Peter Aretine +is the only likeness of the kind that has the effect of +conversing with “the mighty dead”; and this is +truly spectral, ghastly, necromantic.’ Lamb put it +to me if I should like to see Spenser as well as +Chaucer; and I answered, without hesitation, ‘No; +for that his beauties were ideal, visionary, not palpable +or personal, and therefore connected with less curiosity +about the man. His poetry was the essence of romance, +a very halo round the bright orb of fancy; and the +bringing in the individual might dissolve the charm. +No tones of voice could come up to the mellifluous +cadence of his verse; no form but of a winged angel +could vie with the airy shapes he has described. He +was (to my apprehension) rather a “creature of the +element, that lived in the rainbow and played in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>30]</a></span> +plighted clouds,” than an ordinary mortal. Or if he +did appear, I should wish it to be as a mere vision, +like one of his own pageants, and that he should pass +by unquestioned like a dream or sound—</p> + +<div class="cpoem23"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">——“<em>That</em> was Arion crown’d:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So went he playing on the wat’ry plain.”’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Captain Burney muttered something about Columbus, +and Martin Burney hinted at the Wandering +Jew; but the last was set aside as spurious, and the +first made over to the New World.</p> + +<p>‘I should like,’ said Mrs. Reynolds, ‘to have seen +Pope talk with Patty Blount; and I <em>have</em> seen Goldsmith.’ +Every one turned round to look at Mrs. +Reynolds, as if by so doing they could get a sight at +Goldsmith.</p> + +<p>‘Where,’ asked a harsh, croaking voice, ‘was +Dr. Johnson in the years 1745-6? He did not write +anything that we know of, nor is there any account +of him in Boswell during those two years. Was he +in Scotland with the Pretender? He seems to have +passed through the scenes in the Highlands in company +with Boswell, many years after, “with lack-lustre +eye,” yet as if they were familiar to him, or associated +in his mind with interests that he durst not explain. +If so, it would be an additional reason for my liking +him; and I would give something to have seen him +seated in the tent with the youthful Majesty of +Britain, and penning the Proclamation to all true +subjects and adherents of the legitimate Government.’</p> + +<p>‘I thought,’ said Ayrton, turning short round upon +Lamb, ‘that you of the Lake School did not like +Pope?’—‘Not like Pope! My dear sir, you must be +under a mistake—I can read him over and over for +ever!’—‘Why, certainly, the <i>Essay on Man</i> must +be allowed to be a masterpiece.’—‘It may be so, but +I seldom look into it.’—‘Oh! then it’s his Satires +you admire?’—‘No, not his Satires, but his friendly +Epistles and his compliments.’—‘Compliments! I +did not know he ever made any.’—‘The finest,’ said +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>31]</a></span> +Lamb, ‘that were ever paid by the wit of man. +Each of them is worth an estate for life—nay, is an +immortality. There is that superb one to Lord +Cornbury:</p> + +<div class="cpoem24"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Despise low joys, low gains;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Disdain whatever Cornbury disdains;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be virtuous, and be happy for your pains.”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Was there ever more artful insinuation of idolatrous +praise? And then that noble apotheosis of his friend +Lord Mansfield (however little deserved), when, speaking +of the House of Lords, he adds:</p> + +<div class="cpoem27"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Conspicuous scene! another yet is nigh,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(More silent far) where kings and poets lie;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where Murray (long enough his country’s pride)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall be no more than Tully or than Hyde.”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>And with what a fine turn of indignant flattery he +addresses Lord Bolingbroke:</p> + +<div class="cpoem27"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“Why rail they then, if but one wreath of mine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh! all accomplish’d St. John, deck thy shrine?”<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Or turn,’ continued Lamb, with a slight hectic on +his cheek and his eye glistening, ‘to his list of early +friends:</p> + +<div class="cpoem28"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">“But why then publish? Granville the polite,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Well-natured Garth inflamed with early praise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Congreve loved, and Swift endured my lays;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ev’n mitred Rochester would nod the head;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And St. John’s self (great Dryden’s friend before)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Received with open arms one poet more.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Happy my studies, if by these approved!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Happier their author, if by these beloved!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From these the world will judge of men and books,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks.”’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Here his voice totally failed him, and throwing down +the book, he said, ‘Do you think I would not wish to +have been friends with such a man as this?’</p> + +<p>‘What say you to Dryden?’—‘He rather made a +show of himself, and courted popularity in that lowest +temple of fame, a coffee-shop, so as in some measure +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>32]</a></span> +to vulgarise one’s idea of him. Pope, on the contrary, +reached the very <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">beau ideal</i> of what a poet’s life +should be; and his fame while living seemed to be an +emanation from that which was to circle his name +after death. He was so far enviable (and one would +feel proud to have witnessed the rare spectacle in +him) that he was almost the only poet and man of +genius who met with his reward on this side of the +tomb, who realised in friends, fortune, the esteem of +the world, the most sanguine hopes of a youthful +ambition, and who found that sort of patronage from +the great during his lifetime which they would be +thought anxious to bestow upon him after his death. +Read Gay’s verses to him on his supposed return +from Greece, after his translation of Homer was +finished, and say if you would not gladly join the +bright procession that welcomed him home, or see it +once more land at Whitehall stairs.’—‘Still,’ said +Mrs. Reynolds, ‘I would rather have seen him talking +with Patty Blount, or riding by in a coronet-coach +with Lady Mary Wortley Montagu!’</p> + +<p>Erasmus Phillips, who was deep in a game of +piquet at the other end of the room, whispered to +Martin Burney to ask if Junius would not be a fit +person to invoke from the dead. ‘Yes,’ said Lamb, +‘provided he would agree to lay aside his mask.’</p> + +<p>We were now at a stand for a short time, when +Fielding was mentioned as a candidate; only one, +however, seconded the proposition. ‘Richardson?’—‘By +all means, but only to look at him through +the glass door of his back shop, hard at work upon +one of his novels (the most extraordinary contrast +that ever was presented between an author and his +works); not to let him come behind his counter, lest +he should want you to turn customer, or to go upstairs +with him, lest he should offer to read the first +manuscript of Sir Charles Grandison, which was +originally written in eight-and-twenty volumes +octavo, or get out the letters of his female correspondents, +to prove that Joseph Andrews was low.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>33]</a></span> +There was but one statesman in the whole of +English history that any one expressed the least +desire to see—Oliver Cromwell, with his fine, frank, +rough, pimply face, and wily policy; and one enthusiast, +John Bunyan, the immortal author of the +<i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i>. It seemed that if he came into +the room, dreams would follow him, and that each +person would nod under his golden cloud, ‘nigh-sphered +in heaven,’ a canopy as strange and stately +as any in Homer.</p> + +<p>Of all persons near our own time, Garrick’s name +was received with the greatest enthusiasm, who was +proposed by Barron Field. He presently superseded +both Hogarth and Handel, who had been talked of, +but then it was on condition that he should act in +tragedy and comedy, in the play and the farce, <i>Lear</i> +and <i>Wildair</i> and <i>Abel Drugger</i>. What a <em>sight for sore +eyes</em> that would be! Who would not part with a +year’s income at least, almost with a year of his +natural life, to be present at it? Besides, as he +could not act alone, and recitations are unsatisfactory +things, what a troop he must bring with him—the +silver-tongued Barry, and Quin, and Shuter and +Weston, and Mrs. Clive and Mrs. Pritchard, of +whom I have heard my father speak as so great a +favourite when he was young. This would indeed be +a revival of the dead, the restoring of art; and so +much the more desirable, as such is the lurking +scepticism mingled with our overstrained admiration +of past excellence, that though we have the speeches +of Burke, the portraits of Reynolds, the writings of +Goldsmith, and the conversation of Johnson, to show +what people could do at that period, and to confirm +the universal testimony to the merits of Garrick; yet, +as it was before our time, we have our misgivings, as +if he was probably, after all, little better than a +Bartlemy-fair actor, dressed out to play <i>Macbeth</i> in +a scarlet coat and laced cocked-hat. For one, I +should like to have seen and heard with my own eyes +and ears. Certainly, by all accounts, if any one was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>34]</a></span> +ever moved by the true histrionic <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">æstus</i>, it was +Garrick. When he followed the Ghost in <i>Hamlet</i>, +he did not drop the sword, as most actors do, behind +the scenes, but kept the point raised the whole way +round, so fully was he possessed with the idea, or so +anxious not to lose sight of his part for a moment. +Once at a splendid dinner-party at Lord ——’s, they +suddenly missed Garrick, and could not imagine +what was become of him, till they were drawn to the +window by the convulsive screams and peals of +laughter of a young negro boy, who was rolling on +the ground in an ecstasy of delight to see Garrick +mimicking a turkey-cock in the court-yard, with his +coat-tail stuck out behind, and in a seeming flutter +of feathered rage and pride. Of our party only two +persons present had seen the British Roscius; and +they seemed as willing as the rest to renew their +acquaintance with their old favourite.</p> + +<p>We were interrupted in the hey-day and mid-career +of this fanciful speculation, by a grumbler in +a corner, who declared it was a shame to make all +this rout about a mere player and farce-writer, to the +neglect and exclusion of the fine old dramatists, the +contemporaries and rivals of Shakspeare. Lamb said +he had anticipated this objection when he had named +the author of <i>Mustapha</i> and <i>Alaham</i>; and, out of +caprice, insisted upon keeping him to represent +the set, in preference to the wild, hare-brained enthusiast, +Kit Marlowe; to the sexton of St. Ann’s, +Webster, with his melancholy yew-trees and death’s-heads; +to Decker, who was but a garrulous proser; +to the voluminous Heywood; and even to Beaumont +and Fletcher, whom we might offend by complimenting +the wrong author on their joint productions. +Lord Brooke, on the contrary, stood quite by himself, +or, in Cowley’s words, was ‘a vast species alone.’ +Some one hinted at the circumstance of his being +a lord, which rather startled Lamb, but he said a +<em>ghost</em> would perhaps dispense with strict etiquette, on +being regularly addressed by his title. Ben Jonson +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>35]</a></span> +divided our suffrages pretty equally. Some were +afraid he would begin to traduce Shakspeare, who +was not present to defend himself. ‘If he grows disagreeable,’ +it was whispered aloud, ‘there is Godwin +can match him.’ At length, his romantic visit to +Drummond of Hawthornden was mentioned, and +turned the scale in his favour.</p> + +<p>Lamb inquired if there was any one that was hanged +that I would choose to mention? And I answered, +Eugene Aram. The name of the ‘Admirable Chrichton’ +was suddenly started as a splendid example of <em>waste</em> +talents, so different from the generality of his countrymen. +This choice was mightily approved by a North-Briton +present, who declared himself descended from +that prodigy of learning and accomplishment, and +said he had family plate in his possession as vouchers +for the fact, with the initials A. C.—<em>Admirable +Chrichton!</em> Hunt laughed, or rather roared, as +heartily at this as I should think he has done for +many years.</p> + +<p>The last named Mitre-courtier<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> then wished to know +whether there were any metaphysicians to whom one +might be tempted to apply the wizard spell? I replied, +there were only six in modern times deserving the +name—Hobbes, Berkeley, Butler, Hartley, Hume, +Leibnitz; and perhaps Jonathan Edwards, a Massachusetts +man.<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> As to the French, who talked fluently +of having <em>created</em> this science, there was not a tittle in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>36]</a></span> +any of their writings that was not to be found literally +in the authors I had mentioned. [Horne Tooke, who +might have a claim to come in under the head of +Grammar, was still living.] None of these names +seemed to excite much interest, and I did not plead +for the re-appearance of those who might be thought +best fitted by the abstracted nature of their studies +for the present spiritual and disembodied state, and +who, even while on this living stage, were nearly +divested of common flesh and blood. As Ayrton, +with an uneasy, fidgety face, was about to put some +question about Mr. Locke and Dugald Stewart, he +was prevented by Martin Burney, who observed, ‘If +J—— was here, he would undoubtedly be for having +up those profound and redoubted socialists, Thomas +Aquinas and Duns Scotus.’ I said this might be fair +enough in him who had read, or fancied he had read, +the original works, but I did not see how we could +have any right to call up these authors to give an +account of themselves in person, till we had looked +into their writings.</p> + +<p>By this time it should seem that some rumour of +our whimsical deliberation had got wind, and had +disturbed the <em>irritable genus</em>, in their shadowy abodes, +for we received messages from several candidates that +we had just been thinking of. Gray declined our +invitation, though he had not yet been asked: Gay +offered to come, and bring in his hand the Duchess of +Bolton, the original Polly: Steele and Addison left +their cards as Captain Sentry and Sir Roger de +Coverley: Swift came in and sat down without speaking +a word, and quitted the room as abruptly: Otway +and Chatterton were seen lingering on the opposite +side of the Styx, but could not muster enough between +them to pay Charon his fare: Thomson fell asleep in +the boat, and was rowed back again; and Burns sent +a low fellow, one John Barleycorn, an old companion +of his, who had conducted him to the other world, to +say that he had during his lifetime been drawn out of +his retirement as a show, only to be made an exciseman +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>37]</a></span> +of, and that he would rather remain where he +was. He desired, however, to shake hands by his +representative—the hand, thus held out, was in a +burning fever, and shook prodigiously.</p> + +<p>The room was hung round with several portraits of +eminent painters. While we were debating whether +we should demand speech with these masters of mute +eloquence, whose features were so familiar to us, it +seemed that all at once they glided from their frames, +and seated themselves at some little distance from us. +There was Leonardo, with his majestic beard and +watchful eye, having a bust of Archimedes before +him; next him was Raphael’s graceful head turned +round to the Fornarina; and on his other side was +Lucretia Borgia, with calm, golden locks; Michael +Angelo had placed the model of St. Peter’s on the +table before him; Correggio had an angel at his side; +Titian was seated with his mistress between himself +and Giorgione; Guido was accompanied by his own +Aurora, who took a dice-box from him; Claude held +a mirror in his hand; Rubens patted a beautiful +panther (led in by a satyr) on the head; Vandyke +appeared as his own Paris, and Rembrandt was hid +under firs, gold chains, and jewels, which Sir Joshua +eyed closely, holding his hand so as to shade his +forehead. Not a word was spoken; and as we rose to +do them homage, they still presented the same surface +to the view. Not being <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">bonâ-fide</i> representations of +living people, we got rid of the splendid apparitions +by signs and dumb show. As soon as they had melted +into thin air, there was a loud noise at the outer door, +and we found it was Giotto, Cimabue, and Ghirlandaio, +who had been raised from the dead by their earnest +desire to see their illustrious successors—</p> + +<div class="cpoem22"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">‘Whose names on earth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In Fame’s eternal records live for aye!’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Finding them gone, they had no ambition to be seen +after them, and mournfully withdrew. ‘Egad!’ said +Lamb, ‘these are the very fellows I should like to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>38]</a></span> +have had some talk with, to know how they could see +to paint when all was dark around them.’</p> + +<p>‘But shall we have nothing to say,’ interrogated +G. J——, ‘to the <i>Legend of Good Women</i>?’—‘Name, +name, Mr. J——,’ cried Hunt in a boisterous tone of +friendly exultation, ‘name as many as you please, +without reserve or fear of molestation!’ J—— was +perplexed between so many amiable recollections, +that the name of the lady of his choice expired in a +pensive whiff of his pipe; and Lamb impatiently +declared for the Duchess of Newcastle. Mrs. Hutchinson +was no sooner mentioned, than she carried the +day from the Duchess. We were the less solicitous +on this subject of filling up the posthumous lists of +Good Women, as there was already one in the room +as good, as sensible, and in all respects as exemplary, +as the best of them could be for their lives! ‘I should +like vastly to have seen Ninon de l’Enclos,’ said that +incomparable person; and this immediately put us in +mind that we had neglected to pay honour due to our +friends on the other side of the Channel: Voltaire, +the patriarch of levity, and Rousseau, the father of +sentiment; Montaigne and Rabelais (great in wisdom +and in wit); Molière and that illustrious group that +are collected round him (in the print of that subject) +to hear him read his comedy of the <i>Tartuffe</i> at the +house of Ninon; Racine, La Fontaine, Rochefoucalt, +St. Evremont, etc.</p> + +<p>‘There is one person,’ said a shrill, querulous +voice, ‘I would rather see than all these—Don +Quixote!’</p> + +<p>‘Come, come!’ said Hunt; ‘I thought we should +have no heroes, real or fabulous. What say you, Mr. +Lamb? Are you for eking out your shadowy list with +such names as Alexander, Julius Cæsar, Tamerlane, +or Ghengis Khan?’—‘Excuse me,’ said Lamb; ‘on +the subject of characters in active life, plotters and +disturbers of the world, I have a crotchet of my own, +which I beg leave to reserve.’—‘No, no! come, out +with your worthies!’—‘What do you think of Guy +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>39]</a></span> +Fawkes and Judas Iscariot?’ Hunt turned an eye +upon him like a wild Indian, but cordial and full of +smothered glee. ‘Your most exquisite reason!’ was +echoed on all sides; and Ayrton thought that Lamb +had now fairly entangled himself. ‘Why I cannot +but think,’ retorted he of the wistful countenance, +‘that Guy Fawkes, that poor, fluttering annual scarecrow +of straw and rags, is an ill-used gentleman. I +would give something to see him sitting pale and +emaciated, surrounded by his matches and his barrels +of gunpowder, and expecting the moment that was to +transport him to Paradise for his heroic self-devotion; +but if I say any more, there is that fellow Godwin +will make something of it. And as to Judas Iscariot, +my reason is different. I would fain see the face of +him who, having dipped his hand in the same dish +with the Son of Man, could afterwards betray him. +I have no conception of such a thing; nor have I ever +seen any picture (not even Leonardo’s very fine one) +that gave me the least idea of it.’—‘You have said +enough, Mr. Lamb, to justify your choice.’</p> + +<p>‘Oh! ever right, Menenius—ever right!’</p> + +<p>‘There is only one other person I can ever think of +after this,’ continued Lamb; but without mentioning +a name that once put on a semblance of mortality. +‘If Shakspeare was to come into the room, we should +all rise up to meet him; but if that person was to +come into it, we should all fall down and try to kiss +the hem of his garment!’</p> + +<p>As a lady present seemed now to get uneasy at the +turn the conversation had taken, we rose up to go. +The morning broke with that dim, dubious light by +which Giotto, Cimabue, and Ghirlandaio must have +seen to paint their earliest works; and we parted to +meet again and renew similar topics at night, the next +night, and the night after that, till that night overspread +Europe which saw no dawn. The same event, +in truth, broke up our little Congress that broke up +the great one. But that was to meet again: our +deliberations have never been resumed.</p> + +<h3>FOOTNOTES</h3> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> +Lamb at this time occupied chambers in Mitre-court, +Temple.</p> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> +Bacon is not included in this list, nor do I know where he +should come in. It is not easy to make room for him and his +reputation together. This great and celebrated man in some +of his works recommends it to pour a bottle of claret into the +ground of a morning, and to stand over it, inhaling the +perfumes. So he sometimes enriched the dry and barren soil +of speculation with the fine aromatic spirit of his genius. His +<i>Essays</i> and his <i>Advancement of Learning</i> are works of vast +depth and scope of observation. The last, though it contains no +positive discoveries, is a noble chart of the human intellect, +and a guide to all future inquirers.</p> +</div> + + + +<p class="ptop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>40]</a></span></p> + +<h2>ESSAY III<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">ON PARTY SPIRIT</span></h2> + + +<p>Party spirit is one of the <em>profoundnesses of Satan</em>, or, +in modern language, one of the dexterous <i>equivoques</i> +and contrivances of our self-love, to prove that we, +and those who agree with us, combine all that is +excellent and praiseworthy in our own persons (as in +a ring-fence), and that all the vices and deformity of +human nature take refuge with those who differ from +us. It is extending and fortifying the principle of the +<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">amour-propre</i>, by calling to its aid the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">esprit de corps</i>, +and screening and surrounding our favourite propensities +and obstinate caprices in the hollow squares +or dense phalanxes of sects and parties. This is a +happy mode of pampering our self-complacency, and +persuading ourselves that we, and those that side with +us, are ‘the salt of the earth’; of giving vent to the +morbid humours of our pride, envy, hatred, malice, +and all uncharitableness, those natural secretions of +the human heart, under the pretext of self-defence, +the public safety, or a voice from heaven, as it may +happen; and of heaping every excellence into one +scale, and throwing all the obloquy and contempt +into the other, in virtue of a nickname, a watchword +of party, a badge, the colour of a ribbon, the cut of a +dress. We thus desolate the globe, or tear a country +in pieces, to show that we are the only people fit to live +in it; and fancy ourselves angels, while we are playing +the devil. In this manner the Huron devours the +Iroquois, because he is an Iroquois; and the Iroquois +the Huron, for a similar reason: neither suspects that +he does it because he himself is a savage, and no +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>41]</a></span> +better than a wild beast; and is convinced in his own +breast that the difference of man and tribe makes a +total difference in the case. The Papist persecutes +the Protestant, the Protestant persecutes the Papist +in his turn; and each fancies that he has a plenary +right to do so, while he keeps in view only the +offensive epithet which ‘cuts the common link of +brotherhood between them.’ The Church of England +ill-treated the Dissenters, and the Dissenters, when +they had the opportunity, did not spare the Church of +England. The Whig calls the Tory a knave, the +Tory compliments the Whig with the same title, and +each thinks the abuse sticks to the party-name, and +has nothing to do with himself or the generic name of +<em>man</em>. On the contrary, it cuts both ways; but while +the Whigs say ‘The Tory is a knave, because he is a +Tory,’ this is as much as to say, ‘I cannot be a knave, +because I am a Whig’; and by exaggerating the profligacy +of his opponent, he imagines he is laying the +sure foundation, and raising the lofty superstructure, +of his own praises. But if he says, which is the truth, +‘The Tory is not a rascal, because he is a Tory, but +because human nature in power, and with the temptation, +is a rascal,’ then this would imply that the seeds +of depravity are sown in his own bosom, and might +shoot out into full growth and luxuriance if he got +into place, and this he does not wish to develop till +he <em>does</em> get into place.</p> + +<p>We may be intolerant even in advocating the cause +of toleration, and so bent on making proselytes to +freethinking as to allow no one to think freely but +ourselves. The most boundless liberality in appearance +may amount in reality to the most monstrous +ostracism of opinion—not condemning this or that +tenet, or standing up for this or that sect or party, +but in a supercilious superiority to all sects and parties +alike, and proscribing in one sweeping clause, all arts, +sciences, opinions, and pursuits but our own. Till +the time of Locke and Toland a general toleration was +never dreamt of: it was thought right on all hands +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>42]</a></span> +to punish and discountenance heretics and schismatics, +but each party alternately claimed to be true Christians +and Orthodox believers. Daniel De Foe, who spent +his whole life, and wasted his strength, in asserting +the right of the Dissenters to a Toleration (and got +nothing for his pains but the pillory), was scandalised +at the proposal of the general principle, and was +equally strenuous in excluding Quakers, Anabaptists, +Socinians, Sceptics, and all who did not agree in the +<em>essentials</em> of Christianity—that is, who did not agree +with him—from the benefit of such an indulgence to +tender consciences. We wonder at the cruelties +formerly practised upon the Jews: is there anything +wonderful in it? They were at that time the only +people to make a butt and a bugbear of, to set up as +a mark of indignity, and as a foil to our self-love, for +the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">feræ naturæ</i> principle that is within us, and always +craving its prey to run down, to worry and make +sport of at discretion, and without mercy—the unvarying +uniformity and implicit faith of the Catholic +Church had imposed silence, and put a curb on our +jarring dissensions, heartburnings, and ill-blood, so +that we had no pretence for quarrelling among ourselves +for the glory of God or the salvation of men:—a +<em class="smallcap">Jordanus Bruno</em>, an Atheist or sorcerer, once in a +way, would hardly suffice to stay the stomach of our +theological rancour; we therefore fell with might and +main upon the Jews as a <em>forlorn hope</em> in this dearth +of objects of spite or zeal; or when the whole of +Europe was reconciled to the bosom of holy Mother +Church, went to the Holy Land in search of a +difference of opinion, and a ground of mortal offence: +but no sooner was there a division of the Christian +World, than Papist fell on Protestants or Schismatics, +and Schismatics upon one another, with the same +loving fury as they had before fallen upon Turks and +Jews. The disposition is always there, like a muzzled +mastiff; the pretext only is wanting; and this is +furnished by a name, which, as soon as it is affixed to +different sects or parties, gives us a licence, we think, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>43]</a></span> +to let loose upon them all our malevolence, domineering +humour, love of power, and wanton mischief, as +if they were of different species. The sentiment of +the pious English Bishop was good, who, on seeing a +criminal led to execution, exclaimed, ‘There goes my +wicked self!’</p> + +<p>If we look at common patriotism, it will furnish an +illustration of party spirit. One would think by an +Englishman’s hatred of the French, and his readiness +to die fighting with and for his countrymen, that all +the nation were united as one man, in heart and hand—and +so they are in war-time and as an exercise of +their loyalty and courage: but let the crisis be over, +and they cool wonderfully; begin to feel the distinctions +of English, Irish, and Scotch; fall out among +themselves upon some minor distinction; the same +hand that was eager to shed the blood of a Frenchman, +will not give a crust of bread or a cup of cold water +to a fellow countryman in distress; and the heroes +who defended the ‘wooden walls of old England’ are +left to expose their wounds and crippled limbs to gain +a pittance from the passengers, or to perish of hunger, +cold, and neglect, in our highways. Such is the effect +of our boasted nationality: it is active, fierce in doing +mischief; dormantly lukewarm in doing good. We +may also see why the greatest stress is laid on trifles +in religion, and why the most violent animosities +arise out of the smallest differences, either in this +or in politics.</p> + +<p>In the first place, it would never do to establish +our superiority over others by the acquisition of +greater virtues, or by discarding our vices; but it is +charming to do this by merely repeating a different +formula of prayer, turning to the east instead of the +west. He should fight boldly for such a distinction, +who is persuaded it will furnish him a passport to the +other world, and entitle him to look down on the rest +of his fellows as <em>given over to perdition</em>. Secondly, we +often hate those most with whom we have only a +slight shade of difference, whether in politics or +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>44]</a></span> +religion; because as the whole is a contest for precedence +and infallibility, we find it more difficult to +draw the line of distinction where so many points are +conceded, and are staggered in our conviction by the +arguments of those whom we cannot despise as totally +and incorrigibly in the wrong. The High Church +party in Queen Anne’s time were disposed to sacrifice +the Low Church and Dissenters to the Papists, because +they were more galled by their arguments and disconcerted +with their pretensions. In private life the +reverse of the foregoing holds good: that is, trades +and professions present a direct contrast to sects and +parties. A conformity in sentiment strengthens our +party and opinion, but those who have a similarity +of pursuit, are rivals in interest; and hence the old +maxim, that <em>two of a trade can never agree</em>.</p> + +<p>1830.</p> + + + +<p class="ptop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>45]</a></span></p> + +<h2>ESSAY IV<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">ON THE FEELING OF IMMORTALITY IN YOUTH</span></h2> + + +<p>No young man believes he shall ever die. It was a +saying of my brother’s, and a fine one. There is a +feeling of Eternity in youth which makes us amends +for everything. To be young is to be as one of the +Immortals. One half of time indeed is spent—the +other half remains in store for us with all its countless +treasures, for there is no line drawn, and we see no +limit to our hopes and wishes. We make the coming +age our own—</p> + +<div class="cpoem28"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘The vast, the unbounded prospect lies before us.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Death, old age, are words without a meaning, a +dream, a fiction, with which we have nothing to do. +Others may have undergone, or may still undergo +them—we ‘bear a charmed life,’ which laughs to +scorn all such idle fancies. As, in setting out on a +delightful journey, we strain our eager sight forward,</p> + +<div class="cpoem24"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Bidding the lovely scenes at distance hail,’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>and see no end to prospect after prospect, new objects +presenting themselves as we advance, so in the outset +of life we see no end to our desires nor to the +opportunities of gratifying them. We have as yet +found no obstacle, no disposition to flag, and it seems +that we can go on so for ever. We look round in a +new world, full of life and motion, and ceaseless +progress, and feel in ourselves all the vigour and +spirit to keep pace with it, and do not foresee from any +present signs how we shall be left behind in the race, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>46]</a></span> +decline into old age, and drop into the grave. It is +the simplicity and, as it were, abstractedness of our +feelings in youth that (so to speak) identifies us with +nature and (our experience being weak and our passions +strong) makes us fancy ourselves immortal like it. +Our short-lived connection with being, we fondly +flatter ourselves, is an indissoluble and lasting union. +As infants smile and sleep, we are rocked in the +cradle of our desires, and hushed into fancied security +by the roar of the universe around us—we quaff the +cup of life with eager thirst without draining it, and +joy and hope seem ever mantling to the brim—objects +press around us, filling the mind with their magnitude +and with the throng of desires that wait upon +them, so that there is no room for the thoughts of +death. We are too much dazzled by the gorgeousness +and novelty of the bright waking dream about us +to discern the dim shadow lingering for us in the +distance. Nor would the hold that life has taken of +us permit us to detach our thoughts that way, even if +we could. We are too much absorbed in present +objects and pursuits. While the spirit of youth +remains unimpaired, ere ‘the wine of life is drunk,’ +we are like people intoxicated or in a fever, who are +hurried away by the violence of their own sensations: +it is only as present objects begin to pall upon the +sense, as we have been disappointed in our favourite +pursuits, cut off from our closest ties, that we by +degrees become weaned from the world, that passion +loosens its hold upon futurity, and that we begin to +contemplate as in a glass darkly the possibility of +parting with it for good. Till then, the example +of others has no effect upon us. Casualties we avoid; +the slow approaches of age we play at <em>hide and seek</em> +with. Like the foolish fat scullion in Sterne, who +hears that Master Bobby is dead, our only reflection +is, ‘So am not I!’ The idea of death, instead of +staggering our confidence, only seems to strengthen +and enhance our sense of the possession and enjoyment +of life. Others may fall around us like leaves, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>47]</a></span> +or be mowed down by the scythe of Time like grass: +these are but metaphors to the unreflecting, buoyant +ears and overweening presumption of youth. It is +not till we see the flowers of Love, Hope, and Joy +withering around us, that we give up the flattering +delusions that before led us on, and that the emptiness +and dreariness of the prospect before us reconciles +us hypothetically to the silence of the grave.</p> + +<p>Life is indeed a strange gift, and its privileges are +most mysterious. No wonder when it is first granted +to us, that our gratitude, our admiration, and our +delight should prevent us from reflecting on our own +nothingness, or from thinking it will ever be recalled. +Our first and strongest impressions are borrowed from +the mighty scene that is opened to us, and we unconsciously +transfer its durability as well as its splendour +to ourselves. So newly found, we cannot think of +parting with it yet, or at least put off that consideration +<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">sine die</i>. Like a rustic at a fair, we are full of +amazement and rapture, and have no thought of going +home, or that it will soon be night. We know our +existence only by ourselves, and confound our knowledge +with the objects of it. We and Nature are +therefore one. Otherwise the illusion, the ‘feast of +reason and the flow of soul,’ to which we are invited, +is a mockery and a cruel insult. We do not go from +a play till the last act is ended, and the lights are +about to be extinguished. But the fairy face of Nature +still shines on: shall we be called away before the +curtain falls, or ere we have scarce had a glimpse of +what is going on? Like children, our step-mother +Nature holds us up to see the raree-show of the +universe, and then, as if we were a burden to her to +support, lets us fall down again. Yet what brave sublunary +things does not this pageant present, like a +ball or <i>fête</i> of the universe!</p> + +<p>To see the golden sun, the azure sky, the outstretched +ocean; to walk upon the green earth, and +be lord of a thousand creatures; to look down yawning +precipices or over distant sunny vales; to see the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>48]</a></span> +world spread out under one’s feet on a map; to bring +the stars near; to view the smallest insects through a +microscope; to read history, and consider the revolutions +of empire and the successions of generations; +to hear of the glory of Tyre, of Sidon, of Babylon, +and of Susa, and to say all these were before me and +are now nothing; to say I exist in such a point of +time, and in such a point of space; to be a spectator +and a part of its ever-moving scene; to witness the +change of season, of spring and autumn, of winter and +summer; to feel hot and cold, pleasure and pain, +beauty and deformity, right and wrong; to be +sensible to the accidents of nature; to consider the +mighty world of eye and ear; to listen to the stock-dove’s +notes amid the forest deep; to journey over +moor and mountain; to hear the midnight sainted +choir; to visit lighted halls, or the cathedral’s gloom, +or sit in crowded theatres and see life itself mocked; to +study the works of art and refine the sense of beauty +to agony; to worship fame, and to dream of immortality; +to look upon the Vatican, and to read +Shakspeare; to gather up the wisdom of the ancients, +and to pry into the future; to listen to the trump of +war, the shout of victory; to question history as to +the movements of the human heart; to seek for truth; +to plead the cause of humanity; to overlook the +world as if time and nature poured their treasures at +our feet—to be and to do all this, and then in a +moment to be nothing—to have it all snatched from +us as by a juggler’s trick, or a phantasmagoria! +There is something in this transition from all to +nothing that shocks us and damps the enthusiasm of +youth new flushed with hope and pleasure, and we +cast the comfortless thought as far from us as we can. +In the first enjoyment of the state of life we discard +the fear of debts and duns, and never think of the +final payment of our great debt to Nature. Art we +know is long; life, we flatter ourselves, should be so +too. We see no end of the difficulties and delays we +have to encounter: perfection is slow of attainment, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>49]</a></span> +and we must have time to accomplish it in. The fame +of the great names we look up to is immortal: and +shall not we who contemplate it imbibe a portion of +ethereal fire, the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">divinæ particula auræ</i>, which nothing +can extinguish? A wrinkle in Rembrandt or in +Nature takes whole days to resolve itself into its component +parts, its softenings and its sharpnesses; we +refine upon our perfections, and unfold the intricacies +of nature. What a prospect for the future! What +a task have we not begun! And shall we be arrested +in the middle of it? We do not count our time thus +employed lost, or our pains thrown away; we do not +flag or grow tired, but gain new vigour at our endless +task. Shall Time, then, grudge us to finish what we +have begun, and have formed a compact with Nature +to do? Why not fill up the blank that is left us in +this manner? I have looked for hours at a Rembrandt +without being conscious of the flight of time, +but with ever new wonder and delight, have thought +that not only my own but another existence I could +pass in the same manner. This rarefied, refined +existence seemed to have no end, nor stint, nor +principle of decay in it. The print would remain +long after I who looked on it had become the prey +of worms. The thing seems in itself out of all reason: +health, strength, appetite are opposed to the idea of +death, and we are not ready to credit it till we have +found our illusions vanished, and our hopes grown +cold. Objects in youth, from novelty, etc., are +stamped upon the brain with such force and integrity +that one thinks nothing can remove or obliterate +them. They are riveted there, and appear to us as +an element of our nature. It must be a mere violence +that destroys them, not a natural decay. In the very +strength of this persuasion we seem to enjoy an age +by anticipation. We melt down years into a single +moment of intense sympathy, and by anticipating the +fruits defy the ravages of time. If, then, a single +moment of our lives is worth years, shall we set any +limits to its total value and extent? Again, does it +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>50]</a></span> +not happen that so secure do we think ourselves of an +indefinite period of existence, that at times, when +left to ourselves, and impatient of novelty, we feel +annoyed at what seems to us the slow and creeping +progress of time, and argue that if it always moves +at this tedious snail’s pace it will never come to an +end? How ready are we to sacrifice any space of +time which separates us from a favourite object, little +thinking that before long we shall find it move too +fast.</p> + +<p>For my part, I started in life with the French +Revolution, and I have lived, alas! to see the end +of it. But I did not foresee this result. My sun +arose with the first dawn of liberty, and I did not +think how soon both must set. The new impulse to +ardour given to men’s minds imparted a congenial +warmth and glow to mine; we were strong to run a +race together, and I little dreamed that long before +mine was set, the sun of liberty would turn to blood, +or set once more in the night of despotism. Since +then, I confess, I have no longer felt myself young, +for with that my hopes fell.</p> + +<p>I have since turned my thoughts to gathering up +some of the fragments of my early recollections, and +putting them into a form to which I might occasionally +revert. The future was barred to my progress, and +I turned for consolation and encouragement to the +past. It is thus that, while we find our personal +and substantial identity vanishing from us, we strive +to gain a reflected and vicarious one in our thoughts: +we do not like to perish wholly, and wish to bequeath +our names, at least, to posterity. As long as we can +make our cherished thoughts and nearest interests +live in the minds of others, we do not appear to have +retired altogether from the stage. We still occupy +the breasts of others, and exert an influence and +power over them, and it is only our bodies that are +reduced to dust and powder. Our favourite speculations +still find encouragement, and we make as great +a figure in the eye of the world, or perhaps a greater, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>51]</a></span> +than in our lifetime. The demands of our self-love +are thus satisfied, and these are the most imperious +and unremitting. Besides, if by our intellectual +superiority we survive ourselves in this world, by our +virtues and faith we may attain an interest in another, +and a higher state of being, and may thus be recipients +at the same time of men and of angels.</p> + +<div class="cpoem26"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>As we grow old, our sense of the value of time +becomes vivid. Nothing else, indeed, seems of any +consequence. We can never cease wondering that +that which has ever been should cease to be. We +find many things remain the same: why then should +there be change in us. This adds a convulsive grasp +of whatever is, a sense of a fallacious hollowness in +all we see. Instead of the full, pulpy feeling of +youth tasting existence and every object in it, all is +flat and vapid,—a whited sepulchre, fair without but +full of ravening and all uncleanness within. The +world is a witch that puts us off with false shows and +appearances. The simplicity of youth, the confiding +expectation, the boundless raptures, are gone: we +only think of getting out of it as well as we can, and +without any great mischance or annoyance. The +flush of illusion, even the complacent retrospect of +past joys and hopes, is over: if we can slip out of +life without indignity, can escape with little bodily +infirmity, and frame our minds to the calm and +respectable composure of <em>still-life</em> before we return to +physical nothingness, it is as much as we can expect. +We do not die wholly at our deaths: we have +mouldered away gradually long before. Faculty after +faculty, interest after interest, attachment after +attachment disappear: we are torn from ourselves +while living, year after year sees us no longer the +same, and death only consigns the last fragment of +what we were to the grave. That we should wear +out by slow stages, and dwindle at last into nothing, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>52]</a></span> +is not wonderful, when even in our prime our +strongest impressions leave little trace but for the +moment, and we are the creatures of petty circumstance. +How little effect is made on us in our best +days by the books we have read, the scenes we have +witnessed, the sensations we have gone through! +Think only of the feelings we experience in reading +a fine romance (one of Sir Walter’s, for instance); +what beauty, what sublimity, what interest, what +heart-rending emotions! You would suppose the +feelings you then experienced would last for ever, or +subdue the mind to their own harmony and tone: +while we are reading it seems as if nothing could +ever put us out of our way, or trouble us:—the first +splash of mud that we get on entering the street, the +first twopence we are cheated out of, the feeling +vanishes clean out of our minds, and we become the +prey of petty and annoying circumstance. The mind +soars to the lofty: it is at home in the grovelling, +the disagreeable, and the little. And yet we wonder +that age should be feeble and querulous,—that the +freshness of youth should fade away. Both worlds +would hardly satisfy the extravagance of our desires +and of our presumption.</p> + + + +<p class="ptop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>53]</a></span></p> + +<h2>ESSAY V<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">ON PUBLIC OPINION</span></h2> + +<div class="cpoem21"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Scared at the sound itself has made.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + + +<p>Once asking a friend why he did not bring forward +an explanation of a circumstance, in which his conduct +had been called in question, he said, ‘His friends +were satisfied on the subject, and he cared very little +about the opinion of the world.’ I made answer that +I did not consider this a good ground to rest his +defence upon, for that a man’s friends seldom thought +better of him than the world did. I see no reason to +alter this opinion. Our friends, indeed, are more +apt than a mere stranger to join in with, or be silent +under any imputation thrown out against us, because +they are apprehensive they may be indirectly implicated +in it, and they are bound to betray us to save +their own credit. To judge of our jealousy, our +sensibility, our high notions of responsibility, on this +score, only consider if a single individual lets fall a +solitary remark implying a doubt of the wit, the +sense, the courage of a friend—how it staggers us—how +it makes us shake with fear—how it makes us +call up all our eloquence and airs of self-consequence +in his defence, lest our partiality should be supposed +to have blinded our perceptions, and we should be +regarded as the dupes of a mistaken admiration. We +already begin to meditate an escape from a losing +cause, and try to find out some other fault in the +character under discussion, to show that we are not +behind-hand (if the truth must be spoken) in sagacity, +and a sense of the ridiculous. If, then, this is the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>54]</a></span> +case with the first flaw, the first doubt, the first speck +that dims the sun of friendship, so that we are ready +to turn our backs on our sworn attachments and +well-known professions the instant we have not all +the world with us, what must it be when we have all +the world against us; when our friend, instead of a +single stain, is covered with mud from head to foot; +how shall we expect our feeble voices not to be +drowned in the general clamour? how shall we dare +to oppose our partial and mis-timed suffrages to the +just indignation of the public? Or if it should not +amount to this, how shall we answer the silence and +contempt with which his name is received. How +shall we animate the great mass of indifference or +distrust with our private enthusiasm? how defeat the +involuntary smile, or the suppressed sneer, with the +burst of generous feeling and the glow of honest +conviction? It is a thing not to be thought of, unless +we would enter into a crusade against prejudice and +malignity, devote ourselves as martyrs to friendship, +raise a controversy in every company we go into, +quarrel with every person we meet, and after making +ourselves and every one else uncomfortable, leave off, +not by clearing our friend’s reputation, but by involving +our own pretensions to decency and common +sense. People will not fail to observe that a man +may have his reasons for his faults or vices; but that +for another to volunteer a defence of them, is without +excuse. It is, in fact, an attempt to deprive them of +the great and only benefit they derive from the +supposed errors of their neighbours and contemporaries—the +pleasure of backbiting and railing at +them, which they call <em>seeing justice done</em>. It is not +a single breath of rumour or opinion; but the whole +atmosphere is infected with a sort of aguish taint of +anger and suspicion, that relaxes the nerves of fidelity, +and makes our most sanguine resolutions sicken and +turn pale; and he who is proof against it, must either +be armed with a love of truth, or a contempt for mankind, +which places him out of the reach of ordinary +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>55]</a></span> +rules and calculations. For myself, I do not shrink +from defending a cause or a friend <em>under a cloud</em>; +though in neither case will cheap or common efforts +suffice. But, in the first, you merely stand up for +your own judgment and principles against fashion +and prejudice, and thus assume a sort of manly and +heroic attitude of defiance: in the last (which makes +it a matter of greater nicety and nervous sensibility), +you sneak behind another to throw your gauntlet at +the whole world, and it requires a double stock of +stoical firmness not to be laughed out of your boasted +zeal and independence as a romantic and <em>amiable +weakness</em>.<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a></p> + +<p>There is nothing in which all the world agree but in +running down some obnoxious individual. It may be +supposed that this is not for nothing, and that they +have good reasons for what they do. On the contrary, +I will undertake to say, that so far from there +being invariably just grounds for such an universal +outcry, the universality of the outcry is often the +only ground of the opinion; and that it is purposely +raised upon this principle, that all other proof or +evidence against the person meant to be run down is +wanting. Nay, further, it may happen, that while +the clamour is at the loudest; while you hear it from +all quarters; while it blows a perfect hurricane; +while ‘the world rings with the vain stir’—not one +of those who are most eager in hearing and echoing +knows what it is about, or is not fully persuaded that +the charge is equally false, malicious, and absurd. It +is like the wind, that ‘no man knoweth whence it +cometh, or whither it goeth.’ It is <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">vox et præterea +nihil</i>. What, then, is it that gives it its confident +circulation and its irresistible force. It is the loudness +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>56]</a></span> +of the organ with which it is pronounced, the +stentorian lungs of the multitude; the number of +voices that take it up and repeat it, because others +have done so; the rapid flight and the impalpable +nature of common fame, that makes it a desperate +undertaking for any individual to inquire into or +arrest the mischief that, in the deafening buzz or +loosened roar of laughter or indignation, renders it +impossible for the still small voice of reason to be +heard, and leaves no other course to honesty or +prudence than to fall flat on the face before it, as +before the pestilential blast of the desert, and wait till +it has passed over. Thus every one joins in asserting, +propagating, and in outwardly approving what every +one, in his private and unbiassed judgment, believes +and knows to be scandalous and untrue. For every +one in such circumstances keeps his own opinion to +himself, and only attends to or acts upon that which +he conceives to be the opinion of every one but himself. +So that public opinion is not seldom a farce, +equal to any acted upon the stage. Not only is it +spurious and hollow in the way that Mr. Locke +points out, by one man’s taking up at second hand +the opinion of another, but worse than this, one man +takes up what he believes another <em>will</em> think, and +which the latter professes only because he believes it +held by the first! All, therefore, that is necessary +to control public opinion, is to gain possession of +some organ loud and lofty enough to make yourself +heard, that has power and interest on its side; and +then, no sooner do you blow a blast in this trump of +<em>ill-fame</em>, like the horn hung up on an old castle-wall, +than you are answered, echoed, and accredited on all +sides: the gates are thrown open to receive you, and +you are admitted into the very heart of the fortress +of public opinion, and can assail from the ramparts +with every engine of abuse, and with privileged impunity, +all those who may come forward to vindicate +the truth, or to rescue their good name from the unprincipled +keeping of authority, servility, sophistry, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>57]</a></span> +and venal falsehood! The only thing wanted is to +give an alarm—to excite a panic in the public mind of +being left <em>in the lurch</em>, and the rabble (whether in the +ranks of literature or war) will throw away their arms, +and surrender at discretion to any bully or impostor +who, for a <em>consideration</em>, shall choose to try the experiment +upon them!</p> + +<p>What I have here described is the effect even upon +the candid and well-disposed: what must it be to the +malicious and idle, who are eager to believe all the ill +they can hear of every one; or to the prejudiced and +interested, who are determined to credit all the ill +they hear against those who are not of their own +side? To these last it is only requisite to be understood +that the butt of ridicule or slander is of an +opposite party, and they presently give you <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">carte +blanche</i> to say what you please of him. Do they +know that it is true? No; but they believe what +all the world says, till they have evidence to the +contrary. Do you prove that it is false? They dare +say, that if not that something worse remains behind; +and they retain the same opinion as before, for the +honour of their party. They hire some one to pelt +you with mud, and then affect to avoid you in the +street as a dirty fellow. They are told that you have +a hump on your back, and then wonder at your +assurance or want of complaisance in walking into +a room where they are, without it. Instead of apologising +for the mistake, and, from finding one aspersion +false, doubting all the rest, they are only the more confirmed +in the remainder from being deprived of one +handle against you, and resent their disappointment, +instead of being ashamed of their credulity. People +talk of the bigotry of the Catholics, and treat with +contempt the absurd claim of the Popes to infallibility—I +think with little right to do so. Walk +into a church in Paris, you are struck with a number +of idle forms and ceremonies, the chanting of the +service in Latin, the shifting of the surplices, the +sprinkling of holy water, the painted windows ‘casting +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>58]</a></span> +a dim religious light,’ the wax tapers, the pealing +organ: the common people seem attentive and devout, +and to put entire faith in all this—Why? Because +they imagine others to do so; they see and hear +certain signs and supposed evidences of it, and it +amuses and fills up the void of the mind, the love of +the mysterious and wonderful, to lend their assent to +it. They have assuredly, in general, no better reason—all +our Protestant divines will tell you so. Well, +step out of the church of St. Roche, and drop into an +English reading-room hard by: what are you the +better? You see a dozen or score of your countrymen +with their faces fixed, and their eyes glued to a +newspaper, a magazine, a review—reading, swallowing, +profoundly ruminating on the lie, the cant, the +sophism of the day! Why? It saves them the +trouble of thinking; it gratifies their ill-humour, and +keeps off <i>ennui</i>! Does a gleam of doubt, an air of +ridicule, or a glance of impatience pass across their +features at the shallow and monstrous things they +find? No, it is all passive faith and dull security; +they cannot take their eyes from the page, they cannot +live without it. They believe in their adopted +oracle (you see it in their faces) as implicitly as in +Sir John Barleycorn, as in a sirloin of beef, as in +quarter-day—as they hope to receive their rents, or +to see Old England again! Are not the Popes, the +Fathers, the Councils, as good as their oracles and +champions? They know the paper before them to be +a hoax, but do they believe in the ribaldry, the +calumny, the less on that account? They believe the +more in it, because it is got up solely and expressly +to serve a cause that needs such support—and they +swear by whatever is devoted to this object.</p> + +<p>The greater the profligacy, the effrontery, the +servility, the greater the faith. Strange! That the +British public, whether at home or abroad, should +shake their heads at the Lady of Loretto, and repose +deliciously on Mr. Theodore Hook. It may well be +thought that the enlightened part of the British +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>59]</a></span> +public, persons of family and fortunes, who have had +a college education, and received the benefit of foreign +travel, see through the quackery, which they encourage +for a political purpose, without being themselves +the dupes of it. This scarcely mends the +matter. Suppose an individual, of whom it has been +repeatedly asserted that he has warts on his nose, +were to enter the reading-room aforesaid, is there a +single red-faced country squire who would not be +surprised at not finding this story true, would not +persuade himself five minutes after that he could not +have seen correctly, or that some art had been used +to conceal the defects, or would be led to doubt, from +this instance, the general candour and veracity of his +oracle? He would disbelieve his own senses rather. +Seeing is believing, it is said: lying is believing, I +say. We do not even see with our own eyes, but +must ‘wink and shut our apprehension up,’ that we +may be able to agree to the report of others, as a +piece of good manners and a point of established +etiquette. Besides, the supposed deformity answered +his wishes, the abuse fed fat the ancient grudge he +owed some presumptuous scribbler, for not agreeing +in a number of points with his betters; it gave him a +personal advantage over a man he did not like—and +who will give up what tends to strengthen his +aversion for another? To Tory prejudice, dire as it +is—to English imagination, morbid as it is, a nickname, +a ludicrous epithet, a malignant falsehood, when +it has been once propagated and taken to the bosom +as a welcome consolation, becomes a precious property, +a vested right; and people would as soon give +up a sinecure, or a share in a close borough, as this +sort of plenary indulgence to speak and think with +contempt of those who would abolish the one, or +throw open the other. Party-spirit is the best +reason in the world for personal antipathy and vulgar +abuse.</p> + +<p>‘But, do you not think, Sir’ (some dialectician may +ask), ‘that belief is involuntary, and that we judge in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>60]</a></span> +all cases according to the precise degree of evidence +and the positive facts before us?’</p> + +<p>No, Sir.</p> + +<p>‘You believe, then, in the doctrine of philosophical +free-will?’</p> + +<p>Indeed, Sir, I do not.</p> + +<p>‘How then, Sir, am I to understand so unaccountable +a diversity of opinion from the most approved +writers on the philosophy of the human mind?’</p> + +<p>May I ask, my dear Sir, did you ever read Mr. +Wordsworth’s poem of <i>Michael</i>?</p> + +<p>‘I cannot charge my memory with the fact.’</p> + +<p>Well, Sir, this Michael is an old shepherd, who +has a son who goes to sea, and who turns out a great +reprobate, by all the accounts received of him. +Before he went, however, the father took the boy +with him into a mountain-glen, and made him lay the +first stone of a sheep-fold, which was to be a covenant +and a remembrance between them if anything ill +happened. For years after, the old man used to go +and work at the sheep-fold—</p> + +<div class="cpoem24"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">‘Among the rocks<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He went, and still look’d up upon the sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And listen’d to the wind,’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>and sat by the half-finished work, expecting the lad’s +return, or hoping to hear some better tidings of him. +Was this hope founded on reason—or was it not +owing to the strength of affection, which in spite of +everything could not relinquish its hold of a favourite +object, indeed the only one that bound it to existence?</p> + +<p>Not being able to make my dialectician answer +kindly to interrogatories, I must get on without him. +In matters of absolute demonstration and speculative +indifferences, I grant, that belief is involuntary, and +the proof not to be resisted; but then, in such matters, +there is no difference of opinion, or the difference is +adjusted amicably and rationally. Hobbes is of +opinion, that if their passions or interests could be +implicated in the question, men would deny stoutly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>61]</a></span> +that the three angles of a right-angled triangle are +equal to two right ones: and the disputes in religion +look something like it. I only contend, however, +that in all cases not of this peremptory and determinate +cast, and where disputes commonly arise, +inclination, habit, and example have a powerful share +in throwing in the casting-weight to our opinions, +and that he who is only tolerably free from these, and +not their regular dupe or slave, is indeed ‘a man of +ten thousand.’ Take, for instance, the example of a +Catholic clergyman in a Popish country: it will +generally be found that he lives and dies in the faith +in which he was brought up, as the Protestant clergyman +does in his—shall we say that the necessity of +gaining a livelihood, or the prospect of preferment, +that the early bias given to his mind by education and +study, the pride of victory, the shame of defeat, the +example and encouragement of all about him, the +respect and love of his flock, the flattering notice of +the great, have no effect in giving consistency to his +opinions and carrying them through to the last? +Yet, who will suppose that in either case this apparent +uniformity is mere hypocrisy, or that the intellects +of the two classes of divines are naturally adapted to +the arguments in favour of the two religions they +have occasion to profess? No; but the understanding +takes a tincture from outward impulses and circumstances, +and is led to dwell on those suggestions +which favour, and to blind itself to the objections +which impugn, the side to which it previously and +morally inclines. Again, even in those who oppose +established opinions, and form the little, firm, formidable +phalanx of dissent, have not early instruction, +spiritual pride, the love of contradiction, a resistance +to usurped authority, as much to do with keeping up +the war of sects and schisms as the abstract love of +truth or conviction of the understanding? Does not +persecution fan the flame in such fiery tempers, and +does it not expire, or grow lukewarm, with indulgence +and neglect? I have a sneaking kindness for a Popish +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>62]</a></span> +priest in this country; and to a Catholic peer I would +willingly bow in passing. What are national antipathies, +individual attachments, but so many expressions +of the <em>moral</em> principle in forming our opinions? +All our opinions become grounds on which we act, +and build our expectations of good or ill; and this +good or ill mixed up with them is soon changed into +the ruling principle which modifies or violently supersedes +the original cool determination of the reason +and senses. The will, when it once gets a footing, +turns the sober judgment out of doors. If we form +an attachment to any one, are we not slow in giving +it up? Or, if our suspicions are once excited, are we +not equally rash and violent in believing the worst? +Othello characterises himself as one</p> + +<div class="cpoem26"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">——‘That loved not wisely, but too well;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of one not easily jealous—but, being wrought,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Perplex’d in the extreme.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>And this answers to the movements and irregularities +of passion and opinion which take place in human +nature. If we wish a thing we are disposed to believe +it: if we have been accustomed to believe it, we are +the more obstinate in defending it on that account: if +all the world differ from us in any question of moment, +we are ashamed to own it; or are hurried by peevishness +and irritation into extravagance and paradox. +The weight of example presses upon us (whether we +feel it or not) like the law of gravitation. He who +sustains his opinion by the strength of conviction and +evidence alone, unmoved by ridicule, neglect, obloquy, +or privation, shows no less resolution than the Hindoo +who makes and keeps a vow to hold his right arm in +the air till it grows rigid and callous.</p> + +<p>To have all the world against us is trying to a man’s +temper and philosophy. It unhinges even our opinion +of our own motives and intentions. It is like striking +the actual world from under our feet: the void that +is left, the death-like pause, the chilling suspense, is +fearful. The growth of an opinion is like the growth +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>63]</a></span> +of a limb; it receives its actual support and nourishment +from the general body of the opinions, feelings, +and practice of the world; without that, it soon +withers, festers, and becomes useless. To what purpose +write a good book, if it is sure to be pronounced +a bad one, even before it is read? If our thoughts +are to be blown stifling back upon ourselves, why +utter them at all? It is only exposing what we love +most to contumely and insult, and thus depriving +ourselves of our own relish and satisfaction in them. +Language is only made to communicate our sentiments, +and if we can find no one to receive them, we +are reduced to the silence of dumbness, we live but in +the solitude of a dungeon. If we do not vindicate +our opinions, we seem poor creatures who have no +right to them; if we speak out, we are involved in +continual brawls and controversy. If we contemn +what others admire, we make ourselves odious; if we +admire what they despise, we are equally ridiculous. +We have not the applause of the world nor the support +of a party; we can neither enjoy the freedom of +social intercourse, nor the calm of privacy. With +our respect for others, we lose confidence in ourselves: +everything seems to be a subject of litigation—to +want proof or confirmation; we doubt, by degrees, +whether we stand on our head or our heels—whether +we know our right hand from our left. If I am +assured that I never wrote a sentence of common +English in my life, how can I know that this is not +the case? If I am told at one time that my writings +are as heavy as lead, and at another, that they are +more light and flimsy than the gossamer—what +resource have I but to choose between the two? I +could say, if this were the place, what those writings +are.—‘Make it the place, and never stand upon punctilio!’</p> + +<p>They are not, then, so properly the works of an +author by profession, as the thoughts of a metaphysician +expressed by a painter. They are subtle and +difficult problems translated into hieroglyphics. I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>64]</a></span> +thought for several years on the hardest subjects, +on Fate, Free-will, Foreknowledge absolute, without +ever making use of words or images at all, and that +has made them come in such throngs and confused +heaps when I burst from that void of abstraction. +In proportion to the tenuity to which my ideas had +been drawn, and my abstinence from ornament and +sensible objects, was the tenaciousness with which +actual circumstances and picturesque imagery laid +hold of my mind, when I turned my attention to +them, or had to look round for illustrations. Till I +began to paint, or till I became acquainted with the +author of <i>The Ancient Mariner</i>, I could neither write +nor speak. He encouraged me to write a book, which +I did according to the original bent of my mind, +making it as dry and meagre as I could, so that it fell +still-born from the press, and none of those who +abuse me for a shallow <em>catch-penny</em> writer have so +much as heard of it. Yet, let me say, that work +contains an important metaphysical discovery, supported +by a continuous and severe train of reasoning, +nearly as subtle and original as anything in Hume or +Berkeley. I am not accustomed to speak of myself +in this manner, but impudence may provoke modesty +to justify itself. Finding this method did not answer, +I despaired for a time; but some trifle I wrote in +the <i>Morning Chronicle</i>, meeting the approbation of the +editor and the town, I resolved to turn over a new +leaf—to take the public at its word, to muster all the +tropes and figures I could lay hands on, and, though +I am a plain man, never to appear abroad but in an +embroidered dress. Still, old habits will prevail; and +I hardly ever set about a paragraph or a criticism, but +there was an undercurrent of thought, or some generic +distinction on which the whole turned. Having got +my clue, I had no difficulty in stringing pearls upon it; +and the more recondite the point, the more I laboured +to bring it out and set it off by a variety of ornaments +and allusions. This puzzled the scribes whose business +it was to crush me. They could not see the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>65]</a></span> +meaning: they would not see the colouring, for it +hurt their eyes. One cried out, it was dull; another, +that it was too fine by half: my friends took up this +last alternative as the most favourable; and since +then it has been agreed that I am a florid writer, +somewhat flighty and paradoxical. Yet, when I wished +to unburthen my mind in the <i>Edinburgh</i> by an article +on English metaphysics, the editor, who echoes this +<em>florid</em> charge, said he preferred what I wrote for effect, +and was afraid of its being thought heavy! I have +accounted for the flowers; the paradoxes may be +accounted for in the same way. All abstract reasoning +is in extremes, or only takes up one view of a +question, or what is called the principle of the thing; +and if you want to give this popularity and effect, +you are in danger of running into extravagance and +hyperbole. I have had to bring out some obscure +distinction, or to combat some strong prejudice, and +in doing this with all my might, may have often overshot +the mark. It was easy to correct the excess of +truth afterwards. I have been accused of inconsistency, +for writing an essay, for instance, on the +<i>Advantages of Pedantry</i>, and another on the <i>Ignorance +of the Learned</i>, as if ignorance had not its comforts as +well as knowledge. The personalities I have fallen +into have never been gratuitous. If I have sacrificed +my friends, it has always been to a theory. I have +been found fault with for repeating myself, and for a +narrow range of ideas. To a want of general reading, +I plead guilty, and am sorry for it; but perhaps if I +had read more, I might have thought less. As to my +barrenness of invention, I have at least glanced over a +number of subjects—painting, poetry, prose, plays, +politics, parliamentary speakers, metaphysical lore, +books, men, and things. There is some point, some +fancy, some feeling, some taste, shown in treating of +these. Which of my conclusions has been reversed? +Is it what I said ten years ago of the Bourbons which +raised the war-whoop against me? Surely all the +world are of that opinion now. I have, then, given +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>66]</a></span> +proofs of some talent, and of more honesty: if there +is haste or want of method, there is no commonplace, +nor a line that licks the dust; and if I do not appear +to more advantage, I at least appear such as I am. +If the Editor of the <i>Atlas</i> will do me the favour to +look over my <i>Essay on the Principles of Human Action</i>, +will dip into any essay I ever wrote, and will take a +sponge and clear the dust from the face of my <i>Old +Woman</i>, I hope he will, upon second thoughts, acquit +me of an absolute dearth of resources and want of +versatility in the direction of my studies.</p> + +<p>1828.</p> + +<h3>FOOTNOTE</h3> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> +The only friends whom we defend with zeal and obstinacy +are our relations. They seem part of ourselves. For our +other friends we are only answerable, so long as we countenance +them; and therefore cut the connection as soon as +possible. But who ever willingly gave up the good dispositions +of a child or the honour of a parent?</p> +</div> + + + +<p class="ptop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>67]</a></span></p> + +<h2>ESSAY VI<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">ON PERSONAL IDENTITY</span></h2> + +<div class="cpoem27"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Ha! here’s three of us are sophisticated.’—<span class="smcap">Lear.</span><br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + + +<p>‘If I were not Alexander, I would be Diogenes!’ +said the Macedonian hero; and the cynic might have +retorted the compliment upon the prince by saying, +that, ‘were he not Diogenes, he would be Alexander!’ +This is the universal exception, the invariable reservation +that our self-love makes, the utmost point at +which our admiration or envy ever arrives—to wish, +if we were not ourselves, to be some other individual. +No one ever wishes to be another, <em>instead</em> of himself. +We may feel a desire to change places with others—to +have one man’s fortune—another’s health or +strength—his wit or learning, or accomplishments of +various kinds—</p> + +<div class="cpoem28"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Wishing to be like one more rich in hope,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope’;<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>but we would still be ourselves, to possess and enjoy +all these, or we would not give a doit for them. But, +on this supposition, what in truth should we be the +better for them? It is not we, but another, that +would reap the benefit; and what do we care about +that other? In that case, the present owner might +as well continue to enjoy them. <em>We</em> should not be +gainers by the change. If the meanest beggar who +crouches at a palace gate, and looks up with awe and +suppliant fear to the proud inmate as he passes, could +be put in possession of all the finery, the pomp, the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>68]</a></span> +luxury, and wealth that he sees and envies, on the +sole condition of getting rid, together with his rags +and misery, of all recollection that there ever was +such a wretch as himself, he would reject the proffered +boon with scorn. He might be glad to change situations; +but he would insist on keeping his own thoughts, +to <em>compare notes</em>, and point the transition by the force +of contrast. He would not, on any account, forego +his self-congratulation on the unexpected accession of +good fortune, and his escape from past suffering. All +that excites his cupidity, his envy, his repining or +despair, is the alternative of some great good to +himself; and if, in order to attain that object, he is +to part with his own existence to take that of another, +he can feel no farther interest in it. This is the +language both of passion and reason.</p> + +<p>Here lies ‘the rub that makes calamity of so long +life’: for it is not barely the apprehension of the ills +that ‘in that sleep of death may come,’ but also our +ignorance and indifference to the promised good, that +produces our repugnance and backwardness to quit +the present scene. No man, if he had his choice, +would be the angel Gabriel to-morrow! What is the +angel Gabriel to him but a splendid vision? He +might as well have an ambition to be turned into a +bright cloud, or a particular star. The interpretation +of which is, he can have no sympathy with the angel +Gabriel. Before he can be transformed into so bright +and ethereal an essence, he must necessarily ‘put off +this mortal coil’—be divested of all his old habits, +passions, thoughts, and feelings—to be endowed with +other attributes, lofty and beatific, of which he has +no notion; and, therefore, he would rather remain a +little longer in this mansion of clay, which, with all +its flaws, inconveniences, and perplexities, contains +all that he has any real knowledge of, or any affection +for. When, indeed, he is about to quit it in spite of +himself and has no other chance left to escape the +darkness of the tomb he may then have no objection +(making a virtue of necessity) to put on angel’s wings, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>69]</a></span> +to have radiant locks, to wear a wreath of amaranth, +and thus to masquerade it in the skies.</p> + +<p>It is an instance of the truthful beauty of the +ancient mythology, that the various transmutations it +recounts are never voluntary, or of favourable omen, +but are interposed as a timely release to those who, +driven on by fate, and urged to the last extremity of +fear or anguish, are turned into a flower, a plant, an +animal, a star, a precious stone, or into some object +that may inspire pity or mitigate our regret for their +misfortunes. Narcissus was transformed into a flower; +Daphne into a laurel; Arethusa into a fountain (by +the favour of the gods)—but not till no other remedy +was left for their despair. It is a sort of smiling +cheat upon death, and graceful compromise with +annihilation. It is better to exist by proxy, in some +softened type and soothing allegory, than not at all—to +breathe in a flower or shine in a constellation, than +to be utterly forgot; but no one would change his +natural condition (if he could help it) for that of a +bird, an insect, a beast, or a fish, however delightful +their mode of existence, or however enviable he might +deem their lot compared to his own. Their thoughts +are not our thoughts—their happiness is not our +happiness; nor can we enter into it, except with a +passing smile of approbation, or as a refinement of +fancy. As the poet sings:</p> + +<div class="cpoem28"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘What more felicity can fall to creature<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Than to enjoy delight with liberty,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And to be lord of all the works of nature?<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To reign in the air from earth to highest sky;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To feed on flowers and weeds of glorious feature;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To taste whatever thing doth please the eye?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who rests not pleased with such happiness,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Well worthy he to taste of wretchedness!’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>This is gorgeous description and fine declamation: +yet who would be found to act upon it, even in the +forming of a wish; or would not rather be the thrall +of wretchedness, than launch out (by the aid of some +magic spell) into all the delights of such a butterfly +state of existence? The French (if any people can) +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>70]</a></span> +may be said to enjoy this airy, heedless gaiety and +unalloyed exuberance of satisfaction: yet what Englishman +would deliberately change with them? We +would sooner be miserable after our own fashion than +happy after theirs. It is not happiness, then, in the +abstract, which we seek, that can be addressed as</p> + +<div class="cpoem28"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘That something still that prompts th’ eternal sigh,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For which we wish to live or dare to die,’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>but a happiness suited to our tastes and faculties—that +has become a part of ourselves, by habit and +enjoyment—that is endeared to us by a thousand +recollections, privations, and sufferings. No one, +then, would willingly change his country or his kind +for the most plausible pretences held out to him. +The most humiliating punishment inflicted in ancient +fable is the change of sex: not that it was any degradation +in itself—but that it must occasion a total +derangement of the moral economy and confusion of +the sense of personal propriety. The thing is said +to have happened <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">au sens contraire</i>, in our time. The +story is to be met with in ‘very choice Italian’; and +Lord D—— tells it in very plain English!</p> + +<p>We may often find ourselves envying the possessions +of others, and sometimes inadvertently indulging +a wish to change places with them altogether; +but our self-love soon discovers some excuse to be off +the bargain we were ready to strike, and retracts +‘vows made in haste, as violent and void.’ We might +make up our minds to the alteration in every other +particular; but, when it comes to the point, there is +sure to be some trait or feature of character in the +object of our admiration to which we cannot reconcile +ourselves—some favourite quality or darling foible of +our own, with which we can by no means resolve to +part. The more enviable the situation of another, +the more entirely to our taste, the more reluctant +we are to leave any part of ourselves behind that +would be so fully capable of appreciating all the +exquisiteness of its new situation, or not to enter +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>71]</a></span> +into the possession of such an imaginary reversion +of good fortune with all our previous inclinations +and sentiments. The outward circumstances were +fine: they only wanted a <em>soul</em> to enjoy them, and that +soul is ours (as the costly ring wants the peerless +jewel to perfect and set it off). The humble prayer +and petition to sneak into visionary felicity by +personal adoption, or the surrender of our own +personal pretentions, always ends in a daring project +of usurpation, and a determination to expel the +actual proprietor, and supply his place so much more +worthily with our own identity—not bating a single +jot of it. Thus, in passing through a fine collection +of pictures, who has not envied the privilege of visiting +it every day, and wished to be the owner? But +the rising sigh is soon checked, and ‘the native hue +of emulation is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of +thought,’ when we come to ask ourselves, not merely +whether the owner has any taste at all for these +splendid works, and does not look upon them as so +much expensive furniture, like his chairs and tables—but +whether he has the same precise (and only true) +taste that we have—whether he has the very same +favourites that we have—whether he may not be so +blind as to prefer a Vandyke to a Titian, a Ruysdael +to a Claude; nay, whether he may not have other +pursuits and avocations that draw off his attention +from the sole objects of our idolatry, and which seem +to us mere impertinences and waste of time? In +that case, we at once lose all patience, and exclaim +indignantly, ‘Give us back our taste, and keep your +pictures!’ It is not we who should envy them the +possession of the treasure, but they who should envy +us the true and exclusive enjoyment of it. A similar +train of feeling seems to have dictated Warton’s +spirited <i>Sonnet on visiting Wilton House</i>:</p> + +<div class="cpoem29"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘From Pembroke’s princely dome, where mimic art<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Decks with a magic hand the dazzling bowers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its living hues where the warm pencil pours,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And breathing forms from the rude marble start,<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>72]</a></span> +<span class="i0">How to life’s humbler scene can I depart?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My breast all glowing from those gorgeous towers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In my low cell how cheat the sullen hours?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vain the complaint! For fancy can impart<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(To fate superior and to fortune’s power)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whate’er adorns the stately storied-hall:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She, ’mid the dungeon’s solitary gloom,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Can dress the Graces in their attic-pall;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Did the green landscape’s vernal beauty bloom;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in bright trophies clothe the twilight wall.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>One sometimes passes by a gentleman’s park, an old +family-seat, with its moss-grown, ruinous paling, its +‘glades mild-opening to the genial day,’ or embrowned +with forest-trees. Here one would be glad to spend +one’s life, ‘shut up in measureless content,’ and to +grow old beneath ancestral oaks, instead of gaining a +precarious, irksome, and despised livelihood, by indulging +romantic sentiments, and writing disjointed +descriptions of them. The thought has scarcely risen +to the lips, when we learn that the owner of so blissful +a seclusion is a thoroughbred fox-hunter, a preserver +of the game, a brawling electioneerer, a Tory +member of parliament, a ‘No-Popery’ man!—‘I’d +sooner be a dog, and bay the moon!’ Who would be +Sir Thomas Lethbridge for his title and estate? asks +one man. But would not almost any one wish to be +Sir Francis Burdett, the man of the people, the idol +of the electors of Westminster? says another. I can +only answer for myself. Respectable and honest as +he is, there is something in his white boots, and white +breeches, and white coat, and white hair, and white +hat, and red face, that I cannot, by any effort of +candour, confound my personal identity with! If +Mr. —— can prevail on Sir Francis to exchange, let +him do so by all means. Perhaps they might contrive +to <em>club</em> a soul between them! Could I have had +my will, I should have been born a lord: but one +would not be a booby lord neither. I am haunted by +an odd fancy of driving down the Great North Road +in a chaise and four, about fifty years ago, and coming +to the inn at Ferry-bridge with outriders, white +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>73]</a></span> +favours, and a coronet on the panels; and then, too, +I choose my companion in the coach. Really there +is a witchcraft in all this that makes it necessary to +turn away from it, lest, in the conflict between +imagination and impossibility, I should grow feverish +and light-headed! But, on the other hand, if one +was a born lord, should one have the same idea (that +every one else has) of <em>a peeress in her own right</em>? Is +not distance, giddy elevation, mysterious awe, an +impassable gulf, necessary to form this idea in the +mind, that fine ligament of ‘ethereal braid, sky-woven,’ +that lets down heaven upon earth, fair as +enchantment, soft as Berenice’s hair, bright and garlanded +like Ariadne’s crown; and is it not better to +have had this idea all through life—to have caught +but glimpses of it, to have known it but in a dream—than +to have been born a lord ten times over, with +twenty pampered menials at one’s beck, and twenty +descents to boast of? It is the envy of certain +privileges, the sharp privations we have undergone, +the cutting neglect we have met with from the want +of birth or title that gives its zest to the distinction: +the thing itself may be indifferent or contemptible +enough. It is the <em>becoming</em> a lord that is to be desired; +but he who becomes a lord in reality may be +an upstart—a mere pretender, without the sterling +essence; so that all that is of any worth in this +supposed transition is purely imaginary and impossible.<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> +Kings are so accustomed to look down on all +the rest of the world, that they consider the condition +of mortality as vile and intolerable, if stripped of royal +state, and cry out in the bitterness of their despair, +‘Give me a crown, or a tomb!’ It should seem from +this as if all mankind would change with the first +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>74]</a></span> +crowned head that could propose the alternative, or +that it would be only the presumption of the supposition, +or a sense of their own unworthiness, that +would deter them. Perhaps there is not a single +throne that, if it was to be filled by this sort of +voluntary metempsychosis, would not remain empty. +Many would, no doubt, be glad to ‘monarchise, be +feared, and kill with looks’ in their own persons and +after their own fashion: but who would be the <em>double</em> +of those shadows of a shade—those ‘tenth transmitters +of a foolish face’—Charles <small>X.</small> and Ferdinand <small>VII.</small>? +If monarchs have little sympathy with mankind, mankind +have even less with monarchs. They are merely +to us a sort of state-puppets, or royal wax-work, which +we may gaze at with superstitious wonder, but have +no wish to become; and he who should meditate such +a change must not only feel by anticipation an utter +contempt for the <em>slough</em> of humanity which he is prepared +to cast, but must feel an absolute void and +want of attraction in those lofty and incomprehensible +sentiments which are to supply its place. With +respect to actual royalty, the spell is in a great +measure broken. But, among ancient monarchs, there +is no one, I think, who envies Darius or Xerxes. +One has a different feeling with respect to Alexander +or Pyrrhus; but this is because they were great +men as well as great kings, and the soul is up in +arms at the mention of their names as at the sound +of a trumpet. But as to all the rest—those ‘in the +catalogue who go for kings’—the praying, eating, +drinking, dressing monarchs of the earth, in time +past or present—one would as soon think of wishing +to personate the Golden Calf, or to turn out with +Nebuchadnezzar to graze, as to be transformed into +one of that ‘swinish multitude.’ There is no point of +affinity. The extrinsic circumstances are imposing; +but, within, there is nothing but morbid humours and +proud flesh! Some persons might vote for Charlemagne; +and there are others who would have no objection to +be the modern Charlemagne, with all he inflicted and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>75]</a></span> +suffered, even after the necromantic field of Waterloo, +and the bloody wreath on the vacant brow of the +conqueror, and that fell jailer, set over him by a +craven foe, that ‘glared round his soul, and mocked +his closing eyelids!’</p> + +<p>It has been remarked, that could we at pleasure +change our situation in life, more persons would be +found anxious to descend than to ascend in the scale +of society. One reason may be, that we have it +more in our power to do so; and this encourages the +thought, and makes it familiar to us. A second is, +that we naturally wish to throw off the cares of +state, of fortune or business, that oppress us, and to +seek repose before we find it in the grave. A third +reason is, that, as we descend to common life, the +pleasures are simple, natural, such as all can enter +into, and therefore excite a general interest, and +combine all suffrages. Of the different occupations +of life, none is beheld with a more pleasing emotion, +or less aversion to a change for our own, than that +of a shepherd tending his flock: the pastoral ages +have been the envy and the theme of all succeeding +ones; and a beggar with his crutch is more closely +allied than the monarch and his crown to the associations +of mirth and heart’s-ease. On the other hand, +it must be admitted that our pride is too apt to +prefer grandeur to happiness; and that our passions +make us envy great vices oftener than great virtues.</p> + +<p>The world show their sense in nothing more than +in a distrust and aversion to those changes of situation +which only tend to make the successful candidates +ridiculous, and which do not carry along with them +a mind adequate to the circumstances. The common +people, in this respect, are more shrewd and judicious +than their superiors, from feeling their own awkwardness +and incapacity, and often decline, with an +instinctive modesty, the troublesome honours intended +for them. They do not overlook their original +defects so readily as others overlook their acquired +advantages. It is not wonderful, therefore, that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>76]</a></span> +opera-singers and dancers refuse or only <em>condescend</em> +as it were, to accept lords, though the latter are too +often fascinated by them. The fair performer knows +(better than her unsuspecting admirer) how little +connection there is between the dazzling figure she +makes on the stage and that which she may make in +private life, and is in no hurry to convert ‘the +drawing-room into a Green-room.’ The nobleman +(supposing him not to be very wise) is astonished at +the miraculous powers of art in</p> + +<div class="cpoem24"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘The fair, the chaste, the inexpressive <em>she</em>’;<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>and thinks such a paragon must easily conform to +the routine of manners and society which every +trifling woman of quality of his acquaintance, from +sixteen to sixty, goes through without effort. This +is a hasty or a wilful conclusion. Things of habit +only come by habit, and inspiration here avails +nothing. A man of fortune who marries an actress +for her fine performance of tragedy, has been well +compared to the person who bought Punch. The +lady is not unfrequently aware of the inconsequentiality, +and unwilling to be put on the shelf, and hid +in the nursery of some musty country mansion. +Servant girls, of any sense and spirit, treat their +masters (who make serious love to them) with suitable +contempt. What is it but a proposal to drag an +unmeaning trollop at his heels through life, to her +own annoyance and the ridicule of all his friends? +No woman, I suspect, ever forgave a man who raised +her from a low condition in life (it is a perpetual +obligation and reproach); though I believe, men often +feel the most disinterested regard for women under +such circumstances. Sancho Panza discovered no +less folly in his eagerness to enter upon his new +government, than wisdom in quitting it as fast as +possible. Why will Mr. Cobbett persist in getting +into Parliament? He would find himself no longer +the same man. What member of Parliament, I +should like to know, could write his <i>Register</i>? As +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>77]</a></span> +a popular partisan, he may (for aught I can say) be +a match for the whole Honourable House; but, by +obtaining a seat in St. Stephen’s Chapel, he would +only be equal to a 576th part of it. It was surely a +puerile ambition in Mr. Addington to succeed Mr. Pitt +as prime minister. The situation was only a foil to +his imbecility. Gipsies have a fine faculty of evasion; +catch them who can in the same place or story twice! +Take them; teach them the comforts of civilisation; +confine them in warm rooms, with thick carpets and +down beds; and they will fly out of the window—like +the bird, described by Chaucer, out of its golden cage. +I maintain that there is no common language or +medium of understanding between people of education +and without it—between those who judge of things +from books or from their senses. Ignorance has so +far the advantage over learning; for it can make an +appeal to you from what you know; but you cannot +react upon it through that which it is a perfect +stranger to. Ignorance is, therefore, power. This +is what foiled Buonaparte in Spain and Russia. The +people can only be gained over by informing them, +though they may be enslaved by fraud or force. +‘What is it, then, he does like?’—‘Good victuals +and drink!’ As if you had these not too; but +because he has them not, he thinks of nothing else, +and laughs at you and your refinements, supposing +you live upon air. To those who are deprived of +every other advantage, even nature is a <em>book sealed</em>. +I have made this capital mistake all my life, in +imagining that those objects which lay open to all, +and excited an interest merely from the <em>idea</em> of them, +spoke a common language to all; and that nature +was a kind of universal home, where ages, sexes, +classes meet. Not so. The vital air, the sky, the +woods, the streams—all these go for nothing, except +with a favoured few. The poor are taken up with +their bodily wants—the rich, with external acquisitions: +the one, with the sense of property—the other, +of its privation. Both have the same distaste for +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>78]</a></span> +<em>sentiment</em>. The <em>genteel</em> are the slaves of appearances—the +vulgar, of necessity; and neither has the +smallest regard to worth, refinement, generosity. All +savages are irreclaimable. I can understand the +Irish character better than the Scotch. I hate the +formal crust of circumstances and the mechanism of +society. I have been recommended, indeed, to settle +down into some respectable profession for life:</p> + +<div class="cpoem21"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Ah! why so soon the blossom tear?’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>I am ‘in no haste to be venerable!’</p> + +<p>In thinking of those one might wish to have been, +many people will exclaim, ‘Surely, you would like +to have been Shakspeare?’ Would Garrick have +consented to the change? No, nor should he; for +the applause which he received, and on which he +lived, was more adapted to his genius and taste. If +Garrick had agreed to be Shakspeare, he would have +made it a previous condition that he was to be a +better player. He would have insisted on taking +some higher part than <i>Polonius</i> or the <i>Gravedigger</i>. +Ben Jonson and his companions at the Mermaid +would not have known their old friend Will in his +new disguise. The modern Roscius would have +scouted the halting player. He would have shrunk +from the parts of the inspired poet. If others are +unlike us, we feel it as a presumption and an impertinence +to usurp their place; if they are like us, +it seems a work of supererogation. We are not to +be cozened out of our existence for nothing. It has +been ingeniously urged, as an objection to having +been Milton, that ‘then we should not have had the +pleasure of reading <i>Paradise Lost</i>.’ Perhaps I should +incline to draw lots with Pope, but that he was +deformed, and did not sufficiently relish Milton and +Shakspeare. As it is, we can enjoy his verses and +theirs too. Why, having these, need we ever be +dissatisfied with ourselves? Goldsmith is a person +whom I considerably affect notwithstanding his +blunders and his misfortunes. The author of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>79]</a></span> +<i>Vicar of Wakefield</i>, and of <i>Retaliation</i>, is one whose +temper must have had something eminently amiable, +delightful, gay, and happy in it.</p> + +<div class="cpoem26"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘A certain tender bloom his fame o’erspreads.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>But then I could never make up my mind to his preferring +Rowe and Dryden to the worthies of the +Elizabethan age; nor could I, in like manner, forgive +Sir Joshua—whom I number among those whose +existence was marked with a <em>white stone</em>, and on whose +tomb might be inscribed ‘Thrice Fortunate!’—his +treating Nicholas Poussin with contempt. Differences +in matters of taste and opinion are points of honour—‘stuff +o’ the conscience’—stumbling-blocks not to be +got over. Others, we easily grant, may have more +wit, learning, imagination, riches, strength, beauty, +which we should be glad to borrow of them; but that +they have sounder or better views of things, or that +we should act wisely in changing in this respect, is +what we can by no means persuade ourselves. We +may not be the lucky possessors of what is best or +most desirable; but our notion of what is best and +most desirable we will give up to no man by choice +or compulsion; and unless others (the greatest wits +or brightest geniuses) can come into our way of +thinking, we must humbly beg leave to remain as +we are. A Calvinistic preacher would not relinquish +a single point of faith to be the Pope of Rome; nor +would a strict Unitarian acknowledge the mystery of +the Holy Trinity to have painted Raphael’s <i>Assembly +of the Just</i>. In the range of <em>ideal</em> excellence, we are +distracted by variety and repelled by differences: the +imagination is fickle and fastidious, and requires a +combination of all possible qualifications, which never +met. Habit alone is blind and tenacious of the most +homely advantages; and after running the tempting +round of nature, fame and fortune, we wrap ourselves +up in our familiar recollections and humble pretensions—as +the lark, after long fluttering on sunny +wing, sinks into its lowly bed!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>80]</a></span> +We can have no very importunate craving, nor very +great confidence, in wishing to change characters, +except with those with whom we are intimately +acquainted by their works; and having these by us +(which is all we know or covet in them), what would +we have more? We can have <em>no more of a cat than +her skin</em>; nor of an author than his brains. By becoming +Shakspeare in reality we cut ourselves out of +reading Milton, Pope, Dryden, and a thousand more—all +of whom we have in our possession, enjoy, and +<em>are</em>, by turns, in the best part of them, their thoughts, +without any metamorphosis or miracle at all. What a +microcosm is ours! What a Proteus is the human +mind! All that we know, think of, or can admire, +in a manner becomes ourselves. We are not (the +meanest of us) a volume, but a whole library! In +this calculation of problematical contingencies, the +lapse of time makes no difference. One would as +soon have been Raphael as any modern artist. +Twenty, thirty, or forty years of elegant enjoyment +and lofty feeling were as great a luxury in the fifteenth +as in the nineteenth century. But Raphael did not +live to see Claude, nor Titian Rembrandt. Those +who found arts and sciences are not witnesses of their +accumulated results and benefits; nor, in general, do +they reap the meed of praise which is their due. We +who come after in some ‘laggard age’ have more +enjoyment of their fame than they had. Who would +have missed the sight of the Louvre in all its glory +to have been one of those whose works enriched it? +Would it not have been giving a certain good for an uncertain +advantage? No: I am as sure (if it is not presumption +to say so) of what passed through Raphael’s +mind as of what passes through my own; and I know +the difference between seeing (though even that is a +rare privilege) and producing such perfection. At +one time I was so devoted to Rembrandt, that I think +if the Prince of Darkness had made me the offer in +some rash mood, I should have been tempted to close +with it, and should have become (in happy hour, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>81]</a></span> +and in downright earnest) the great master of light +and shade!</p> + +<p>I have run myself out of my materials for this +Essay, and want a well-turned sentence or two to +conclude with; like Benvenuto Cellini, who complains +that, with all the brass, tin, iron, and lead he +could muster in the house, his statue of Perseus was +left imperfect, with a dent in the heel of it. Once +more, then—I believe there is one character that all +the world would like to change with—which is that +of a favoured rival. Even hatred gives way to envy. +We would be anything—a toad in a dungeon—to live +upon her smile, which is our all of earthly hope and +happiness; nor can we, in our infatuation, conceive +that there is any difference of feeling on the subject, +or that the pressure of her hand is not in itself divine, +making those to whom such bliss is deigned like the +Immortal Gods!</p> + +<p>1828.</p> + +<h3>FOOTNOTE</h3> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> +When Lord Byron was cut by the great, on account of his +quarrel with his wife, he stood leaning on a marble slab at +the entrance of a room, while troops of duchesses and countesses +passed out. One little, pert, red-haired girl staid a few +paces behind the rest; and, as she passed him, said with a +nod, ‘Aye, you should have married me, and then all this +wouldn’t have happened to you!’</p> +</div> + + + +<p class="ptop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>82]</a></span></p> + +<h2>ESSAY VII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">MIND AND MOTIVE</span></h2> + +<div class="cpoem24"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘The web of our lives is of a mingled yarn.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + + +<p>‘Anthony Codrus Urceus, a most learned and unfortunate +Italian, born 1446, was a striking instance’ +(says his biographer) ‘of the miseries men bring upon +themselves by setting their affections unreasonably on +trifles. This learned man lived at Forli, and had an +apartment in the palace. His room was so very dark, +that he was forced to use a candle in the day time; +and one day, going abroad without putting it out, his +library was set on fire, and some papers which he +had prepared for the press were burned. The instant +he was informed of this ill news, he was affected even +to madness. He ran furiously to the palace, and, +stopping at the door of his apartment, he cried aloud, +“Christ Jesus! what mighty crime have I committed? +whom of your followers have I ever injured, +that you thus rage with inexpiable hatred against +me?” Then turning himself to an image of the +Virgin Mary near at hand, “Virgin” (says he) +“hear what I have to say, for I speak in earnest, +and with a composed spirit. If I shall happen to +address you in my dying moments, I humbly entreat +you not to hear me, nor receive me into heaven, +for I am determined to spend all eternity in hell.” +Those who heard these blasphemous expressions endeavoured +to comfort him, but all to no purpose; for +the society of mankind being no longer supportable +to him, he left the city, and retired, like a savage, +to the deep solitude of a wood. Some say that he +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>83]</a></span> +was murdered there by ruffians; others that he died +at Bologna, in 1500, after much contrition and +penitence.’</p> + +<p>Almost every one may here read the history of his +own life. There is scarcely a moment in which we +are not in some degree guilty of the same kind of +absurdity, which was here carried to such a singular +excess. We waste our regrets on what cannot be +recalled, or fix our desires on what we know cannot +be attained. Every hour is the slave of the last; and +we are seldom masters either of our thoughts or of +our actions. We are the creatures of imagination, +passion, and self-will, more than of reason or self-interest. +Rousseau, in his <i>Emilius</i>, proposed to +educate a perfectly reasonable man, who was to have +passions and affections like other men, but with an +absolute control over them. He was to love and to +be wise. This is a contradiction in terms. Even in +the common transactions and daily intercourse of +life, we are governed by whim, caprice, prejudice, or +accident. The falling of a tea-cup puts us out of +temper for the day; and a quarrel that commenced +about the pattern of a gown may end only with our +lives.</p> + +<div class="cpoem31"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i5">‘Friends now fast sworn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On a dissension of a doit, break out<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To bitterest enmity. So fellest foes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose passions and whose plots have broke their sleep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To take the one the other, by some chance,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear friends,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And interjoin their issues.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>We are little better than humoured children to the +last, and play a mischievous game at cross purposes +with our own happiness and that of others.</p> + +<p>We have given the above story as a striking contradiction +to the prevailing doctrine of modern +systems of morals and metaphysics, that man is +purely a sensual and selfish animal, governed solely +by a regard either to his immediate gratification or +future interest. This doctrine we mean to oppose +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>84]</a></span> +with all our might, whenever we meet with it. We +are, however, less disposed to quarrel with it, as it is +opposed to reason and philosophy, than as it interferes +with common sense and observation. If the +absurdity in question had been confined to the schools, +we should not have gone out of our way to meddle +with it: but it has gone abroad in the world, has +crept into ladies’ boudoirs, is entered in the commonplace +book of beaux, is in the mouth of the learned +and ignorant, and forms a part of popular opinion. It +is perpetually applied as a false measure to the +characters and conduct of men in the common affairs +of the world, and it is therefore our business to rectify +it, if we can. In fact, whoever sets out on the idea +of reducing all our motives and actions to a simple +principle, must either take a very narrow and superficial +view of human nature, or make a very perverse +use of his understanding in reasoning on what he +sees. The frame of our minds, like that of his body, +is exceedingly complicated. Besides mere sensibility +to pleasure and pain, there are other original independent +principles, necessarily interwoven with the +nature of man as an active and intelligent being, and +which, blended together in different proportions, give +their form and colour to our lives. Without some +other essential faculties, such as will, imagination, +etc., to give effect and direction to our physical +sensibility, this faculty could be of no possible use or +influence; and with those other faculties joined to it, +this pretended instinct of self-love will be subject to +be everlastingly modified and controlled by those +faculties, both in what regards our own good and that +of others; that is, must itself become in a great +measure dependent on the very instruments it uses. +The two most predominant principles in the mind, +besides sensibility and self-interest, are imagination +and self-will, or (in general) the love of strong excitement, +both in thought and action. To these sources +may be traced the various passions, pursuits, habits, +affections, follies and caprices, virtues and vices of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>85]</a></span> +mankind. We shall confine ourselves, in the present +article, to give some account of the influence exercised +by the imagination over the feelings. To an intellectual +being, it cannot be altogether arbitrary what +ideas it shall have, whether pleasurable or painful. +Our ideas do not originate in our love of pleasure, +and they cannot, therefore, depend absolutely upon +it. They have another principle. If the imagination +were ‘the servile slave’ of our self-love, if our ideas +were emanations of our sensitive nature, encouraged +if agreeable, and excluded the instant they became +otherwise, or encroached on the former principle, +then there might be a tolerable pretence for the +epicurean philosophy which is here spoken of. But +for any such entire and mechanical subserviency of +the operations of the one principle to the dictates of +the other, there is not the slightest foundation in +reality. The attention which the mind gives to its +ideas is not always owing to the gratification derived +from them, but to the strength and truth of the impressions +themselves, <i>i.e.</i> to their involuntary power +over the mind. This observation will account for a +very general principle in the mind, which cannot, we +conceive, be satisfactorily explained in any other way, +we mean <em>the power of fascination</em>. Every one has heard +the story of the girl who, being left alone by her +companions, in order to frighten her, in a room with +a dead body, at first attempted to get out, and +shrieked violently for assistance, but finding herself +shut in, ran and embraced the corpse, and was found +senseless in its arms.</p> + +<p>It is said that in such cases there is a desperate +effort made to get rid of the dread by converting it +into the reality. There may be some truth in this +account, but we do not think it contains the whole +truth. The event produced in the present instance +does not bear out the conclusion. The progress of the +passion does not seem to have been that of diminishing +or removing the terror by coming in contact with +the object, but of carrying this terror to its height +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>86]</a></span> +from an intense and irresistible impulse overcoming +every other feeling.</p> + +<p>It is a well-known fact that few persons can stand +safely on the edge of a precipice, or walk along the +parapet wall of a house, without being in danger of +throwing themselves down; not, we presume, from +a principle of self-preservation; but in consequence +of a strong idea having taken possession of the mind +from which it cannot well escape, which absorbs every +other consideration, and confounds and overrules all +self-regards. The impulse cannot in this case be +resolved into a desire to remove the uneasiness of +fear, for the only danger arises from the fear. We +have been told by a person not at all given to +exaggeration, that he once felt a strong propensity +to throw himself into a cauldron of boiling lead, +into which he was looking. These are what Shakspeare +calls ‘the toys of desperation.’ People sometimes +marry, and even fall in love on this principle—that +is, through mere apprehension, or what is +called a fatality. In like manner, we find instances +of persons who are, as it were, naturally delighted +with whatever is disagreeable—who catch all sorts of +unbecoming tones and gestures—who always say what +they should not, and what they do not mean to say—in +whom intemperance of imagination and incontinence +of tongue are a disease, and who are governed by +an almost infallible instinct of absurdity.</p> + +<p>The love of imitation has the same general source. +We dispute for ever about Hogarth, and the question +can never be decided according to the common ideas +on the subject of taste. His pictures appeal to the +love of truth, not to the sense of beauty: but the one +is as much an essential principle of our nature as the +other. They fill up the void of the mind; they +present an everlasting succession and variety of ideas. +There is a fine observation somewhere made by +Aristotle, that the mind has a natural appetite of +curiosity or desire to know; and most of that knowledge +which comes in by the eye, for this presents +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>87]</a></span> +us with the greatest variety of differences. Hogarth +is relished only by persons of a certain strength of +mind and penetration into character; for the subjects +in themselves are not pleasing, and this objection is +only redeemed by the exercise and activity which +they give to the understanding. The great difference +between what is meant by a severe and an effeminate +taste or style, depends on the distinction here made.</p> + +<p>Our teasing ourselves to recollect the names of +places or persons we have forgotten, the love of +riddles and of abstruse philosophy, are all illustrations +of the same general principle of curiosity, or +the love of intellectual excitement. Again, our +impatience to be delivered of a secret that we know; +the necessity which lovers have for confidants, auricular +confession, and the declarations so commonly +made by criminals of their guilt, are effects of the +involuntary power exerted by the imagination over +the feelings. Nothing can be more untrue, than +that the whole course of our ideas, passions, and +pursuits, is regulated by a regard to self-interest. +Our attachment to certain objects is much oftener +in proportion to the strength of the impression they +make on us, to their power of riveting and fixing the +attention, than to the gratification we derive from +them. We are, perhaps, more apt to dwell upon +circumstances that excite disgust and shock our feelings, +than on those of an agreeable nature. This, at +least, is the case where this disposition is particularly +strong, as in people of nervous feelings and morbid +habits of thinking. Thus the mind is often haunted +with painful images and recollections, from the hold +they have taken of the imagination. We cannot +shake them off, though we strive to do it: nay, we +even court their company; we will not part with them +out of our presence; we strain our aching sight after +them; we anxiously recall every feature, and contemplate +them in all their aggravated colours. There +are a thousand passions and fancies that thwart our +purposes, and disturb our repose. Grief and fear are +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>88]</a></span> +almost as welcome inmates of the breast as hope or +joy, and more obstinately cherished. We return to +the objects which have excited them, we brood over +them, they become almost inseparable from the mind, +necessary to it; they assimilate all objects to the +gloom of our own thoughts, and make the will a +party against itself. This is one chief source of most +of the passions that prey like vultures on the heart, +and embitter human life. We hear moralists and +divines perpetually exclaiming, with mingled indignation +and surprise, at the folly of mankind in +obstinately persisting in these tormenting and violent +passions, such as envy, revenge, sullenness, despair, +etc. This is to them a mystery; and it will always +remain an inexplicable one, while the love of happiness +is considered as the only spring of human +conduct and desires.<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a></p> + +<p>The love of power or action is another independent +principle of the human mind, in the different degrees +in which it exists, and which are not by any means in +exact proportion to its physical sensibility. It seems +evidently absurd to suppose that sensibility to pleasure +or pain is the only principle of action. It is almost +too obvious to remark, that sensibility alone, without +an active principle in the mind, could never produce +action. The soul might lie dissolved in pleasure, or +be agonised with woe; but the impulses of feeling, +in order to excite passion, desire, or will, must be +first communicated to some other faculty. There +must be a principle, a fund of activity somewhere, by +and through which our sensibility operates; and that +this active principle owes all its force, its precise +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>89]</a></span> +degree of direction, to the sensitive faculty, is neither +self-evident nor true. Strength of will is not always +nor generally in proportion to strength of feeling. +There are different degrees of activity, as of sensibility, +in the mind; and our passions, characters, and +pursuits, often depend no less upon the one than +on the other. We continually make a distinction +in common discourse between sensibility and irritability, +between passion and feeling, between the nerves +and muscles; and we find that the most voluptuous +people are in general the most indolent. Every one +who has looked closely into human nature must have +observed persons who are naturally and habitually +restless in the extreme, but without any extraordinary +susceptibility to pleasure or pain, always making or +finding excuses to do something—whose actions constantly +outrun the occasion, and who are eager in the +pursuit of the greatest trifles—whose impatience of +the smallest repose keeps them always employed about +nothing—and whose whole lives are a continued work +of supererogation. There are others, again, who seem +born to act from a spirit of contradiction only, that +is, who are ready to act not only without a reason, +but against it—who are ever at cross-purposes with +themselves and others—who are not satisfied unless +they are doing two opposite things at a time—who +contradict what you say, and if you assent to them, +contradict what they have said—who regularly leave +the pursuit in which they are successful to engage in +some other in which they have no chance of success—who +make a point of encountering difficulties and +aiming at impossibilities, that there may be no end of +their exhaustless task: while there is a third class +whose <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">vis inertiæ</i> scarcely any motives can overcome—who +are devoured by their feelings, and the slaves +of their passions, but who can take no pains and use +no means to gratify them—who, if roused to action +by any unforeseen accident, require a continued +stimulus to urge them on—who fluctuate between +desire and want of resolution—whose brightest +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>90]</a></span> +projects burst like a bubble as soon as formed—who yield +to every obstacle—who almost sink under the weight +of the atmosphere—who cannot brush aside a cobweb +in their path, and are stopped by an insect’s wing. +Indolence is want of will—the absence or defect of +the active principle—a repugnance to motion; and +whoever has been much tormented with this passion, +must, we are sure, have felt that the inclination to +indulge it is something very distinct from the love of +pleasure or actual enjoyment. Ambition is the reverse +of indolence, and is the love of power or action in +great things. Avarice, also, as it relates to the acquisition +of riches, is, in a great measure, an active and +enterprising feeling; nor does the hoarding of wealth, +after it is acquired, seem to have much connection +with the love of pleasure. What is called niggardliness, +very often, we are convinced from particular +instances that we have known, arises less from a +selfish principle than from a love of contrivance—from +the study of economy as an art, for want of a +better—from a pride in making the most of a little, +and in not exceeding a certain expense previously +determined upon; all which is wilfulness, and is perfectly +consistent, as it is frequently found united, +with the utmost lavish expenditure and the utmost +disregard for money on other occasions. A miser +may, in general, be looked upon as a particular +species of <i>virtuoso</i>. The constant desire in the rich to +leave wealth in large masses, by aggrandising some +branch of their families, or sometimes in such a +manner as to accumulate for centuries, shows that +the imagination has a considerable share in this +passion. Intemperance, debauchery, gluttony, and +other vices of that kind, may be attributed to an +excess of sensuality or gross sensibility; though, even +here, we think it evident that habits of intoxication +are produced quite as much by the strength as by the +agreeableness of the excitement; and with respect +to some other vicious habits, curiosity makes many +more votaries than inclination. The love of truth, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>91]</a></span> +when it predominates, produces inquisitive characters, +the whole tribe of gossips, tale-bearers, harmless +busybodies, your blunt honest creatures, who never +conceal what they think, and who are the more sure +to tell it you the less you want to hear it—and now +and then a philosopher.</p> + +<p>Our passions in general are to be traced more +immediately to the active part of our nature, to the +love of power, or to strength of will. Such are all +those which arise out of the difficulty of accomplishment, +which become more intense from the efforts +made to attain the object, and which derive their +strength from opposition. Mr. Hobbes says well on +this subject:</p> + +<p>‘But for an utmost end, in which the ancient +philosophers placed felicity, and disputed much concerning +the way thereto, there is no such thing in +this world, nor way to it, more than to Utopia; for +while we live, we have desires, and desire presupposeth +a further end. Seeing all delight is appetite, and +desire of something further, there can be no contentment +but in proceeding, and therefore we are not to +marvel, when we see that as men attain to more +riches, honour, or other power, so their appetite +continually groweth more and more; and when they +are come to the utmost degree of some kind of power +they pursue some other, as long as in any kind they +think themselves behind any other. Of those, therefore, +that have attained the highest degree of honour +and riches, some have affected mastery, in some art, +as Nero in music and poetry, Commodus in the art of +a gladiator; and such as affect not some such thing, +must find diversion and recreation of their thoughts +in the contention either of play or business, and men +justly complain as of a great grief that they know not +what to do. Felicity, therefore, by which we mean +continual delight, consists not in having prospered, +but in prospering.’</p> + +<p>This account of human nature, true as it is, would +be a mere romance, if physical sensibility were the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>92]</a></span> +only faculty essential to man, that is, if we were the +slaves of voluptuous indolence. But our desires are +kindled by their own heat, the will is urged on by +a restless impulse, and without action, enjoyment +becomes insipid. The passions of men are not in +proportion only to their sensibility, or to the desirableness +of the object, but to the violence and irritability +of their tempers, and the obstacles to their success. +Thus an object to which we were almost indifferent +while we thought it in our power, often excites the +most ardent pursuit or the most painful regret, as +soon as it is placed out of our reach. How eloquently +is the contradiction between our desires and our +success described in <i>Don Quixote</i>, where it is said of +the lover, that ‘he courted a statue, hunted the wind, +cried aloud to the desert!’</p> + +<p>The necessity of action to the mind, and the keen +edge it gives to our desires, is shown in the different +value we set on past and future objects. It is commonly, +and we might almost say universally, supposed, +that there is an essential difference in the two cases. +In this instance, however, the strength of our passions +has converted an evident absurdity into one of the +most inveterate prejudices of the human mind. That +the future is really or in itself of more consequence +than the past, is what we can neither assent to +nor even conceive. It is true, the past has ceased to +be, and is no longer anything, except to the mind; +but the future is still to come, and has an existence +in the mind only. The one is at an end, the other has +not even had a beginning; both are purely ideal: +so that this argument would prove that the present +only is of any real value, and that both past and +future objects are equally indifferent, alike nothing. +Indeed, the future is, if possible, more imaginary +than the past; for the past may in some sense be said +to exist in its consequences; it acts still; it is present +to us in its effects; the mouldering ruins and broken +fragments still remain; but of the future there is no +trace. What a blank does the history of the world +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>93]</a></span> +for the next six thousand years present to the mind, +compared with that of the last? All that strikes the +imagination, or excites any interest in the mighty +scene is <em>what has been</em>. Neither in reality, then, nor +as a subject of general contemplation, has the future +any advantage over the past; but with respect to our +own passions and pursuits it has. We regret the +pleasures we have enjoyed, and eagerly anticipate +those which are to come; we dwell with satisfaction +on the evils from which we have escaped, and dread +future pain. The good that is past is like money that +is spent, which is of no use, and about which we give +no further concern. The good we expect is like a +store yet untouched, in the enjoyment of which we +promise ourselves infinite gratification. What has +happened to us we think of no consequence—what is +to happen to us, of the greatest. Why so? Because +the one is in our power, and the other not; because +the efforts of the will to bring an object to pass or to +avert it, strengthen our attachment to or our aversion +from that object; because the habitual pursuit of any +purpose redoubles the ardour of our pursuit, and +converts the speculative and indolent interest we +should otherwise take in it into real passion. Our +regrets, anxiety, and wishes, are thrown away upon +the past, but we encourage our disposition to exaggerate +the importance of the future, as of the +utmost use in aiding our resolutions and stimulating +our exertions.</p> + +<p>It in some measure confirms this theory, that men +attach more or less importance to past and future +events, according as they are more or else engaged +in action and the busy scenes of life. Those who +have a fortune to make, or are in pursuit of rank and +power, are regardless of the past, for it does not contribute +to their views: those who have nothing to do +but to think, take nearly the same interest in the +past as in the future. The contemplation of the one +is as delightful and real as of the other. The season +of hope comes to an end, but the remembrance of it +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>94]</a></span> +is left. The past still lives in the memory of those +who have leisure to look back upon the way that they +have trod, and can from it ‘catch glimpses that may +make them less forlorn.’ The turbulence of action +and uneasiness of desire <em>must</em> dwell upon the future; +it is only amidst the innocence of shepherds, in the +simplicity of the pastoral ages, that a tomb was found +with this inscription—‘<em class="smallcap">I also was an Arcadian!</em>’</p> + +<p>We feel that some apology is necessary for having +thus plunged our readers all at once into the middle +of metaphysics. If it should be asked what use such +studies are of, we might answer with Hume, <em>perhaps of +none, except that there are certain persons who find more +entertainment in them than in any other</em>. An account +of this matter, with which we were amused ourselves, +and which may therefore amuse others, we met with +some time ago in a metaphysical allegory, which +begins in this manner:</p> + +<p>‘In the depth of a forest, in the kingdom of +Indostan, lived a monkey, who, before his last step +of transmigration, had occupied a human tenement. +He had been a Bramin, skilful in theology, and in all +abstruse learning. He was wont to hold in admiration +the ways of nature, and delighted to penetrate +the mysteries in which she was enrobed; but in +pursuing the footsteps of philosophy, he wandered +too far from the abode of the social Virtues. In order +to pursue his studies, he had retired to a cave on the +banks of the Jumna. There he forgot society, and +neglected ablution; and therefore his soul was degraded +to a condition below humanity. So inveterate +were the habits which he had contracted in his human +state, that his spirit was still influenced by his passion +for abstruse study. He sojourned in this wood +from youth to age, regardless of everything, <em>save +cocoa-nuts and metaphysics</em>.’ For our own part, we +should be content to pass our time much in the same +manner as this learned savage, if we could only find +a substitute for his cocoa-nuts! We do not, however, +wish to recommend the same pursuit to others, nor +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>95]</a></span> +to dissuade them from it. It has its pleasures and +its pains—its successes and its disappointments. It +is neither quite so sublime nor quite so uninteresting +as it is sometimes represented. The worst is, that +much thought on difficult subjects tends, after a +certain time, to destroy the natural gaiety and dancing +of the spirits; it deadens the elastic force of the +mind, weighs upon the heart, and makes us insensible +to the common enjoyments and pursuits of life.</p> + +<div class="cpoem24"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Sithence no fairy lights, no quick’ning ray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor stir of pulse, nor objects to entice<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Abroad the spirits; but the cloyster’d heart<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sits squat at home, like pagod in a niche<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Obscure.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Metaphysical reasoning is also one branch of the +tree of the knowledge of good and evil. The study +of man, however, does, perhaps, less harm than a +knowledge of the world, though it must be owned +that the practical knowledge of vice and misery makes +a stronger impression on the mind, when it has +imbibed a habit of abstract reasoning. Evil thus +becomes embodied in a general principle, and shows +its harpy form in all things. It is a fatal, inevitable +necessity hanging over us. It follows us wherever +we go: if we fly into the uttermost parts of the +earth, it is there: whether we turn to the right or +the left, we cannot escape from it. This, it is true, +is the disease of philosophy; but it is one to which +it is liable in minds of a certain cast, after the +first ardour of expectation has been disabused by +experience, and the finer feelings have received an +irrecoverable shock from the jarring of the world.</p> + +<p>Happy are they who live in the dream of their own +existence, and see all things in the light of their own +minds; who walk by faith and hope; to whom the +guiding star of their youth still shines from afar, and +into whom the spirit of the world has not entered! +They have not been ‘hurt by the archers,’ nor has +the iron entered their souls. They live in the midst +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>96]</a></span> +of arrows and of death, unconscious of harm. The +evil things come not nigh them. The shafts of +ridicule pass unheeded by, and malice loses its sting. +The example of vice does not rankle in their breasts, +like the poisoned shirt of Nessus. Evil impressions +fall off from them like drops of water. The yoke of +life is to them light and supportable. The world has +no hold on them. They are in it, not of it; and a +dream and a glory is ever around them!</p> + +<p>1815.</p> + +<h3>FOOTNOTE</h3> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> +As a contrast to the story at the beginning of this article, +it will be not amiss to mention that of Sir Isaac Newton, on +a somewhat similar occasion. He had prepared some papers +for the press with great care and study, but happening to +leave a lighted candle on the table with them, his dog +Diamond overturned the candle, and the labour of several +years was destroyed. This great man, on seeing what was +done, only shook his head, and said with a smile, ‘Ah, +Diamond, you don’t know what mischief you have done!’</p> +</div> + + + +<p class="ptop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>97]</a></span></p> + +<h2>ESSAY VIII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">ON MEANS AND ENDS</span></h2> + + +<p>It is impossible to have things done without doing +them. This seems a truism; and yet what is more +common than to suppose that we shall find things +done, merely by wishing it? To put the will for the +deed is as usual in practice as it is contrary to common +sense. There is, in fact, no absurdity, no contradiction, +of which the will is not capable. This is, +I think, more remarkable in the English than in any +other people, in whom (to judge by what I discover +in myself) the will bears great and disproportioned +sway. We will a thing: we contemplate the end +intensely, and think it done, neglecting the necessary +means to accomplish it. The strong tendency of the +mind towards it, the internal effort it makes to give +being to the object of its idolatry, seems an adequate +cause to produce the effect, and in a manner identified +with it. This is more particularly the case in what +relates to the <em>fine arts</em>, and will account for some +phenomena of the national character. The English +school is distinguished by what are called <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">ébauches</i>, +rude, violent attempts at effect, and a total inattention +to the details or delicacy of finishing. Now this, +I think, proceeds, not exactly from grossness of perception, +but from the wilfulness of our character; +our desire to have things our own way, without any +trouble or distraction of purpose. An object strikes +us: we see and feel the whole effect. We wish to +produce a likeness of it; but we want to transfer this +impression to the canvas as it is conveyed to us, +simultaneously and intuitively, that is, to stamp it +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>98]</a></span> +there at a blow, or otherwise we turn away with impatience +and disgust, as if the means were an obstacle +to the end, and every attention to the mechanical +part of art were a deviation from our original purpose. +We thus degenerate, after repeated failures, into a +slovenly style of art; and that which was at first an +undisciplined and irregular impulse becomes a habit, +and then a theory. It seems strange that the love of +the end should produce aversion to the means—but so +it is; neither is it altogether unnatural. That which +we are struck with, which we are enamoured of, is +the general appearance and result; and it would +certainly be most desirable to produce the effect +in the same manner by a mere word or wish, if it +were possible, without entering into any mechanical +drudgery or minuteness of detail or dexterity of +execution, which though they are essential and component +parts of the work do not enter into our +thoughts, and form no part of our contemplation. +We may find it necessary, on a cool calculation to go +through and learn these, but in so doing we only +submit to necessity, and they are still a diversion to +and a suspension of our purpose for the time, at +least, unless practice gives that facility which almost +identifies the two together, or makes the process an +unconscious one. The end thus devours up the +means, or our eagerness for the one, where it is +strong and unchecked, is in proportion to our impatience +of the other. We view an object at a +distance that excites an inclination to visit it, which +we do after many tedious steps and intricate ways; +but if we could fly, we should never walk. The +mind, however, has wings, though the body has not, +and it is this that produces the contradiction in +question. The first and strongest impulse of the +mind is to produce any work at once and by the most +energetic means; but as this cannot always be done, +we should not neglect other more mechanical ones, +but that delusions of passion overrule the convictions +of the understanding, and what we strongly wish we +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>99]</a></span> +fancy to be possible and true. We are full of the +effect we intend to produce, and imagine we have +produced it, in spite of the evidence of our senses, +and the suggestions of our friends. In fact, after a +number of fruitless efforts and violent throes to produce +an effect which we passionately long for, it +seems all injustice not to have produced it; if we +have not commanded success, we have done more, we +have deserved it; we have copied nature or Titian in +the spirit in which they ought to be copied, and we +see them before us in our mind’s eye; there is the +look, the expression, the something or other which +we chiefly aim at, and thus we persist and make fifty +excuses to deceive ourselves and confirm our errors; +or if the light breaks upon us through all the disguises +of sophistry and self-love, it is so painful that +we shut our eyes to it; the greater the mortification +the more violent the effort to throw it off; and thus +we stick to our determination, and end where we +began. What makes me think that this is the process +of our minds, and not merely rusticity or want of +apprehension, is, that you will see an English artist +admiring and thrown into raptures by the tucker of +Titian’s mistress, made up of an infinite number of +little folds, but if he attempts to copy it, he proceeds +to omit all these details, and dash it off by a single +smear of his brush. This is not ignorance, or even +laziness, but what is called jumping at a conclusion. +It is, in a word, all overweening purpose. He sees +the details, the varieties, and their effects, and he +admires them; but he sees them with a glance of his +eye, and as a wilful man must have his way, he would +reproduce them by a single dash of the pencil. The +mixing his colours, the putting in and out, the giving +his attention to a minute break, or softening in the +particular lights and shades, is a mechanical and everlasting +operation, very different from the delight he +feels in contemplating the effect of all this when properly +and finely done. Such details are foreign to +his refined taste, and some doubts arise in his mind +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>100]</a></span> +in the midst of his gratitude and his raptures, as to +how Titian could resolve upon the drudgery of going +through them, and whether it was not done by +extreme facility of hand, and a sort of trick, abridging +the mechanical labour. No one wrote or talked more +enthusiastically about Titian’s harmony of colouring +than the late Mr. Barry, yet his own colouring was +dead and dry; and if he had copied a Titian, he +would have made it a mere splash, leaving out all +that caused his wonder or admiration, after his +English, or rather Irish fashion. We not only +grudge the labour of beginning, but we give up, for +the same reason, when we are near touching the goal +of success; and to save a few last touches, leave a +work unfinished, and an object unattained. The +immediate process, the daily gradual improvement, +the completion of parts giving us no pleasure, we +strain at the whole result; we wish to have it done, +and in our anxiety to have it off our hands, say it will +do, and lose the benefit of all our labour by grudging +a little pains, and not commanding a little patience. +In a day or two, suppose a copy of a fine Titian would +be as complete as we could make it: the prospect of +this so enchants us that we skip the intermediate +days, see no great use in going on with it, fancy that +we may spoil it, and in order to have the job done, +take it home with us, when we immediately see our +error, and spend the rest of our lives in repenting +that we did not finish it properly at the time. We +see the whole nature of a picture at once; we only do +a part: <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Hinc illæ lachrymæ</i>. A French artist, on the +contrary, has none of this uneasy, anxious feeling; +of this desire to grasp the whole of his subject, and +anticipate his good fortune at a blow; of this massing +and concentrating principle. He takes the thing +more easily and rationally. Suppose he undertakes +to copy a picture, he looks at it and copies it bit by +bit. He does not set off headlong without knowing +where he is going, or plunge into all sorts of difficulties +and absurdities, from impatience to begin and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>101]</a></span> +thinking that ‘no sooner said than done’; but takes +time to consider, lays his plans, gets in his outline +and his distances, and lays a foundation before he +attempts a superstructure which he may have to pull +to pieces again. He looks before he leaps, which is +contrary to the true blindfold English principle; and +I should think that we had invented this proverb +from seeing so many fatal examples of the neglect of +it. He does not make the picture all black or all +white, because one part of it is so, and because he +cannot alter an idea he has once got into his head, +and must always run into extremes, but varies from +green to red, from orange tawney to yellow, from +grey to brown, according as they vary in the original: +he sees no inconsistency or forfeiture of a principle in +this, but a great deal of right reason, and indeed an +absolute necessity, if he wishes to succeed in what he +is about. This is the last thing an Englishman thinks +of: he only wants to have his own way, though it +ends in defeat and ruin: he sets about a thing which +he had little prospect of accomplishing, and if he +finds he can do it, gives it over and leaves the matter +short of success, which is too agreeable an idea for +him to indulge in. The French artist proceeds bit by +bit. He takes one part, a hand, a piece of drapery, +a part of the background, and finishes it carefully; +then another, and so on to the end. He does not, +from a childish impatience, when he is near the conclusion, +destroy the effect of the whole by leaving +some one part eminently defective, nor fly from what +he is about to something else that catches his eye, +neglecting the one and spoiling the other. He is +constrained by mastery, by the mastery of common +sense and pleasurable feeling. He is in no hurry +to finish, for he has a satisfaction in the work, and +touches and retouches, perhaps a single head, day after +day and week after week, without repining, uneasiness, +or apparent progress. The very lightness and +indifference of his feelings renders him patient and +laborious: an Englishman, whatever he is about or +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>102]</a></span> +undertakes is as if he was carrying a heavy load that +oppresses both his body and mind, and which he is +anxious to throw down. A Frenchman’s hopes or fears +are not excited to that pitch of intolerable agony that +compels him, in mere compassion to himself to bring +the question to a speedy issue, even to the loss of his +object; he is calm, easy, and indifferent, and can take +his time and make the most of his advantages with +impunity. Pleased with himself, he is pleased with +whatever occupies his attention nearly alike. It is +the same to him whether he paints an angel or a +joint-stool; it is the same to him whether it is +landscape or history; it is he who paints it, that +is sufficient. Nothing puts him out of conceit with +his work, for nothing puts him out of conceit with +himself. This self-complacency produces admirable +patience and docility in certain particulars, besides +charity and toleration towards others. I remember +a ludicrous instance of this deliberate process, in a +young French artist who was copying the <i>Titian’s +Mistress</i>, in the Louvre, some twenty years ago. After +getting it in chalk-lines, one would think he would +have been attracted to the face, that heaven of beauty +which makes a sunshine in the shady place, or to +some part of the poetry of the picture; instead of +which he began to finish a square he had marked out +in the right-hand corner of the picture. He set to +work like a cabinetmaker or an engraver, and seemed +to have no sympathy with the soul of the picture. +Indeed, to a Frenchman there is no distinction between +the great and little, the pleasurable and the +painful; the utmost he arrives at a conception of is +the indifferent and the light. Another young man, +at the time I speak of, was for eleven weeks (I think +it was) daily employed in making a blacklead pencil +drawing of a small Leonardo; he sat cross-legged on +a rail to do it, kept his hat on, rose up, went to the +fire to warm himself, talked constantly of the excellence +of the different masters—Titian for colour, +Raphael for expression, Poussin for composition—all +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>103]</a></span> +being alike to him, provided there was a word to +express it, for all he thought about was his own +harangue; and, having consulted some friend on his +progress, he returned to ‘perfectionate,’ as he called +it, his copy. This would drive an Englishman mad +or stupid. The perseverance and the indifference, +the labour without impulse, the attention to the parts +in succession, and disregard of the whole together, +are to him absolutely inconceivable. A Frenchman +only exists in his present sensations, and provided he +is left free to these as they arise, he cares about +nothing farther, looking neither backward nor forward. +With all this affectation and artifice, there +is on this account a kind of simplicity and nature +about them, after all. They lend themselves to the +impression before them with good humour and good +will, making it neither better nor worse than it is. +The English overdo or underdo everything, and are +either drunk or in despair. I do not speak of all +Frenchmen or of all Englishmen, but of the most +characteristic specimens of each class. The extreme +slowness and methodical regularity of the French has +arisen out of this indifference, and even frivolity +(their usually-supposed natural character), for owing +to it their laborious minuteness costs them nothing; +they have no strong impulses or ardent longings that +urge them to the violation of rules, or hurry them +away with a subject and with the interest belonging +to it. Everything is matter of calculation, and +measured beforehand, in order to assist their fluttering +and their feebleness. When they get beyond the +literal and the formal, and attempt the impressive +and the grand, as in David’s and Girardot’s pictures, +defend us from sublimity heaped on insipidity and +petit-maîtreism. You see a Frenchman in the Louvre +copying the finest pictures, standing on one leg, with +his hat on; or after copying a Raphael, thinking +David much finer, more truly one of themselves, more +a combination of the Greek sculptor and the French +posture-master. Even if a French artist fails, he is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>104]</a></span> +not disconcerted; there is something else he excels +in: if he cannot paint, he can dance! If an Englishman, +save the mark! fails in anything, he thinks he +can do nothing; enraged at the mention of his ability +to do anything else, and at any consolation offered to +him, he banishes all other thought but of his disappointment, +and discarding hope from his breast, +neither eats nor sleeps (it is well if he does not cut his +throat), will not attend to any other thing in which +he before took an interest and pride, and is in despair +till he recovers his good opinion of himself in the +point in which he has been disgraced, though, from his +very anxiety and disorder of mind, he is incapacitated +from applying to the only means of doing so, as much +as if he were drunk with liquor, instead of with pride +and passion. The character I have here drawn of an +Englishman I am clear about, for it is the character +of myself, and, I am sorry to add, no exaggerated +one. As my object is to paint the varieties of human +nature, and as I can have it best from myself, I will +confess a weakness. I lately tried to copy a Titian +(after many years’ want of practice), in order to give +a friend in England some idea of the picture. I +floundered on for several days, but failed, as might be +expected. My sky became overcast. Everything +seemed of the colour of the paint I used. Nature +was one great daub. I had no feeling left but a sense +of want of power, and of an abortive struggle to do +what I could not do. I was ashamed of being seen to +look at the picture with admiration, as if I had no +right to do so. I was ashamed even to have written +or spoken about the picture or about art at all: it +seemed a piece of presumption or affectation in me, +whose whole notions and refinements on the subject +ended in an inexcusable daub. Why did I think of +attempting such a thing heedlessly, of exposing my +presumption and incapacity? It was blotting from +my memory, covering with a dark veil, all that I +remembered of those pictures formerly, my hopes +when young, my regrets since; it was wresting from +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>105]</a></span> +me one of the consolations of my life and of my +declining years. I was even afraid to walk out by the +barrier of Neuilly, or to recall to memory that I had +ever seen the picture; all was turned to bitterness +and gall: to feel anything but a sense of my own +helplessness and absurdity seemed a want of sincerity, +a mockery and a piece of injustice. The only comfort +I had was in the excess of pain I felt; this was at +least some distinction: I was not insensible on that +side. No Frenchman, I thought, would regret the +not copying a Titian so much as I did, or so far show +the same value for it. Besides, I had copied this +identical picture very well formerly. If ever I got out +of this scrape, I had received a lesson, at least, not +to run the same risk of gratuitous vexation again, or +even to attempt what was uncertain and unnecessary.</p> + +<p>It is the same in love and in literature. A man +makes love without thinking of the chances of success, +his own disabilities, or the character of his mistress; +that is, without connecting means with ends, and +consulting only his own will and passion. The author +sets about writing history, with the full intention of +rendering all documents, dates, and facts secondary +to his own opinion and will. In business it is not +altogether the same; for interest acts obviously as a +counterpoise to caprice and will, and is the moving +principle; nor is it so in war, for then the spirit of +contradiction does everything, and an Englishman +will go to the devil rather than give up to any odds. +Courage is pure will without regard to consequences, +and this the English have in perfection. Again, +poetry is our element, for the essence of poetry is +will and passion. The French poetry is detail and +verbiage. I have thus shown why the English fail, +as a people, in the Fine Arts, namely, because with +them the end absorbs the means. I have mentioned +Barry as an individual instance. No man spoke or +wrote with more <i>gusto</i> about painting, and yet no one +painted with less. His pictures were dry and coarse, +and wanted all that his description of those of others +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>106]</a></span> +contained. For instance, he speaks of the dull, dead, +watery look in the Medusa’s head of Leonardo, which +conveys a perfect idea of it: if he had copied it, you +would never have suspected anything of the kind. +Again, he has, I believe, somewhere spoken of the +uneasy effect of the tucker of the <i>Titian’s Mistress</i>, +bursting with the full treasures it contains. What a +daub he would have made of it! He is like a person +admiring the grace of a fine rope-dancer; placed on +the rope himself his head turns, and he falls: or like +a man admiring fine horsemanship; set him upon a +horse, and he tumbles over on the other side. Why +was this? His mind was essentially ardent and discursive, +not sensitive or observing; and though the +immediate object acted as a stimulus to his imagination, +it was only as it does to a poet’s, that is, as a +link in the chain of association, as suggesting other +strong feelings and ideas, and not for its intrinsic +beauty or hidden details. He had not the painter’s +eye though he had the painter’s knowledge. There +is as great a difference in this respect as between the +telescope and microscope. People in general see +objects only to distinguish them in practice and by +name; to know that a hat is a hat, that a chair is not +a table, that John is not William; and there are +painters (particularly of history) in England who look +no farther. They cannot finish anything, or go over +a head twice; the first view is all they would arrive +at; nor can they reduce their impressions to their +component parts without losing the spirit. The effect +of this is grossness and want of force; for in reality +the component parts cannot be separated from the +whole. Such people have no pleasure in the exercise +of their art as such: it is all to astonish or to get money +that they follow it; or if they are thrown out of it, +they regret it only as a bankrupt does a business +which was a livelihood to him. Barry did not live, +like Titian, in the taste of colours; they were not a +<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">pabulum</i> to his sense; he did not hold green, blue, +red, and yellow as the precious darlings of his eye. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>107]</a></span> +They did not therefore sink into his mind, or nourish +and enrich it with the sense of beauty, though he +knew enough of them to furnish hints and topics of +discourse. If he had had the most beautiful object in +nature before him in his painting-room in the Adelphi, +he would have neglected it, after a moment’s burst +of admiration, to talk of his last composition, or to +scrawl some new and vast design. Art was nothing to +him, or if anything, merely a stalking-horse to his +ambition and display of intellectual power in general; +and therefore he neglected it to daub huge allegories, +or cabal with the Academy, where the violence of his +will or the extent of his views found ample scope. +As a painter he was valuable merely as a draughtsman, +in that part of the art which may be reduced to lines +and precepts, or positive measurement. There is +neither colour, nor expression, nor delicacy, nor +beauty, in his works.</p> + +<p>1827.</p> + + + +<p class="ptop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>108]</a></span></p> + +<h2>ESSAY IX<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">MATTER AND MANNER</span></h2> + + +<p>Nothing can frequently be more striking than the +difference of style or manner, where the <em>matter</em> +remains the same, as in paraphrases and translations. +The most remarkable example which occurs to us is +in the beginning of the <i>Flower and Leaf</i>, by Chaucer, +and in the modernisation of the same passage by +Dryden. We shall give an extract from both, that +the reader may judge for himself. The original runs +thus:</p> + +<div class="cpoem28"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘And I that all this pleasaunt sight <em>ay</em> sie,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thought sodainly I felt<i>e</i> so sweet an aire<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><em>Con</em> of the eglentere, that certainely<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There is no heart, I deme, in such dispaire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ne with <em>no</em> thought<i>e</i>s froward and contraire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So overlaid, but it should<i>e</i> soone have bote,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If it had ones felt this savour sote.<br /></span> +</div> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And as I stood and cast aside mine eie,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I was of ware the fairest medler tree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That ever yet in all my life I sie,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As full of blossomes as it might<i>e</i> be;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Therein a goldfinch leaping pretil<i>e</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fro bough to bough; and, as him list, <em>gan</em> eete<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of bud<i>de</i>s here and there and floures sweet<i>e</i>.<br /></span> +</div> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And to the herber side <em>ther</em> was joyning<i>e</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">This faire tree, of which I have you told;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And at the last the brid began to sing<i>e</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When he had eaten what he eat<i>e</i> wold<i>e</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So passing sweetly, that by manifold<i>e</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It was more pleasaunt than I coud<i>e</i> devise.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when his song was ended in this wise,<br /></span> +</div> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>109]</a></span> +<span class="i0">The nightingale with so mery a note<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Answered him, that all the wood<i>e</i> rong<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So sodainly, that, as it were a sote,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I stood astonied; so was I with the song<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thorow ravished, that till late and longe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ne wist I in what place I was, ne where;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And ay, me thought<i>e</i>, she song even by mine ere.<br /></span> +</div> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Wherefore about I waited busily,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On every side, if <em>that</em> I her might<i>e</i> see;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, at the last, I gan full well aspie<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where she sat in a fresh grene laurer tree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the further side, even right by me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That gave so passing a delicious smell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">According to the eglentere full well.<br /></span> +</div> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Whereof I had<i>de</i> so inly great pleasure,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That, as me thought, I surely ravished was<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into Paradice, where <em>as</em> my desire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was for to be, and no ferther to passe<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As for that day; and on the sote grasse<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I sat me downe; for, as for mine entent,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bird<i>de</i>s song was more convenient,<br /></span> +</div> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And more pleasaunt to me by many fold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than meat or drinke, or any other thing.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thereto the herber was so fresh and cold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wholesome savours eke so comforting<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That, as I demed<i>e</i>, sith the beginning<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of th<i>ilke</i> world was never seene or than<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So pleasaunt a ground of none earthly man.<br /></span> +</div> + +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And as I sat, the bird<i>de</i>s harkening thus,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Me thought<i>e</i> that I heard<i>e</i> voices sodainly,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The most sweetest and most delicious<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That ever any wight, I trow truly,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heard in <em>here</em> life; for <em>sothe</em> the armony<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sweet accord was in so good musike,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That the voices to angels most was like.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>In this passage the poet has let loose the very soul +of pleasure. There is a spirit of enjoyment in it, of +which there seems no end. It is the intense delight +which accompanies the description of every object, +the fund of natural sensibility which it displays, which +constitutes its whole essence and beauty. Now this +is shown chiefly in the manner in which the different +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>110]</a></span> +objects are anticipated, and the eager welcome which +is given to them; in his repeating and varying the +circumstances with a restless delight; in his quitting +the subject for a moment, and then returning to it +again, as if he could never have his fill of enjoyment. +There is little of this in Dryden’s paraphrase. The +same ideas are introduced, but not in the same +manner, nor with the same spirit. The imagination +of the poet is not borne along with the tide of pleasure—the +verse is not poured out, like the natural strains +it describes, from pure delight, but according to rule +and measure. Instead of being absorbed in his +subject, he is dissatisfied with it, tries to give an air +of dignity to it by factitious ornaments, to amuse the +reader by ingenious allusions, and divert his attention +from the progress of the story by the artifices of the +style:</p> + +<div class="cpoem28"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘The painted birds, companions of the spring,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hopping from spray to spray, were heard to sing.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Both eyes and ears receiv’d a like delight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Enchanting music, and a charming sight.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On Philomel I fix’d my whole desire;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And listen’d for the queen of all the quire;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fain would I hear her heavenly voice to sing;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And wanted yet an omen to the spring.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Thus as I mus’d I cast aside my eye,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And saw a medlar-tree was planted nigh.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The spreading branches made a goodly show,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And full of opening blooms was every bough:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A goldfinch there I saw with gawdy pride<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of painted plumes, that hopp’d from side to side,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still pecking as she pass’d; and still she drew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sweets from every flower and suck’d the dew:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Suffic’d at length, she warbled in her throat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And tun’d her voice to many a merry note,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But indistinct, and neither sweet nor clear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet such as sooth’d my soul, and pleas’d my ear.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Her short performance was no sooner tried,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When she I sought, the nightingale, replied:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So sweet, so shrill, so variously she sung,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That the grove echoed, and the valleys rung:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I so ravish’d with her heavenly note,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I stood entranced, and had no room for thought.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>111]</a></span> +<span class="i0">But all o’erpower’d with ecstasy of bliss,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was in a pleasing dream of paradise;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At length I wak’d, and looking round the bower,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Search’d every tree, and pry’d on every flower,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If any where by chance I might espy<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The rural poet of the melody:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For still methought she sung not far away:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At last I found her on a laurel spray.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Close by my side she sat, and fair in sight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Full in a line, against her opposite;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where stood with eglantine the laurel twin’d;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And both their native sweets were well conjoin’d.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">On the green bank I sat, and listen’d long<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Sitting was more convenient for the song);<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor till her lay was ended could I move,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But wish’d to dwell for ever in the grove.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only methought the time too swiftly pass’d,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And every note I fear’d would be the last.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My sight, and smell and hearing were employ’d,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all three senses in full gust enjoy’d.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And what alone did all the rest surpass<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sweet possession of the fairy place;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Single, and conscious to myself alone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of pleasures to the excluded world unknown:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pleasures which no where else were to be found,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all Elysium in a spot of ground.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Thus while I sat intent to see and hear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And drew perfumes of more than vital air,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All suddenly I heard the approaching sound<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of vocal music on the enchanted ground:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A host of saints it seem’d, so full the quire;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if the bless’d above did all conspire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To join their voices, and neglect the lyre.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Compared with Chaucer, Dryden and the rest of +that school were merely <em>verbal poets</em>. They had a +great deal of wit, sense, and fancy; they only wanted +truth and depth of feeling. But I shall have to say +more on this subject, when I come to consider the +old question which I have got marked down in my +list, whether Pope was a poet.</p> + +<p>Lord Chesterfield’s character of the Duke of Marlborough +is a good illustration of his general theory. +He says, ‘Of all the men I ever knew in my life (and +I knew him extremely well) the late Duke of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>112]</a></span> +Marlborough possessed the graces in the highest degree, +not to say engrossed them; for I will venture (contrary +to the custom of profound historians, who +always assign deep causes for great events) to ascribe +the better half of the Duke of Marlborough’s greatness +and riches to those graces. He was eminently +illiterate: wrote bad English, and spelt it worse. +He had no share of what is commonly called parts; +that is, no brightness, nothing shining in his genius. +He had, most undoubtedly, an excellent good plain +understanding, with sound judgment. But these +alone would probably have raised him but something +higher than they found him, which was page to King +James <small>II.</small>’s Queen. There the graces protected and +promoted him; for while he was Ensign of the +Guards, the Duchess of Cleveland, then favourite +mistress of Charles <small>II.</small>, struck by these very graces, +gave him five thousand pounds; with which he immediately +bought an annuity of five hundred pounds +a year, which was the foundation of his subsequent +fortune. His figure was beautiful, but his manner +was irresistible by either man or woman. It was by +this engaging, graceful manner, that he was enabled +during all his wars to connect the various and jarring +powers of the grand alliance, and to carry them on +to the main object of the war, notwithstanding their +private and separate views, jealousies, and wrongheadedness. +Whatever court he went to (and he was +often obliged to go himself to some resty and refractory +ones) he as constantly prevailed, and brought +them into his measures.’</p> + +<p>Grace in women has often more effect than beauty. +We sometimes see a certain fine self-possession, an +habitual voluptuousness of character, which reposes +on its own sensations, and derives pleasure from all +around it, that is more irresistible than any other +attraction. There is an air of languid enjoyment in +such persons, ‘in their eyes, in their arms, and their +hands, and their face,’ which robs us of ourselves, and +draws us by a secret sympathy towards them. Their +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>113]</a></span> +minds are a shrine where pleasure reposes. Their +smile diffuses a sensation like the breath of spring. +Petrarch’s description of Laura answers exactly to +this character, which is indeed the Italian character. +Titian’s pictures are full of it; they seem sustained +by sentiment, or as if the persons whom he painted +sat to music. There is one in the Louvre (or there +was) which had the most of this expression I ever +remember. It did not look downward; ‘it looked +forward beyond this world.’ It was a look that never +passed away, but remained unalterable as the deep +sentiment which gave birth to it. It is the same +constitutional character (together with infinite activity +of mind) which has enabled the greatest man in +modern history to bear his reverses of fortune with +gay magnanimity, and to submit to the loss of the +empire of the world with as little discomposure as if +he had been playing a game at chess.</p> + +<p>After all, I would not be understood to say that +manner is everything.<a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> Nor would I put Euclid or +Sir Isaac Newton on a level with the first <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">petit-maître</i> +we might happen to meet. I consider <i>Æsop’s Fables</i> +to have been a greater work of genius than Fontaine’s +translation of them; though I am not sure that I +should not prefer Fontaine, for his style only, to +Gay, who has shown a great deal of original invention. +The elegant manners of people of fashion have +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>114]</a></span> +been objected to me, to show the frivolity of external +accomplishments, and the facility with which they are +acquired. As to the last point, I demur. There are +no class of people who lead so laborious a life, or who +take more pains to cultivate their minds as well as +persons, than people of fashion. A young lady of +quality who has to devote so many hours a day to +music, so many to dancing, so many to drawing, so +many to French, Italian, etc., certainly does not pass +her time in idleness: and these accomplishments are +afterwards called into action by every kind of external +or mental stimulus, by the excitements of pleasure, +vanity, and interest. A Ministerial or Opposition +Lord goes through more drudgery than half-a-dozen +literary hacks; nor does a reviewer by profession +read half the same number of publications as a modern +fine lady is obliged to labour through. I confess, +however, I am not a competent judge of the degree +of elegance or refinement implied in the general tone +of fashionable manners. The successful experiment +made by <i>Peregrine Pickle</i>, in introducing his strolling +mistress into genteel company, does not redound +greatly to their credit.</p> + +<p>1815.</p> + +<h3>FOOTNOTE</h3> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> +Sheer impudence answers almost the same purpose. +‘Those impenetrable whiskers have confronted flames.’ Many +persons, by looking big and talking loud, make their way +through the world without any one good quality. I have here +said nothing of mere personal qualifications, which are another +set-off against sterling merit. Fielding was of opinion that +‘the more solid pretensions of virtue and understanding vanish +before perfect beauty.’ ‘A certain lady of a manor’ (says +<i>Don Quixote</i> in defence of his attachment to <i>Dulcinea</i>, which, +however, was quite of the Platonic kind), ‘had cast the eyes +of affection on a certain squat, brawny lay brother of a neighbouring +monastery, to whom she was lavish of her favours. +The head of the order remonstrated with her on this preference +shown to one whom he represented as a very low, +ignorant fellow, and set forth the superior pretensions of +himself, and his more learned brethren. The lady having +heard him to an end, made answer: All that you have said +may be very true; but know that in those points which I +admire, Brother Chrysostom is as great a philosopher, nay +greater, than Aristotle himself!’ So the <i>Wife of Bath</i>:</p> + +<div class="cpoem27"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘To chirche was myn housbond brought on morwe<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With neighebors that for him made sorwe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Jankyn oure clerk was oon of tho.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As help me God, whan that I saugh him go<br /></span> +<span class="i0">After the beere, methought he had a paire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of legges and of feet so clene and faire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That al myn hert I yaf unto his hold.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>‘All which, though we most potently believe, yet we hold +it not honesty to have it thus set down.’</p> +</div> + + + +<p class="ptop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>115]</a></span></p> + +<h2>ESSAY X<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">ON CONSISTENCY OF OPINION</span></h2> + +<div class="cpoem25"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i7">‘——Servetur ad imum<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Qualis ab inceptu processerit, et sibi constet.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + + +<p>Many people boast of being masters in their own +house. I pretend to be master of my own mind. I +should be sorry to have an ejectment served upon me +for any notions I may choose to entertain there. +Within that little circle I would fain be an absolute +monarch. I do not profess the spirit of martyrdom; +I have no ambition to march to the stake, or up to a +masked battery, in defence of an hypothesis: I do +not court the rack: I do not wish to be flayed alive +for affirming that two and two make four, or any +other intricate proposition: I am shy of bodily pains +and penalties, which some are fond of—imprisonment, +fine, banishment, confiscation of goods: but if I do +not prefer the independence of my mind to that of my +body, I at least prefer it to everything else. I would +avoid the arm of power, as I would escape from the +fangs of a wild beast: but as to the opinion of the +world, I see nothing formidable in it. ‘It is the eye +of childhood that fears a painted devil.’ I am not to +be browbeat or wheedled out of any of my settled +convictions. Opinion to opinion, I will face any man. +Prejudice, fashion, the cant of the moment, go for +nothing; and as for the reason of the thing, it can +only be supposed to rest with me or another, in proportion +to the pains we have taken to ascertain it. +Where the pursuit of truth has been the habitual +study of any man’s life, the love of truth will be his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>116]</a></span> +ruling passion. ‘Where the treasure is, there the +heart is also.’ Every one is most tenacious of that to +which he owes his distinction from others. Kings +love power, misers gold, women flattery, poets reputation—and +philosophers truth, when they can find it. +They are right in cherishing the only privilege they +inherit. If ‘to be wise were to be obstinate,’ I might +set up for as great a philosopher as the best of them; +for some of my conclusions are as fixed and as incorrigible +to proof as need be. I am attached to them +in consequence of the pains, and anxiety, and the +waste of time they have cost me. In fact, I should +not well know what to do without them at this time +of day; nor how to get others to supply their place. +I would quarrel with the best friend I have sooner +than acknowledge the absolute right of the Bourbons. +I see Mr. Northcote seldomer than I did, because I +cannot agree with him about the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Catalogue Raisonné</i>. +I remember once saying to this gentleman, a great +while ago, that I did not seem to have altered any of +my ideas since I was sixteen years old. ‘Why then,’ +said he, ‘you are no wiser now than you were then!’ +I might make the same confession, and the same +retort would apply still. Coleridge used to tell me, +that this pertinacity was owing to a want of sympathy +with others. What he calls <em>sympathising with others</em> +is their admiring him; and it must be admitted that +he varies his battery pretty often, in order to accommodate +himself to this sort of mutual understanding. +But I do not agree in what he says of me. On the +other hand, I think that it is my sympathising <em>beforehand</em> +with the different views and feelings that may be +entertained on a subject, that prevents me retracting +my judgment, and flinging myself into the contrary +extreme <em>afterwards</em>. If you proscribe all opinion +opposite to your own, and impertinently exclude all +the evidence that does not make for you, it stares you +in the face with double force when it breaks in unexpectedly +upon you, or if at any subsequent period it +happens to suit your interest or convenience to listen +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>117]</a></span> +to objections which vanity or prudence had hitherto +overlooked. But if you are aware from the first suggestion +of a subject, either by subtlety, or tact, or +close attention, of the full force of what others possibly +feel and think of it, you are not exposed to the +same vacillation of opinion. The number of grains +and scruples, of doubts and difficulties, thrown into +the scale while the balance is yet undecided, add to +the weight and steadiness of the determination. He +who anticipates his opponent’s arguments, confirms +while he corrects his own reasonings. When a +question has been carefully examined in all its bearings, +and a principle is once established, it is not +liable to be overthrown by any new facts which have +been arbitrarily and petulantly set aside, nor by every +wind of idle doctrine rushing into the interstices of a +hollow speculation, shattering it in pieces, and leaving +it a mockery and a bye-word; like those tall, gawky, +staring, pyramidal erections which are seen scattered +over different parts of the country, and are called the +<em>Follies</em> of different gentlemen! A man may be confident +in maintaining a side, as he has been cautious +in choosing it. If after making up his mind strongly +in one way, to the best of his capacity and judgment, +he feels himself inclined to a very violent revulsion +of sentiment, he may generally rest assured that the +change is in himself and his motives, not in the +reason of things.</p> + +<p>I cannot say that, from my own experience, I have +found that the persons most remarkable for sudden +and violent changes of principle have been cast in the +softest or most susceptible mould. All their notions +have been exclusive, bigoted, and intolerant. Their +want of consistency and moderation has been in exact +proportion to their want of candour and comprehensiveness +of mind. Instead of being the creatures of +sympathy, open to conviction, unwilling to give offence +by the smallest difference of sentiment, they have (for +the most part) been made up of mere antipathies—a +very repulsive sort of personages—at odds with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>118]</a></span> +themselves, and with everybody else. The slenderness +of their pretensions to philosophical inquiry has been +accompanied with the most presumptuous dogmatism. +They have been persons of that narrowness of view +and headstrong self-sufficiency of purpose, that they +could see only one side of a question at a time, and +whichever they pleased. There is a story somewhere +in <i>Don Quixote</i>, of two champions coming to a shield +hung up against a tree with an inscription written on +each side of it. Each of them maintained, that the +words were what was written on the side next him, +and never dreamt, till the fray was over, that they +might be different on the opposite side of the shield. +It would have been a little more extraordinary if the +combatants had changed sides in the heat of the +scuffle, and stoutly denied that there were any such +words on the opposite side as they had before been +bent on sacrificing their lives to prove were the only +ones it contained. Yet such is the very situation of +some of our modern polemics. They have been of all +sides of the question, and yet they cannot conceive +how an honest man can be of any but one—that which +they hold at present. It seems that they are afraid +to look their old opinions in the face, lest they should +be fascinated by them once more. They banish all +doubts of their own sincerity by inveighing against +the motives of their antagonists. There is no salvation +out of the pale of their strange inconsistency. +They reduce common sense and probity to the straitest +possible limits—the breasts of themselves and their +patrons. They are like people out at sea on a very +narrow plank, who try to push everybody else off. Is +it that they have so little faith in the course to which +they have become such staunch converts, as to suppose +that, should they allow a grain of sense to their old +allies and new antagonists, they will have more than +they? Is it that they have so little consciousness +of their own disinterestedness, that they feel, if they +allow a particle of honesty to those who now differ +with them, they will have more than they? Those +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>119]</a></span> +opinions must needs be of a very fragile texture which +will not stand the shock of the least acknowledged +opposition, and which lay claim to respectability by +stigmatising all who do not hold them as ‘sots, and +knaves, and cowards.’ There is a want of well-balanced +feeling in every such instance of extravagant +versatility; a something crude, unripe, and harsh, +that does not hit a judicious palate, but sets the teeth +on edge to think of. ‘I had rather hear my mother’s +cat mew, or a wheel grate on the axletree, than one +of these same metre-ballad-mongers’ chaunt his incondite, +retrograde lays, without rhyme and without +reason.</p> + +<p>The principles and professions change: the man +remains the same. There is the same spirit at the +bottom of all this pragmatical fickleness and virulence, +whether it runs into one extreme or another: to +wit, a confinement of view, a jealousy of others, an +impatience of contradiction, a want of liberality in +construing the motives of others, either from monkish +pedantry, or a conceited overweening reference of +everything to our own fancies and feelings. There is +something to be said, indeed, for the nature of the +political machinery, for the whirling motion of the +revolutionary wheel which has of late wrenched men’s +understandings almost asunder, and ‘amazed the very +faculties of eyes and ears’; but still this is hardly a +sufficient reason, why the adept in the old as well as +the new school should take such a prodigious latitude +himself, while at the same time he makes so little +allowance for others. His whole creed need not be +turned topsy-turvy, from the top to the bottom, even +in times like these. He need not, in the rage of +party spirit, discard the proper attributes of humanity, +the common dictates of reason. He need not outrage +every former feeling, nor trample on every customary +decency, in his zeal for reform, or in his greater zeal +against it. If his mind, like his body, has undergone +a total change of essence, and purged off the taint of +all its early opinions, he need not carry about with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>120]</a></span> +him, or be haunted in the persons of others with, the +phantoms of his altered principles to loathe and +execrate them. He need not (as it were) pass an act +of attainder on all his thoughts, hopes, wishes, from +youth upwards, to offer them at the shrine of matured +servility: he need not become one vile antithesis, +a living and ignominious satire on himself.</p> + +<p>A gentleman went to live, some years ago, in a +remote part of the country, and as he did not wish to +affect singularity, he used to have two candles on his +table of an evening. A romantic acquaintance of his +in the neighbourhood, smit with the love of simplicity +and equality, used to come in, and without ceremony +snuff one of them out, saying, it was a shame to +indulge in such extravagance, while many poor +cottagers had not even a rushlight to see to do their +evening’s work by. This might be about the year +1802, and was passed over as among the ordinary +occurrences of the day. In 1816 (oh! fearful lapse +of time, pregnant with strange mutability) the same +enthusiastic lover of economy, and hater of luxury, +asked his thoughtless friend to dine with him in company +with a certain lord, and to lend him his manservant +to wait at table; and just before they were +sitting down to dinner, he heard him say to the +servant in a sonorous whisper—‘and be sure you +don’t forget to have six candles on the table!’ Extremes +meet. The event here was as true to itself as +the oscillation of the pendulum. My informant, who +understands moral equations, had looked for this +reaction, and noted it down as characteristic. The +impertinence in the first instance was the cue to the +ostentatious servility in the second. The one was the +fulfilment of the other, like the type and anti-type of +a prophecy. No—the keeping of the character at the +end of fourteen years was as unique as the keeping +of the thought to the end of the fourteen lines of a +sonnet! Would it sound strange if I were to whisper +it in the reader’s ear, that it was the same person who +was thus anxious to see six candles on the table to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>121]</a></span> +receive a lord, who once (in ages past) said to me, +that ‘he saw nothing to admire in the eloquence of +such men as Mansfield and Chatham; and what did +it all end in, but their being made lords?’ It is +better to be a lord than a lacquey to a lord! So we +see that the swelling pride and preposterous self-opinion +which exalts itself above the mightiest, looking +down upon and braving the boasted pretensions +of the highest rank and the most brilliant talents as +nothing, compared with its own conscious powers and +silent unmoved self-respect, grovels and licks the +dust before titled wealth, like a lacquered slave, the +moment it can get wages and a livery! Would +Milton or Marvel have done this?</p> + +<p>Mr. Coleridge, indeed, sets down this outrageous +want of keeping to an excess of sympathy, and there +is, after all, some truth in his suggestion. There is +a craving after the approbation and concurrence of +others natural to the mind of man. It is difficult +to sustain the weight of an opinion singly for any +length of way. The intellect languishes without +cordial encouragement and support. It exhausts both +strength and patience to be always striving against +the stream. <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Contra audentior ito</i> is the motto but of +few. Public opinion is always pressing upon the +mind, and, like the air we breathe, acts unseen, unfelt. +It supplies the living current of our thoughts, and +infects without our knowledge. It taints the blood, +and is taken into the smallest pores. The most +sanguine constitutions are, perhaps, the most exposed +to its influence. But public opinion has its source in +power, in popular prejudice, and is not always in +accord with right reason, or a high and abstracted +imagination. Which path to follow where the two +roads part? The heroic and romantic resolution +prevails at first in high and heroic tempers. They +think to scale the heights of truth and virtue at once +with him ‘whose genius had angelic wings, and fed +on manna,’—but after a time find themselves baffled, +toiling on in an uphill road, without friends, in a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>122]</a></span> +cold neighbourhood, without aid or prospect of success. +The poet</p> + +<div class="cpoem18"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Like a worm goes by the way.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>He hears murmurs loud or suppressed, meets blank +looks or scowling faces, is exposed to the pelting +of the pitiless press, and is stunned by the shout of +the mob, that gather round him to see what sort of a +creature a poet and a philosopher is. What is there +to make him proof against all this? A strength of +understanding steeled against temptation, and a dear +love of truth that smiles opinion to scorn. These he +perhaps has not. A lord passes in his coach. Might +he not get up, and ride out of the reach of the rabble-rout? +He is invited to stop dinner. If he stays he +might insinuate some wholesome truths. He drinks +in rank poison—flattery! He recites some verses to +the ladies, who smile delicious praise, and thank him +through their tears. The master of the house suggests +a happy allusion in the turn of an expression. ‘There’s +sympathy.’ This is better than the company he lately +left. Pictures, statues meet his raptured eye. Our +Ulysses finds himself in the gardens of Alcinous: our +truant is fairly caught. He wanders through enchanted +ground. Groves, classic groves, nod unto +him, and he hears ‘ancestral voices’ hailing him as +brother bard! He sleeps, dreams, and wakes cured +of his thriftless prejudices and morose philanthropy. +He likes this courtly and popular sympathy better. +‘He looks up with awe to kings; with honour to +nobility; with reverence to magistrates,’ etc. He +no longer breathes the air of heaven and his own +thoughts, but is steeped in that of palaces and courts, +and finds it agree better with his constitutional temperament. +Oh! how sympathy alters a man from +what he was!</p> + +<div class="cpoem18"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘I’ve heard of hearts unkind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Kind deeds with cold returning;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alas! the gratitude of man<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Has oftener set me mourning.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>123]</a></span> +A spirit of contradiction, a wish to monopolise all +wisdom, will not account for uniform consistency, for +it is sure to defeat and turn against itself. It is +‘everything by turns, and nothing long.’ It is +warped and crooked. It cannot bear the least opposition, +and sooner than acquiesce in what others +approve it will change sides in a day. It is offended +at every resistance to its captious, domineering +humour, and will quarrel for straws with its best +friends. A person under the guidance of this demon, +if every whimsy or occult discovery of his own is not +received with acclamation by one party, will wreak +his spite by deserting to the other, and carry all his +talent for disputation with him, sharpened by rage +and disappointment. A man, to be steady in a cause, +should be more attached to the truth than to the +acquiescence of his fellow citizens.</p> + +<p>I can hardly consider Mr. Coleridge a deserter +from the cause he first espoused, unless one could +tell what cause he ever heartily espoused, or what +party he ever belonged to, in downright earnest. He +has not been inconsistent with himself at different +times, but at all times. He is a sophist, a casuist, a +rhetorician, what you please, and might have argued +or declaimed to the end of his breath on one side of +a question or another, but he never was a pragmatical +fellow. He lived in a round of contradictions, and +never came to a settled point. His fancy gave the +cue to his judgment, and his vanity set his invention +afloat in whatever direction he could find most scope +for it, or most <em>sympathy</em>, that is, admiration. His +Life and Opinions might naturally receive the title +of one of Hume’s Essays—<i>A Sceptical Solution of +Sceptical Doubts</i>. To be sure, his <i>Watchman</i> and his +<i>Friend</i> breathe a somewhat different tone on subjects +of a particular description, both of them apparently +pretty high-raised, but whoever will be at the pains +to examine them closely, will find them to be <em>voluntaries</em>, +fugues, solemn capriccios, not set compositions +with any malice prepense in them, or much practical +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>124]</a></span> +meaning. I believe some of his friends, who were indebted +to him for the suggestion of plausible reasons +for conformity, and an opening to a more qualified +view of the letter of their paradoxical principles, have +lately disgusted him by the virulence and extravagance +to which they have carried hints, of which he never +suspected that they would make the least possible use. +But if Mr. Coleridge is satisfied with the wandering +Moods of his Mind, perhaps this is no reason that +others may not reap the solid benefit. He himself is +like the idle seaweed on the ocean, tossed from shore +to shore: they are like barnacles fastened to the +vessel of state, rotting its goodly timbers!</p> + +<p>There are some persons who are of too fastidious a +turn of mind to like anything long, or to assent twice +to the same opinion. —— always sets himself to +prop the falling cause, to nurse the rickety bantling. +He takes the part which he thinks in most need of +his support, not so much out of magnanimity, as to +prevent too great a degree of presumption or self-complacency +on the triumphant side. ‘Though truth +be truth, yet he contrives to throw such changes of +vexation on it as it may lose some colour.’ I have +been delighted to hear him expatiate with the most +natural and affecting simplicity on a favourite passage +or picture, and all the while afraid of agreeing with +him, lest he should instantly turn round and unsay +all that he had said, for fear of my going away with +too good an opinion of my own taste, or too great an +admiration of my idol—and his own. I dare not ask +his opinion twice, if I have got a favourable sentence +once, lest he should belie his own sentiments to +stagger mine. I have heard him talk divinely (like +one inspired) of Boccaccio, and the story of the Pot +of Basil, describing ‘how it grew, and it grew, and it +grew,’ till you saw it spread its tender leaves in the +light of his eye, and wave in the tremulous sound of +his voice; and yet if you asked him about it another +time, he would, perhaps, affect to think little of it, or +to have forgotten the circumstance. His enthusiasm +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>125]</a></span> +is fickle and treacherous. The instant he finds it +shared in common, he backs out of it. His enmity is +equally refined, but hardly so unsocial. His exquisitely-turned +invectives display all the beauty of +scorn, and impart elegance to vulgarity. He sometimes +finds out minute excellences, and cries up one +thing to put you out of conceit with another. If you +want him to praise Sir Joshua <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">con amore</i>, in his best +manner, you should begin with saying something +about Titian—if you seem an idoliser of Sir Joshua, +he will immediately turn off the discourse, gliding +like the serpent before Eve, wary and beautiful, to +the graces of Sir Peter Lely, or ask if you saw a +Vandyke the other day, which he does not think Sir +Joshua could stand near. But find fault with the +Lake Poets, and mention some pretended patron of +rising genius, and you need not fear but he will join +in with you and go all lengths that you can wish him. +You may calculate upon him there. ‘Pride elevates, +and joy brightens his face.’ And, indeed, so eloquent is +he, and so beautiful in his eloquence, that I myself, with +all my freedom from gall and bitterness, could listen +to him untired, and without knowing how the time went, +losing and neglecting many a meal and hour,</p> + +<div class="cpoem24"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">——‘From morn to noon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From noon to dewy eve, a summer’s day.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>When I cease to hear him quite, other tongues, +turned to what accents they may of praise or blame, +would sound dull, ungrateful, out of tune, and harsh, +in the comparison.</p> + +<p>An overstrained enthusiasm produces a capriciousness +in taste, as well as too much indifference. A +person who sets no bounds to his admiration takes a +surfeit of his favourites. He overdoes the thing. +He gets sick of his own everlasting praises, and +affected raptures. His preferences are a great deal +too violent to last. He wears out an author in a +week, that might last him a year, or his life, by the +eagerness with which he devours him. Every such +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>126]</a></span> +favourite is in his turn the greatest writer in the +world. Compared with the lord of the ascendent for +the time being, Shakspeare is commonplace, and +Milton a pedant, a little insipid or so. Some of these +prodigies require to be dragged out of their lurking-places, +and cried up to the top of the compass; their +traits are subtle, and must be violently obtruded on +the sight. But the effort of exaggerated praise, +though it may stagger others, tires the maker, and +we hear of them no more after a while. Others take +their turns, are swallowed whole, undigested, ravenously, +and disappear in the same manner. Good +authors share the fate of bad, and a library in a +few years is nearly dismantled. It is a pity thus to +outlive our admiration, and exhaust our relish of what +is excellent. Actors and actresses are disposed of in +the same conclusive peremptory way: some of them +are talked of for months, nay, years; then it is almost +an offence to mention them. Friends, acquaintance, +go the same road: are now asked to come six +days in the week, then warned against coming the +seventh. The smallest faults are soon magnified in +those we think too highly of: but where shall we +find perfection? If we will put up with nothing +short of that, we shall have neither pictures, books, +nor friends left—we shall have nothing but our own +absurdities to keep company with! ‘In all things a +regular and moderate indulgence is the best security +for a lasting enjoyment.’</p> + +<p>There are numbers who judge by the event, and +change with fortune. They extol the hero of the day, +and join the prevailing clamour, whatever it is; so +that the fluctuating state of public opinion regulates +their feverish, restless enthusiasm, like a thermometer. +They blow hot or cold, according as the wind sets +favourably or otherwise. With such people the only +infallible test of merit is success; and no arguments +are true that have not a large or powerful majority on +their side. They go by appearances. Their vanity, +not the truth, is their ruling object. They are not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>127]</a></span> +the last to quit a falling cause, and they are the first +to hail the rising sun. Their minds want sincerity, +modesty, and keeping. With them—</p> + +<div class="cpoem21"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">——‘To have done is to hang<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In monumental mockery.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>They still, ‘with one consent, praise new-born gauds,’ +and Fame, as they construe it, is</p> + +<div class="cpoem28"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i1">——‘Like a fashionable host,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And with his arms outstretch’d, as he would fly,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grasps the in comer. Welcome ever smiles,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Farewell goes out sighing.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Such servile flatterers made an idol of Buonaparte +while fortune smiled upon him, but when it left him, +they removed him from his pedestal in the cabinet of +their vanity, as we take down the picture of a relation +that has died without naming us in his will. The +opinion of such triflers is worth nothing; it is merely +an echo. We do not want to be told the event of a +question, but the rights of it. Truth is in their theory +nothing but ‘noise and inexplicable dumb show.’ +They are the heralds, outriders, and trumpeters in +the procession of fame; are more loud and boisterous +than the rest, and give themselves great airs, as the +avowed patrons and admirers of genius and merit. +As there are many who change their sentiments with +circumstances (as they decided lawsuits in Rabelais +with the dice), so there are others who change them +with their acquaintance. ‘Tell me your company, +and I’ll tell you your opinions,’ might be said to +many a man who piques himself on a select and +superior view of things, distinct from the vulgar. +Individuals of this class are quick and versatile, but +they are not beforehand with opinion. They catch it, +when it is pointed out to them, and take it at the +rebound, instead of giving the first impulse. Their +minds are a light, luxuriant soil, into which thoughts +are easily transplanted, and shoot up with uncommon +sprightliness and vigour. They wear the dress of other +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>128]</a></span> +people’s minds very gracefully and unconsciously. +They tell you your own opinion, or very gravely repeat +an observation you have made to them about half a +year afterwards. They let you into the delicacies and +luxuries of Spenser with great disinterestedness, in +return for your having introduced that author to their +notice. They prefer West to Raphael, Stothard to +Rubens, till they are told better. Still they are acute +in the main, and good judges in their way. By trying +to improve their tastes, and reform their notions +according to an ideal standard, they perhaps spoil and +muddle their native faculties, rather than do them any +good. Their first manner is their best, because it is +the most natural. It is well not to go out of ourselves, +and to be contented to take up with what we are, for +better for worse. We can neither beg, borrow, nor steal +characteristic excellences. Some views and modes +of thinking suit certain minds, as certain colours +suit certain complexions. We may part with very +shining and very useful qualities, without getting +better ones to supply them. Mocking is catching, only +in regard to defects. Mimicry is always dangerous.</p> + +<p>It is not necessary to change our road in order to +advance on our journey. We should cultivate the +spot of ground we possess, to the utmost of our power, +though it may be circumscribed and comparatively +barren. <em>A rolling stone gathers no moss.</em> People may +collect all the wisdom they will ever attain, quite as +well by staying at home as by travelling abroad. +There is no use in shifting from place to place, from +side to side, or from subject to subject. You have +always to begin again, and never finish any course of +study or observation. By adhering to the same principles +you do not become stationary. You enlarge, +correct, and consolidate your reasonings, without +contradicting and shuffling about in your conclusions. +If truth consisted in hasty assumptions and petulant +contradictions, there might be some ground for this +whiffling and violent inconsistency. But the face of +truth, like that of nature, is different and the same. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>129]</a></span> +The first outline of an opinion, and the general tone +of thinking, may be sound and correct, though we +may spend any quantity of time and pains in working +up and uniting the parts at subsequent sittings. If +we have misconceived the character of the countenance +altogether at first, no alterations will bring it right +afterwards. Those who mistake white for black in +the first instance, may as well mistake black for white +when they reverse their canvas. I do not see what +security they can have in their present opinions, who +build their pretensions to wisdom on the total folly, +rashness, and extravagance (to say no worse) of their +former ones. The perspective may change with years +and experience: we may see certain things nearer, +and others more remote; but the great masses and +landmarks will remain, though thrown into shadow +and tinged by the intervening atmosphere: so the +laws of the understanding, the truth of nature, will +remain, and cannot be thrown into utter confusion +and perplexity by our blunders or caprice, like the +objects in Hogarth’s <i>Rules of Perspective</i>, where everything +is turned upside down, or thrust out of its well-known +place. I cannot understand how our political +Harlequins feel after all their summersaults and +metamorphoses. They can hardly, I should think, +look at themselves in the glass, or walk across the +room without stumbling. This at least would be the +case if they had the least reflection or self-knowledge. +But they judge from pique and vanity solely. There +should be a certain decorum in life, as in a picture, +without which it is neither useful nor agreeable. If +my opinions are not right, at any rate they are the best +I have been able to form, and better than any others +I could take up at random, or out of perversity, now. +Contrary opinions vitiate one another, and destroy +the simplicity and clearness of the mind: nothing is +good that has not a beginning, a middle, and an end; +and I would wish my thoughts to be</p> + +<div class="cpoem22"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Linked each to each by natural piety.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>1821.</p> + + + +<p class="ptop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>130]</a></span></p> + +<h2>ESSAY XI<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">PROJECT FOR A NEW THEORY OF CIVIL AND +CRIMINAL LEGISLATION</span></h2> + + +<p>When I was about fourteen (as long ago as the year +1792), in consequence of a dispute, one day after +coming out of meeting, between my father and an old +lady of the congregation, respecting the repeal of the +Corporation and Test Acts and the limits of religious +toleration, I set about forming in my head (the first +time I ever attempted to think) the following system +of political rights and general jurisprudence.</p> + +<p>It was this circumstance that decided the fate of my +future life; or rather, I would say it was from an +original bias or craving to be satisfied of the reason +of things, that I seized hold of this accidental opportunity +to indulge in its uneasy and unconscious +determination. Mr. Currie, my old tutor at Hackney, +may still have the rough draught of this speculation, +which I gave him with tears in my eyes, and which he +good-naturedly accepted in lieu of the customary +<em>themes</em>, and as a proof that I was no idler, but that +my inability to produce a line on the ordinary school +topics arose from my being involved in more difficult +and abstruse matters. He must smile at the so oft-repeated +charge against me of florid flippancy and +tinsel. If from those briars I have since plucked +roses, what labour has it not cost me? The Test and +Corporation Acts were repealed the other day. How +would my father have rejoiced if this had happened +in his time, and in concert with his old friends Dr. +Price, Dr. Priestly, and others! but now that there +is no one to care about it, they give as a boon to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>131]</a></span> +indifference what they so long refused to justice, and +thus ascribed by some to the liberality of the age! +Spirit of contradiction! when wilt thou cease to rule +over sublunary affairs, as the moon governs the tides? +Not till the unexpected stroke of a comet throws up a +new breed of men and animals from the bowels of the +earth; nor then neither, since it is included in the +very idea of all life, power, and motion. <em>For</em> and +<em>against</em> are inseparable terms. But not to wander +any farther from the point—</p> + +<p>I began with trying to define what a <em>right</em> meant; +and this I settled with myself was not simply that +which is good or useful in itself, but that which is +thought so by the individual, and which has the +sanction of his will as such. 1. Because the determining +what is good in itself is an endless question. +2. Because one person’s having a right to any good, +and another being made the judge of it, leaves him +without any security for its being exercised to his +advantage, whereas self-love is a natural guarantee for +our self-interest. 3. A thing being willed is the most +absolute moral reason for its existence: that a thing +is good in itself is no reason whatever why it should +exist, till the will clothes it with a power to act as a +motive; and there is certainly nothing to prevent this +will from taking effect (no law or admitted plea above +it) but another will opposed to it, and which forms a +right on the same principle. A good is only so far a +right, inasmuch as it virtually determines the will; +for a <em>right</em> meant that which contains within itself, +and as respects the bosom in which it is lodged, a +cogent and unanswerable reason why it should exist. +Suppose I have a violent aversion to one thing and +as strong an attachment to something else, and that +there is no other being in the world but myself, shall +I not have a self-evident right, full title, liberty, to +pursue the one and avoid the other? That is to say, +in other words, there can be no authority to interpose +between the strong natural tendency of the will and +its desired effect, but the will of another. It may be +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>132]</a></span> +replied that reason, that affection, may interpose +between the will and the act; but there are motives +that influence the conduct by first altering the will; +and the point at issue is, that these being away, what +other principle or lever is there always left to appeal +to, before we come to blows? Now, such a principle +is to be found in self-interest; and such a barrier +against the violent will is erected by the limits which +this principle necessarily sets to itself in the claims +of different individuals. Thus, then, a right is not +that which is right in itself, or best for the whole, or +even for the individual, but that which is good in his +own eyes, and according to his own will; and to +which, among a number of equally selfish and self-willed +beings, he can lay claim, allowing the same latitude +and allowance to others. Political justice is that +which assigns the limits of these individual rights in +society, or it is the adjustment of force against force, +of will against will, to prevent worse consequences. +In the savage state there is nothing but an appeal to +brute force, or the right of the strongest; Politics +lays down a rule to curb and measure out the wills of +individuals in equal portions; Morals has a higher +standard still, and ought never to appeal to force in +any case whatever. Hence I always found something +wanting in Mr. Godwin’s <i>Enquiry concerning Political +Justice</i> (which I read soon after with great avidity, +and hoped, from its title and its vast reputation, to +get entire satisfaction from it), for he makes no distinction +between political justice, which implies an +appeal to force, and moral justice, which implies only +an appeal to reason. It is surely a distinct question, +what you can persuade people to do by argument and +fair discussion, and what you may lawfully compel +them to do, when reason and remonstrance fail. But +in Mr. Godwin’s system the ‘omnipotence of reason’ +supersedes the use of law and government, merges +the imperfection of the means in the grandeur of the +end, and leaves but one class of ideas or motives, the +highest and the least attainable possible. So promises +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>133]</a></span> +and oaths are said to be of no more value than common +breath; nor would they, if every word we uttered was +infallible and oracular, as if delivered from a Tripod. +But this is pragmatical, and putting an imaginary for +a real state of things. Again, right and duties, +according to Mr. Godwin, are reciprocal. I could +not comprehend this without an arbitrary definition +that took away the meaning. In my sense, a man +might have a right, a discriminating power, to do +something, which others could not deprive him of, +without a manifest infraction of certain rules laid down +for the peace and order of society, but which it might +be his duty to waive upon good reasons shown; rights +are seconded by force, duties are things of choice. +This is the import of the words in common speech: +why then pass over this distinction in a work confessedly +rhetorical as well as logical, that is, which +laid an equal stress on sound and sense? Right, +therefore, has a personal or selfish reference, as it is +founded on the law which determines a man’s actions +in regard to his own being and well-being; and +political justice is that which assigns the limits of +these individual rights on their compatibility or incompatibility +with each other in society. Right, in a +word, is the duty which each man owes to himself; +or it is that portion of the general good of which (as +being principally interested) he is made the special +judge, and which is put under his immediate keeping.</p> + +<p>The next question I asked myself was, what is law +and the real and necessary ground of civil government? +The answer to this is found in the former +statement. <em>Law</em> is something to abridge, or, more +properly speaking, to ascertain, the bounds of the +original right, and to coerce the will of individuals in +the community. Whence, then, has the community +such a right? It can only arise in self-defence, or +from the necessity of maintaining the equal rights of +every one, and of opposing force to force in case of +any violent and unwarrantable infringement of them. +Society consists of a given number of individuals; and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>134]</a></span> +the aggregate right of government is only the consequence +of these inherent rights, balancing and +neutralising one another. How those who deny +natural rights get at any sort of right, divine or +human, I am at a loss to discover; for whatever exists +in combination, exists beforehand in an elementary +state. The world is composed of atoms, and a +machine cannot be made without materials. First, +then, it follows that law or government is not the +mere creature of a social compact, since each person +has a certain right which he is bound to defend against +another without asking that other’s leave, or else the +right would always be at the mercy of whoever chose +to invade it. There would be a right to do wrong, +but none to resist it. Thus I have a natural right +to defend my life against a murderer, without any +mutual compact between us; hence society has an +aggregate right of the same kind, and to make a law +to that effect, forbidding and punishing murder. If +there be no such immediate value and attachment to +life felt by the individual, and a consequent justifiable +determination to defend it, then the formal pretension +of society to vindicate a right, which, according to +this reasoning, has no existence in itself, must be +founded on air, on a word, or a lawyer’s <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">ipse dixit</i>. +Secondly, society, or government, as such, has no +right to trench upon the liberty or rights of the +individuals its members, except as these last are, as +it were, forfeited by interfering with and destroying +one another, like opposite mechanical forces or quantities +in arithmetic. Put the basis that each man’s +will is a sovereign law to itself: this can only hold in +society as long as he does not meddle with others; +but so long as he does not do this, the first principle +retains its force, for there is no other principle to +impeach or overrule it. The will of society is not a +sufficient plea; since this is, or ought to be, made up +of the wills or rights of the individuals composing it, +which by the supposition remain entire, and consequently +without power to act. The good of society +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>135]</a></span> +is not a sufficient plea, for individuals are only bound +(on compulsion) not to do it harm, or to be barely +just: benevolence and virtue are voluntary qualities. +For instance, if two persons are obliged to do all that +is possible for the good of both, this must either +be settled voluntarily between them, and then it is +friendship, and not force; or if this is not the case, it +is plain that one must be the slave, and lie at the +caprice and mercy of the other: it will be one will +forcibly regulating two bodies. But if each is left +master of his own person and actions, with only the +implied proviso of not encroaching on those of the +other, then both may continue free and independent, +and contented in their several spheres. One individual +has no right to interfere with the employment +of my muscular powers, or to put violence on my +person, to force me to contribute to the most laudable +undertaking if I do not approve of it, any more than +I have to force him to assist me in the direct contrary: +if one has not, ten have not, nor a million, any such +arbitrary right over me. What one can be <em>made</em> to +do for a million is very trifling: what a million may +do by being left free in all that merely concerns +themselves, and not subject to the perpetual caprice +and insolence of authority, and pretext of the public +good, is a very different calculation. By giving up +the principle of political independence, it is not the +million that will govern the one, but the one that will +in time give law to the million. There are some +things that cannot be free in natural society, and +against which there is a natural law; for instance, no +one can be allowed to knock out another’s brains or +to fetter his limbs with impunity. And government +is bound to prevent the same violations of liberty and +justice. The question is, whether it would not be +possible for a government to exist, and for a system +of laws to be framed, that confined itself to the +punishment of such offences, and left all the rest +(except the suppression of force by force) optional or +matter of mutual compact. What are a man’s natural +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>136]</a></span> +rights? Those, the infringement of which cannot on +any supposition go unpunished: by leaving all but +cases of necessity to choice and reason, much would +be perhaps gained, and nothing lost.</p> + +<p><em class="smallcap">Corollary 1.</em> It results from the foregoing statement, +that there is nothing naturally to restrain or +oppose the will of one man, but the will of another +meeting it. Thus, in a desert island, it is evident +that my will and rights would be absolute and unlimited, +and I might say with Robinson Crusoe, ‘I am +monarch of all I survey.’</p> + +<p><em class="smallcap">Corollary 2.</em> It is coming into society that circumscribes +my will and rights, by establishing equal and +mutual rights, instead of the original uncircumscribed +ones. They are still ‘founded as the rock,’ though not +so broad and general as the casing air, for the only +thing that limits them is the solidity of another right, +no better than my own, and, like stones in a building, +or a mosaic pavement, each remains not the less firmly +riveted to its place, though it cannot encroach upon +the next to it. I do not belong to the state, nor am +I a nonentity in it, but I am one part of it, and independent +in it, for that very reason that every one in +it is independent of me. Equality, instead of being +destroyed by society, results from and is improved by +it; for in politics, as in physics, the action and reaction +are the same: the right of resistance on their +part implies the right of self-defence on mine. In a +theatre, each person has a right to his own seat, by +the supposition that he has no right to intrude into +any one else’s. They are convertible propositions. +Away, then, with the notion that liberty and equality +are inconsistent. But here is the artifice: by merging +the rights and independence of the individual in the +fictitious order of society, those rights become arbitrary, +capricious, equivocal, removable at the pleasure +of the state or ruling power; there is nothing substantial +or durable implied in them: if each has no +positive claim, naturally, those of all taken together +can mount up to nothing; right and justice are mere +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>137]</a></span> +blanks to be filled up with arbitrary will, and the +people have thenceforward no defence against the +government. On the other hand, suppose these +rights to be not empty names or artificial arrangements, +but original and inherent like solid atoms, +then it is not in the power of government to annihilate +one of them, whatever may be the confusion +arising from their struggle for mastery, or before +they can settle into order and harmony. Mr. Burke +talks of the reflections and refractions of the rays of +light as altering their primary essence and direction. +But if there were no original rays of light, there +could be neither refraction, nor reflections. Why, +then, does he try by cloudy sophistry to blot the sun +out of heaven? One body impinges against and +impedes another in the fall, but it could not do this, +but for the principle of gravity. The author of the +<i>Sublime and Beautiful</i> would have a single atom outweigh +the great globe itself; or all empty title, a +bloated privilege, or a grievous wrong overturn the +entire mass of truth and justice. The question +between the author and his opponents appears to be +simply this: whether politics, or the general good, is +all affair of reason or imagination! and this seems +decided by another consideration, viz. that Imagination +is the judge of individual things, and Reason +of generals. Hence the great importance of the principle +of universal suffrage; for if the vote and choice +of a single individual goes for nothing, so, by parity +of reasoning, may that of all the rest of the community: +but if the choice of every man in the community +is held sacred, then what must be the weight +and value of the whole.</p> + +<p>Many persons object that by this means property is +not represented, and so, to avoid that, they would +have nothing but property represented, at the same +time that they pretend that if the elective franchise +were thrown open to the poor, they would be wholly +at the command of the rich, to the prejudice and +exclusion of the middle and independent classes of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>138]</a></span> +society. Property always has a natural influence and +authority: it is only people without property that +have no natural protection, and require every artificial +and legal one. <em>Those that have much, shall have more; +and those that have little, shall have less.</em> This proverb +is no less true in public than in private life. The +<em>better orders</em> (as they are called, and who, in virtue of +this title, would assume a monopoly in the direction +of state affairs) are merely and in plain English those +who are <em>better off</em> than others; and as they get the +wished-for monopoly into their hands, others will +uniformly be <em>worse off</em>, and will sink lower and lower +in the scale; so that it is essentially requisite to extend +the elective franchise in order to counteract the excess +of the great and increasing goodness of the better +orders to themselves. I see no reason to suppose that +in any case popular feeling (if free course were given +to it) would bear down public opinion. Literature is +at present pretty nearly on the footing of universal +suffrage, yet the public defer sufficiently to the critics; +and when no party bias interferes, and the government +do not make a point of running a writer down, +the verdict is tolerably fair and just. I do not say +that the result might not be equally satisfactory, when +literature was patronised more immediately by the +great; but then lords and ladies had no interest in +praising a bad piece and condemning a good one. If +they could have laid a tax on the town for not going +to it, they would have run a bad play forty nights +together, or the whole year round, without scruple. +As things stand, the worse the law, the better for the +lawmakers: it takes everything from others to give to +<em>them</em>. It is common to insist on universal suffrage +and the ballot together. But if the first were allowed, +the second would be unnecessary. The ballot is only +useful as a screen from arbitrary power. There is +nothing manly or independent to recommend it.</p> + +<p><em class="smallcap">Corollary 3.</em> If I was out at sea in a boat with a +<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">jure divino</i> monarch, and he wanted to throw me +overboard, I would not let him. No gentleman would +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>139]</a></span> +ask such a thing, no freeman would submit to it. +Has he, then, a right to dispose of the lives and +liberties of thirty millions of men? Or have they +more right than I have to resist his demands? They +have thirty millions of times that right, if they had a +particle of the same spirit that I have. It is not the +individual, then, whom in this case I fear (to me +‘there’s <em>no</em> divinity doth hedge a king’), but thirty +millions of his subjects that call me to account in his +name, and who are of a most approved and indisputable +loyalty, and who have both the right and power. +The power rests with the multitude, but let them +beware how the exercise of it turns against their own +rights! It is not the idol but the worshippers that +are to be dreaded, and who, by degrading one of their +fellows, render themselves liable to be branded with +the same indignities.</p> + +<p><em class="smallcap">Corollary 4.</em> No one can be born a slave; for my +limbs are my own, and the power and the will to use +them are anterior to all laws, and independent of the +control of every other person. No one acquires a +right over another but that other acquires some reciprocal +right over him; therefore the relation of +master and slave is a contradiction in political logic. +Hence, also, it follows that combinations among +labourers for the rise of wages are always just and +lawful, as much as those among master manufacturers +to keep them down. A man’s labour is his own, at +least as much as another’s goods; and he may starve +if he pleases, but he may refuse to work except on +his own terms. The right of property is reducible to +this simple principle, that one man has not a right to +the produce of another’s labour, but each man has a +right to the benefit of his own exertions and the use +of his natural and inalienable powers, unless for a +supposed equivalent and by mutual consent. Personal +liberty and property therefore rest upon the same +foundation. I am glad to see that Mr. Macculloch, +in his <i>Essay on Wages</i>, admits the right of combination +among journeymen and others. I laboured this point +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>140]</a></span> +hard, and, I think, satisfactorily, a good while ago, in +my <i>Reply to Mr. Malthus</i>. ‘Throw your bread upon the +waters, and after many days you shall find it again.’</p> + +<p>There are four things that a man may especially +call his own. 1. His person. 2. His actions. 3. His +property. 4. His opinions. Let us see how each of +these claims unavoidably circumscribes and modifies +those of others, on the principle of abstract equity +and necessity and independence above laid down.</p> + +<p><em class="smallcap">First, as to the Rights of Persons.</em> My intention +is to show that the right of society to make laws to +coerce the will of others, is founded on the necessity +of repelling the wanton encroachment of that will on +their rights; that is, strictly on the right of self-defence +or resistance to aggression. Society comes +forward and says, ‘Let us alone, and we will let you +alone, otherwise we must see which is strongest’; its +object is not to patronise or advise individuals for +their good, and against their will, but to protect +itself: meddling with others forcibly on any other +plea or for any other purpose is impertinence. But +equal rights destroy one another; nor can there be a +right to impossible or impracticable things. Let A, +B, C, D, etc., be different component parts of any +society, each claiming to be the centre and master of +a certain sphere of activity and self-determination: +as long as each keeps within his own line of demarcation +there is no harm done, nor any penalty incurred—it +is only the superfluous and overbearing will of +particular persons that must be restrained or lopped +off by the axe of the law. Let A be the culprit: B, +C, D, etc., or the rest of the community, are plaintiffs +against A, and wish to prevent his taking any unfair +or unwarranted advantage over them. They set up +no pretence to dictate or domineer over him, but +merely to hinder his dictating to and domineering +over them; and in this, having both might and right +on their side, they have no difficulty in putting it in +execution. Every man’s independence and discretionary +power over what peculiarly and exclusively +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>141]</a></span> +concerns himself, is his <em>castle</em> (whether round, square, +or, according to Mr. Owen’s new map of improvements, +in the form of a parallelogram). As long as +he keeps within this, he is safe—society has no hold +of him: it is when he quits it to attack his neighbours +that they resort to reprisals, and make short work +of the interloper. It is, however, time to endeavour +to point out in what this natural division of right, and +separate advantage consists. In the first place, A, B, +C, D have the common and natural rights of persons, +in so far that none of these has a right to offer violence +to, or cause bodily pain or injury to any of the others. +Sophists laugh at natural rights: they might as well +deny that we have natural persons; for while the last +distinction holds true and good by the constitution +of things, certain consequences must and will follow +from it—‘while this machine is to us Hamlet,’ etc. +For instance, I should like to know whether Mr. +Burke, with his <i>Sublime and Beautiful</i> fancies, would +deny that each person has a particular body and senses +belonging to him, so that he feels a peculiar and +natural interest in whatever affects these more than +another can, and whether such a peculiar and paramount +interest does not imply a direct and unavoidable +right in maintaining this circle of individuality +inviolate. To argue otherwise is to assert that indifference, +or that which does not feel either the good +or the ill, is as capable a judge and zealous a discriminator +of right and wrong as that which does. The +right, then, is coeval and co-extended with the interest, +not a product of convention, but inseparable +from the order of the universe; the doctrine itself is +natural and solid; it is the contrary fallacy that is +made of air and words. Mr. Burke, in such a question, +was like a man out at sea in a haze, and could +never tell the difference between land and clouds. +If another break my arm by violence, this will not +certainly give him additional health or strength; if +he stun me by a blow or inflict torture on my limbs, +it is I who feel the pain, and not he; and it is hard if +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>142]</a></span> +I, who am the sufferer, am not allowed to be the +judge. That another should pretend to deprive me +of it, or pretend to judge for me, and set up his will +against mine, in what concerns this portion of my +existence—where I have all at stake and he nothing—is +not merely injustice, but impudence. The circle +of personal security and right, then, is not an imaginary +and arbitrary line fixed by law and the will of +the prince, or the scaly finger of Mr. Hobbes’s <i>Leviathan</i>, +but is real and inherent in the nature of things, +and itself the foundation of law and justice. ‘Hands +off is fair play’—according to the old adage. One, +therefore, has not a right to lay violent hands on +another, or to infringe on the sphere of his personal +identity; one must not run foul of another, or he is +liable to be repelled and punished for the offence. If +you meet an Englishman suddenly in the street, he +will run up against you sooner than get out of your +way, which last he thinks a compromise of his dignity +and a relinquishment of his purpose, though he +expects you to get out of his. A Frenchman in the +same circumstances will come up close to you, and +try to walk over you, as if there was no one in his +way; but if you take no notice of him, he will step +on one side, and make you a low bow. The one is a +fellow of stubborn will, the other a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">petit-maître</i>. An +Englishman at a play mounts upon a bench, and +refuses to get down at the request of another, who +threatens to call him to account the next day. ‘Yes,’ +is the answer of the first, ‘if your master will let +you!’ His abuse of liberty, he thinks, is justified by +the other’s want of it. All an Englishman’s ideas +are modifications of his will; which shows, in one +way, that right is founded on will, since the English +are at once the freest and most wilful of all people. +If you meet another on the ridge of a precipice, are you +to throw each other down? Certainly not. You are +to pass as well as you can. ‘Give and take,’ is the +rule of natural right, where the right is not all on +one side and cannot be claimed entire. Equal weights +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>143]</a></span> +and scales produce a balance, as much as where the +scales are empty: so it does not follow (as our votaries +of absolute power would insinuate) that one man’s +right is nothing because another’s is something. But +suppose there is not time to pass, and one or other +must perish, in the case just mentioned, then each +must do the best for himself that he can, and the +instinct of self-preservation prevails over everything +else. In the streets of London, the passengers take +the right hand of one another and the wall alternately; +he who should not conform to this rule would be +guilty of a breach of the peace. But if a house were +falling, or a mad ox driven furiously by, the rule would +be, of course, suspended, because the case would +be out of the ordinary. Yet I think I can conceive, +and have even known, persons capable of carrying the +point of gallantry in political right to such a pitch as +to refuse to take a precedence which did not belong +to them in the most perilous circumstances, just as a +soldier may waive a right to quit his post, and takes +his turn in battle. The actual collision or case of personal +assault and battery, is, then, clearly prohibited, +inasmuch as each person’s body is clearly defined: +but how if A use other means of annoyance against B, +such as a sword or poison, or resort to what causes +other painful sensations besides tangible ones, for +instance, certain disagreeable sounds and smells? Or, +if these are included as a violation of personal rights, +then how draw the line between them and the employing +certain offensive words and gestures or uttering +opinions which I disapprove? This is a puzzler +for the dogmatic school; but they solve the whole +difficulty by an assumption of <em>utility</em>, which is as much +as to tell a person that the way to any place to which +he asks a direction is ‘to follow his nose.’ We want +to know by given marks and rules what is best and +useful; and they assure us very wisely, that this is +infallibly and clearly determined by what is best and +useful. Let us try something else. It seems no +less necessary to erect certain little <i>fortalices</i>, with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>144]</a></span> +palisades and outworks about them, for <em class="smallcap">Right</em> to +establish and maintain itself in, than as landmarks to +guide us across the wide waste of <em class="smallcap">Utility</em>. If a person +runs a sword through me, or administers poison, or +procures it to be administered, the effect, the pain, +disease or death is the same, and I have the same +right to prevent it, on the principle that I am the +sufferer; that the injury is offered to me, and he is +no gainer by it, except for mere malice or caprice, +and I therefore remain master and judge of my own +remedy, as in the former case; the principle and +definition of right being to secure to each individual +the determination and protection of that portion of +sensation in which he has the greatest, if not a sole +interest, and, as it were, identity with it. Again, as +to what are called <em>nuisances</em>, to wit offensive smells, +sounds, etc., it is more difficult to determine, on the +ground that <em>one man’s meat is another man’s poison</em>. +I remember a case occurred in the neighbourhood +where I was, and at the time I was trying my best +at this question, which puzzled me a good deal. A +rector of a little town in Shropshire, who was at +variance with all his parishioners, had conceived a +particular spite to a lawyer who lived next door to him, +and as a means of annoying him, used to get together +all sorts of rubbish, weeds, and unsavoury materials, +and set them on fire, so that the smoke should blow +over into his neighbour’s garden; whenever the wind +set in that direction, he said, as a signal to his +gardener, ‘It’s a fine Wicksteed wind to-day’; and +the operation commenced. Was this an action of +assault and battery, or not? I think it was, for this +reason, that the offence was unequivocal, and that the +only motive for the proceeding was the giving this +offence. The assailant would not like to be served so +himself. Mr. Bentham would say, the malice of the +motive was a set-off to the injury. I shall leave that +<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">prima philosophia</i> consideration out of the question. +A man who knocks out another’s brains with a +bludgeon may say it pleases him to do so; but will it +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>145]</a></span> +please him to have the compliment returned? If he +still persists, in spite of this punishment, there is no +preventing him; but if not, then it is a proof that he +thinks the pleasure less than the pain to himself, and +consequently to another in the scales of justice. The +<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">lex talionis</i> is an excellent test. Suppose a third +person (the physician of the place) had said, ‘It is a +fine Egerton wind to-day,’ our rector would have +been non-plussed; for he would have found that, as +he suffered all the hardship, he had the right to +complain of and to resist an action of another, the +consequences of which affected principally himself. +Now mark: if he had himself had any advantage to +derive from the action, which he could not obtain in +any other way, then he would feel that his neighbour +also had the same plea and right to follow his own +course (still this might be a doubtful point); but in the +other case it would be sheer malice and wanton interference; +that is, not the exercise of a right, but the +invasion of another’s comfort and independence. Has +a person, then, a right to play on the horn or on a +flute, on the same staircase? I say, yes; because it +is for his own improvement and pleasure, and not to +annoy another; and because, accordingly, every one +in his own case would wish to reserve this or a similar +privilege to himself. I do not think a person has a +right to beat a drum under one’s window, because +this is altogether disagreeable, and if there is an +extraordinary motive for it, then it is fit that the +person should be put to some little inconvenience in +removing his sphere of liberty of action to a reasonable +distance. A tallow-chandler’s shop or a steam-engine +is a nuisance in a town, and ought to be +removed into the suburbs; but they are to be tolerated +where they are least inconvenient, because they are +necessary somewhere, and there is no remedying the +inconvenience. The right to protest against and to +prohibit them rests with the suffering party; but +because this point of the greatest interest is less clear +in some cases than in others, it does not follow that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>146]</a></span> +there is no right or principle of justice in the case. +3. As to matters of contempt and the expression of +opinion, I think these do not fall under the head of +force, and are not, on that ground, subjects of coercion +and law. For example, if a person inflicts a +sensation upon me by material means, whether tangible +or otherwise, I cannot help that sensation; I am +so far the slave of that other, and have no means of +resisting him but by force, which I would define to be +material agency. But if another proposes an opinion +to me, I am not bound to be of this opinion; my +judgment and will is left free, and therefore I have +no right to resort to force to recover a liberty which +I have not lost. If I do this to prevent that other +from pressing that opinion, it is I who invade his +liberty, without warrant, because without necessity. +It may be urged that material agency, or force, +is used in the adoption of sounds or letters of the +alphabet, which I cannot help seeing or hearing. +But the injury is not here, but in the moral and +artificial inference, which I am at liberty to admit or +reject, according to the evidence. There is no force +but argument in the case, and it is reason, not the +will of another, that gives the law. Further, the +opinion expressed, generally concerns not one individual, +but the general interest; and of that my +approbation or disapprobation is not a commensurate +or the sole judge. I am judge of my own interests, +because it is my affair, and no one’s else; but by the +same rule, I am not judge, nor have I a <i>veto</i> on that +which appeals to all the world, merely because I have +a prejudice or fancy against it. But suppose another +expresses by signs or words a contempt for me? +<i>Answer.</i> I do not know that he is bound to have a +respect for me. Opinion is free; for if I wish him to +have that respect, then he must be left free to judge +for himself, and consequently to arrive at and to +express the contrary opinion, or otherwise the verdict +and testimony I aim at could not be obtained; just +as players must consent to be hissed if they expect +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>147]</a></span> +to be applauded. Opinion cannot be forced, for it is +not grounded on force, but on evidence and reason, +and therefore these last are the proper instruments to +control that opinion, and to make it favourable to +what we wish, or hostile to what we disapprove. In +what relates to action, the will of another is force, +or the determining power: in what relates to opinion, +the mere will or <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">ipse dixit</i> of another is of no avail but +as it gains over other opinions to its side, and therefore +neither needs nor admits of force as a counteracting +means to be used against it. But in the case +of calumny or indecency: 1. I would say that it is +the suppression of truth that gives falsehood its +worst edge. What transpires (however maliciously or +secretly) in spite of the law, is taken for gospel, and as +it is impossible to prevent calumny, so it is impossible +to counteract it on the present system, or while every +attempt to answer it is attributed to the people’s not +daring to speak the truth. If any single fact or accident +peeps out, the whole character, having this legal +screen before it, is supposed to be of a piece; and +the world, defrauded of the means of coming to their +own conclusion, naturally infer the worst. Hence the +saying, that reputation once gone never returns. If, +however, we grant the general licence or liberty of +the press, in a scheme where publicity is the great +object, it seems a manifest <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">contre-sens</i> that the author +should be the only thing screened or kept a secret: +either, therefore, an anonymous libeller would be +heard with contempt, or if he signed his name thus —, +or thus — —, it would be equivalent to being branded +publicly as a calumniator, or marked with the T. F. +(<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">travail forcé</i>) or the broad R. (rogue) on his back. +These are thought sufficient punishments, and yet +they rest on opinion without stripes or labour. As to +indecency, in proportion as it is flagrant is the shock +and resentment against it; and as vanity is the source +of indecency, so the universal discountenance and +shame is its most effectual antidote. If it is public, +it produces immediate reprisals from public opinion +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>148]</a></span> +which no brow can stand; and if secret, it had better +be left so. No one can then say it is obtruded on +him; and if he will go in search of it, it seems odd +he should call upon the law to frustrate the object of +his pursuit. Further, at the worst, society has its +remedy in its own hands whenever its moral sense +is outraged, that is, it may send to Coventry, or excommunicate +like the church of old; for though it +may have no right to prosecute, it is not bound to +protect or patronise, unless by voluntary consent of +all parties concerned. Secondly, as to rights of +action, or personal liberty. These have no limit but +the rights of persons or property aforesaid, or to be +hereafter named. They are the channels in which +the others run without injury and without impediment, +as a river within its banks. Every one has a +right to use his natural powers in the way most +agreeable to himself, and which he deems most conducive +to his own advantage, provided he does not +interfere with the corresponding rights and liberties +of others. He has no right to coerce them by a +decision of his individual will, and as long as he +abstains from this he has no right to be coerced by +an expression of the aggregate will, that is, by law. +The law is the emanation of the aggregate will, and +this will receives its warrant to act only from the +forcible pressure from without, and its indispensable +resistance to it. Let us see how this will operate to +the pruning and curtailment of law. The rage of +legislation is the first vice of society; it ends by limiting +it to as few things as possible. 1. There can, +according to the principle here imperfectly sketched, +be no laws for the enforcement of morals; because +morals have to do with the will and affections, and +the law only puts a restraint on these. Every one is +politically constituted the judge of what is best for +himself; it is only when he encroaches on others that +he can be called to account. He has no right to say +to others, You shall do as I do: how then should they +have a right to say to him, You shall do as we do? +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>149]</a></span> +Mere numbers do not convey the right, for the law +addresses not one, but the whole community. For +example, there cannot rightly be a law to set a man +in the stocks for getting drunk. It injures his health, +you say. That is his concern, and not mine. But it +is detrimental to his affairs: if so, he suffers most by +it. But it is ruinous to his wife and family: he is +their natural and legal guardian. But they are thrown +upon the parish: the parish need not take the burden +upon itself, unless it chooses or has agreed to do so. +If a man is not kind to or fond of his wife I see no +law to make him. If he beats her, or threatens her +life, she as clearly has a right to call in the aid of a +constable or justice of peace. I do not see, in like +manner, how there can be law against gambling +(against cheating there may), nor against usury. A +man gives twenty, forty, a hundred per cent. with his +eyes open, but would he do it if strong necessity did +not impel him? Certainly no man would give double if +he could get the same advantage for half. There are +circumstances in which a rope to save me from drowning, +or a draught of water, would be worth all I have. +In like manner, lotteries are fair things; for the loss +is inconsiderable, and the advantage may be incalculable. +I do not believe the poor put into them, but +the reduced rich, the <em>shabby-genteel</em>. Players were +formerly prohibited as a nuisance, and fortune-tellers +still are liable to the Vagrant Act, which the parson +of the parish duly enforces, in his zeal to prevent +cheating and imposture, while he himself has his two +livings, and carries off a tenth of the produce of the +soil. Rape is an offence clearly punishable by law; +but I would not say that simple incontinence is so. +I will give one more example, which, though quaint, +may explain the distinction I aim at. A man may +commit suicide if he pleases, without being responsible +to any one. He may quit the world as he would quit +the country where he was born. But if any person +were to fling himself from the gallery into the pit of +a playhouse, so as to endanger the lives of others, if +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>150]</a></span> +he did not succeed in killing himself, he would render +himself liable to punishment for the attempt, if it were +to be supposed that a person so desperately situated +would care about consequences. Duelling is lawful +on the same principle, where every precaution is taken +to show that the act is voluntary and fair on both +sides. I might give other instances, but these will +suffice. 2. There should be a perfect toleration in +matters of religion. In what relates to the salvation of +a man’s soul, he is infinitely more concerned than I +can be; and to pretend to dictate to him in this particular +is an infinite piece of impertinence and presumption. +But if a man has no religion at all? That does +not hinder me from having any. If he stood at the +church door and would not let me enter, I should +have a right to push him aside; but if he lets me pass +by without interruption, I have no right to turn back +and drag him in after me. He might as well force +me to have no religion as I force him to have one, +or burn me at a stake for believing what he does not. +Opinion, ‘like the wild goose, flies unclaimed of any +man’: heaven is like ‘the marble air, accessible to +all’; and therefore there is no occasion to trip up one +another’s heels on the road, or to erect a turnpike gate +to collect large sums from the passengers. How have +I a right to make another pay for the saving of my +soul, or to assist me in damning his? There should +be no secular interference in sacred things; no laws +to suppress or establish any church or sect in religion, +no religious persecutions, tests, or disqualifications; +the different sects should be left to inveigh and hate +each other as much as they please; but without the +love of exclusive domination and spiritual power there +would be little temptation to bigotry and intolerance.</p> + +<p>3. <em class="smallcap">As to the Rights of Property.</em> It is of no use +a man’s being left to enjoy security, or to exercise his +freedom of action, unless he has a right to appropriate +certain other things necessary to his comfort and +subsistence to his own use. In a state of nature, or +rather of solitary independence, he has a right to all +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>151]</a></span> +he can lay his hands on: what then limits this right? +Its being inconsistent with the same right in others. +This strikes a mathematical or logical balance between +two extreme and equal pretensions. As there is not +a natural and indissoluble connection between the +individual and his property, or those outward objects +of which he may have need (they being detached, +unlimited, and transferable), as there is between the +individual and his person, either as an organ of +sensation or action, it is necessary, in order to prevent +endless debate and quarrels, to fix upon some +other criterion or common ground of preference. +Animals, or savages, have no idea of any other right +than that of the strongest, and seize on all they can +get by force, without any regard to justice or an +equal claim. 1. One mode of settling the point is +to divide the spoil. That is allowing an equal advantage +to both. Thus boys, when they unexpectedly +find anything, are accustomed to cry ‘<em>Halves!</em>’ But +this is liable to other difficulties, and applies only to +the case of joint finding. 2. Priority of possession is +a fair way of deciding the right of property; first, on +the mere principle of a lottery, or the old saying, +‘<em>First come, first served</em>’; secondly, because the +expectation having been excited, and the will more +set upon it, this constitutes a powerful reason for not +violently forcing it to let go its hold. The greater +strength of volition is, we have seen, one foundation +of right; for supposing a person to be absolutely indifferent +to anything, he could properly set up no +claim to it. 3. Labour, or the having produced a +thing or fitted it for use by previous exertion, gives +this right, chiefly, indeed, for moral and final causes; +because if one enjoyed what another had produced, +there would be nothing but idleness and rapacity; +but also in the sense we are inquiring into, because +on a merely selfish ground the labour undergone, +or the time lost, is entitled to an equivalent <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">cæteris +manentibus</i>. 4. If another, voluntarily, or for a +consideration, resigns to me his right in anything, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>152]</a></span> +it to all intents and purposes becomes mine. This +accounts not only for gifts, the transfer of property +by bargains, etc., but for legacies, and the transmission +of property in families or otherwise. It is +hard to make a law to circumscribe this right of disposing +of what we have as we please; yet the boasted +law of primogeniture, which is professedly the bulwark +and guardian of property, is in direct violation +of this principle. 5, and lastly. Where a thing is +common, and there is enough for all, and no one +contributes to it, as air or water, there can be no +property in it. The proximity to a herring-fishery, +or the having been the first to establish a particular +traffic in such commodities, may perhaps give this +right by aggravating our will, as having a nearer or +longer power over them; but the rule is the other +way. It is on the same principle that poaching is +a kind of honest thieving, for that which costs no +trouble and is confined to no limits seems to belong +to no one exclusively (why else do poachers or country +people seize on this kind of property with the least +reluctance, but that it is the least like stealing?); +and as the game laws and the tenaciousness of the +rights to that which has least the character of property, +as most a point of honour, produced a revolution +in one country, so they are not unlikely to +produce it in another. The object and principle of +the laws of property, then, is this: 1. To supply +individuals and the community with what they need. +2. To secure an equal share to each individual, other +circumstances being the same. 3. To keep the peace +and promote industry and plenty, by proportioning +each man’s share to his own exertions, or to the +good-will and discretion of others. The intention, +then, being that no individual should rob another, +or be starved but by his refusing to work (the earth +and its produce being the natural estate of the community, +subject to these regulations of individual +right and public welfare), the question is, whether +any individual can have a right to rob or starve the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>153]</a></span> +whole community: or if the necessary discretion left +in the application of the principle has led to a state +of things subversive of the principle itself, and +destructive to the welfare and existence of the state, +whether the end being defeated, the law does not fall +to the ground, or require either a powerful corrective +or a total reconstruction. The end is superior to the +means, and the use of a thing does not justify its +abuse. If a clock is quite out of order and always +goes wrong, it is no argument to say it was set +right at first and on true mechanical principles, and +therefore it must go on as it has done, according to +all the rules of art; on the contrary, it is taken +to pieces, repaired, and the whole restored to the +original state, or, if this is impossible, a new one +is made. So society, when out of order, which it is +whenever the interests of the many are regularly and +outrageously sacrificed to those of the few, must be +repaired, and either a reform or a revolution cleanse +its corruptions and renew its elasticity. People talk +of the poor laws as a grievance. Either they or a +national bankruptcy, or a revolution, are necessary. +The labouring population have not doubled in the +last forty years; there are still no more than are +necessary to do the work in husbandry, etc., that is +indispensably required; but the wages of a labouring +man are no higher than they were forty years +ago, and the price of food and necessaries is at least +double what it was then, owing to taxes, grants, +monopolies, and immense fortunes gathered during +the war by the richer or more prosperous classes, +who have not ceased to propagate in the geometrical +ratio, though the poor have not done it, and the +maintaining of whose younger and increasing branches +in becoming splendour and affluence presses with +double weight on the poor and labouring classes. +The greater part of a community ought not to be +paupers or starving; and when a government by +obstinacy and madness has reduced them to that +state, it must either take wise and effectual measures +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>154]</a></span> +to relieve them from it, or pay the forfeit of its own +wickedness and folly.</p> + +<p>It seems, then, that a system of just and useful +laws may be constructed nearly, if not wholly, on the +principle of the right of self-defence, or the security for +person, liberty, and property. There are exceptions, +such, for instance, as in the case of children, idiots, +and insane persons. These common-sense dictates +for a general principle can only hold good where the +general conditions are complied with. There are +also mixed cases, partaking of civil and moral justice. +Is a man bound to support his children? Not in +strict political right; but he may be compelled to +forego all the benefits of civil society, if he does not +fulfil an engagement which, according to the feelings +and principles of that society, he has undertaken. +So in respect to marriage. It is a voluntary contract, +and the violation of it is punishable on the same plea +of sympathy and custom. Government is not necessarily +founded on common consent, but on the right +which society has to defend itself against all aggression. +But am I bound to pay or support the government +for defending the society against any violence +or injustice? No: but then they may withdraw the +protection of the law from me if I refuse, and it is +on this ground that the contributions of each individual +to the maintenance of the state are demanded. +Laws are, or ought to be, founded on the supposed +infraction of individual rights. If these rights, and +the best means of maintaining them, are always clear, +and there could be no injustice or abuse of power on +the part of the government, every government might +be its own lawgiver: but as neither of these is the +case, it is necessary to recur to the general voice for +settling the boundaries of right and wrong, and even +more for preventing the government, under pretence +of the general peace and safety, from subjecting the +whole liberties, rights, and resources of the community +to its own advantage and sole will.</p> + +<p>1828.</p> + + + +<p class="ptop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>155]</a></span></p> + +<h2>ESSAY XII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">ON THE CHARACTER OF BURKE</span></h2> + + +<p>There is no single speech of Mr. Burke which can +convey a satisfactory idea of his powers of mind: to +do him justice, it would be necessary to quote all his +works; the only specimen of Burke is, <em>all that he +wrote</em>. With respect to most other speakers, a specimen +is generally enough, or more than enough. +When you are acquainted with their manner, and +see what proficiency they have made in the mechanical +exercise of their profession, with what facility +they can borrow a simile, or round a period, how +dexterously they can argue, and object, and rejoin, +you are satisfied; there is no other difference in their +speeches than what arises from the difference of the +subjects. But this was not the case with Burke. +He brought his subjects along with him; he drew +his materials from himself. The only limits which +circumscribed his variety were the stores of his own +mind. His stock of ideas did not consist of a few +meagre facts, meagrely stated, of half-a-dozen commonplaces +tortured into a thousand different ways; +but his mine of wealth was a profound understanding, +inexhaustible as the human heart, and various as the +sources of human nature. He therefore enriched +every subject to which he applied himself, and new +subjects were only the occasions of calling forth fresh +powers of mind which had not been before exerted. +It would therefore be in vain to look for the proof of +his powers in any one of his speeches or writings: +they all contain some additional proof of power. In +speaking of Burke, then, I shall speak of the whole +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>156]</a></span> +compass and circuit of his mind—not of that small +part or section of him which I have been able to give: +to do otherwise would be like the story of the man +who put the brick in his pocket, thinking to show it +as the model of a house. I have been able to manage +pretty well with respect to all my other speakers, and +curtailed them down without remorse. It was easy +to reduce them within certain limits, to fix their spirit, +and condense their variety; by having a certain +quantity given, you might infer all the rest; it was +only the same thing over again. But who can bind +Proteus, or confine the roving flight of genius?</p> + +<p>Burke’s writings are better than his speeches, and +indeed his speeches are writings. But he seemed to +feel himself more at ease, to have a fuller possession +of his faculties in addressing the public, than in +addressing the House of Commons. Burke was +<em>raised</em> into public life; and he seems to have been +prouder of this new dignity than became so great a +man. For this reason, most of his speeches have a +sort of parliamentary preamble to them: he seems +fond of coquetting with the House of Commons, and +is perpetually calling the Speaker out to dance a +minuet with him before he begins. There is also +something like an attempt to stimulate the superficial +dulness of his hearers by exciting their surprise, by +running into extravagance: and he sometimes demeans +himself by condescending to what may be +considered as bordering too much upon buffoonery, +for the amusement of the company. Those lines of +Milton were admirably applied to him by some one—‘The +elephant to make them sport wreathed his +proboscis lithe.’ The truth is, that he was out of his +place in the House of Commons; he was eminently +qualified to shine as a man of genius, as the instructor +of mankind, as the brightest luminary of his age; +but he had nothing in common with that motley crew +of knights, citizens, and burgesses. He could not be +said to be ‘native and endued unto that element.’ He +was above it; and never appeared like himself, but +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>157]</a></span> +when, forgetful of the idle clamours of party, and +of the little views of little men, he applied to his +country and the enlightened judgment of mankind.</p> + +<p>I am not going to make an idle panegyric on Burke +(he has no need of it); but I cannot help looking +upon him as the chief boast and ornament of the +English House of Commons. What has been said of +him is, I think, strictly true, that ‘he was the most +eloquent man of his time: his wisdom was greater +than his eloquence.’ The only public man that in +my opinion can be put in any competition with him, +is Lord Chatham; and he moved in a sphere so very +remote, that it is almost impossible to compare them. +But though it would perhaps be difficult to determine +which of them excelled most in his particular way, +there is nothing in the world more easy than to point +out in what their peculiar excellences consisted. +They were in every respect the reverse of each other. +Chatham’s eloquence was popular: his wisdom was +altogether plain and practical. Burke’s eloquence +was that of the poet; of the man of high and +unbounded fancy: his wisdom was profound and +contemplative. Chatham’s eloquence was calculated +to make men <em>act</em>: Burke’s was calculated to make +them <em>think</em>. Chatham could have roused the fury +of a multitude, and wielded their physical energy +as he pleased: Burke’s eloquence carried conviction +into the mind of the retired and lonely student, +opened the recesses of the human breast, and lighted +up the face of nature around him. Chatham supplied +his hearers with motives to immediate action: Burke +furnished them with <em>reasons</em> for action which might +have little effect upon them at the time, but for which +they would be the wiser and better all their lives +after. In research, in originality, in variety of knowledge, +in richness of invention, in depth and comprehension +of mind, Burke had as much the advantage of +Lord Chatham as he was excelled by him in plain +common sense, in strong feeling, in steadiness of purpose, +in vehemence, in warmth, in enthusiasm, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>158]</a></span> +energy of mind. Burke was the man of genius, of +fine sense, and subtle reasoning; Chatham was a +man of clear understanding, of strong sense, and +violent passions. Burke’s mind was satisfied with +speculation: Chatham’s was essentially <em>active</em>; it +could not rest without an object. The power which +governed Burke’s mind was his Imagination; that +which gave its <em>impetus</em> to Chatham was Will. The +one was almost the creature of pure intellect, the +other of physical temperament.</p> + +<p>There are two very different ends which a man of +genius may propose to himself, either in writing or +speaking, and which will accordingly give birth to +very different styles. He can have but one of these +two objects; either to enrich or strengthen the mind; +either to furnish us with new ideas, to lead the mind +into new trains of thought, to which it was before +unused, and which it was incapable of striking out for +itself; or else to collect and embody what we already +knew, to rivet our old impressions more deeply; to +make what was before plain still plainer, and to give +to that which was familiar all the effect of novelty. +In the one case we receive an accession to the stock of +our ideas; in the other, an additional degree of life +and energy is infused into them: our thoughts continue +to flow in the same channels, but their pulse +is quickened and invigorated. I do not know how to +distinguish these different styles better than by calling +them severally the inventive and refined, or the +impressive and vigorous styles. It is only the subject-matter +of eloquence, however, which is allowed to be +remote or obscure. The things themselves may be +subtle and recondite, but they must be dragged out of +their obscurity and brought struggling to the light; +they must be rendered plain and palpable (as far as it +is in the wit of man to do so), or they are no longer +eloquence. That which by its natural impenetrability, +and in spite of every effort, remains dark +and difficult, which is impervious to every ray, on +which the imagination can shed no lustre, which can +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>159]</a></span> +be clothed with no beauty, is not a subject for the +orator or poet. At the same time it cannot be +expected that abstract truths or profound observations +should ever be placed in the same strong and dazzling +points of view as natural objects and mere matters of +fact. It is enough if they receive a reflex and borrowed +lustre, like that which cheers the first dawn of morning, +where the effect of surprise and novelty gilds +every object, and the joy of beholding another world +gradually emerging out of the gloom of night, ‘a +new creation rescued from his reign,’ fills the mind +with a sober rapture. Philosophical eloquence is in +writing what <i>chiaro-scuro</i> is in painting; he would be +a fool who should object that the colours in the shaded +part of a picture were not so bright as those on the +opposite side; the eye of the connoisseur receives an +equal delight from both, balancing the want of +brilliancy and effect with the greater delicacy of +the tints, and difficulty of the execution. In judging +of Burke, therefore, we are to consider, first, the +style of eloquence which he adopted, and, secondly, +the effects which he produced with it. If he did not +produce the same effects on vulgar minds as some +others have done, it was not for want of power, +but from the turn and direction of his mind.<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> It was +because his subjects, his ideas, his arguments, were +less vulgar. The question is not whether he brought +certain truths equally home to us, but how much +nearer he brought them than they were before. In +my opinion, he united the two extremes of refinement +and strength in a higher degree than any other +writer whatever.</p> + +<p>The subtlety of his mind was undoubtedly that +which rendered Burke a less popular writer and +speaker than he otherwise would have been. It +weakened the impression of his observations upon +others, but I cannot admit that it weakened the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>160]</a></span> +observations themselves; that it took anything from +their real weight or solidity. Coarse minds think all +that is subtle, futile: that because it is not gross and +obvious and palpable to the senses, it is therefore +light and frivolous, and of no importance in the real +affairs of life; thus making their own confined understandings +the measure of truth, and supposing that +whatever they do not distinctly perceive, is nothing. +Seneca, who was not one of the vulgar, also says, that +subtle truths are those which have the least substance +in them, and consequently approach nearest to nonentity. +But for my own part I cannot help thinking +that the most important truths must be the most +refined and subtle; for that very reason, that they +must comprehend a great number of particulars, +and instead of referring to any distinct or positive +fact, must point out the combined effects of an +extensive chain of causes, operating gradually, remotely, +and collectively, and therefore imperceptibly. +General principles are not the less true or important +because from their nature they elude immediate +observation; they are like the air, which is not +the less necessary because we neither see nor feel +it, or like that secret influence which binds the world +together, and holds the planets in their orbits. The +very same persons who are the most forward to laugh +at all systematic reasoning as idle and impertinent, +you will the next moment hear exclaiming bitterly +against the baleful effects of new-fangled systems +of philosophy, or gravely descanting on the immense +importance of instilling sound principles of morality +into the mind. It would not be a bold conjecture, +but an obvious truism, to say, that all the great +changes which have been brought about in the mortal +world, either for the better or worse, have been introduced, +not by the bare statement of facts, which are +things already known, and which must always operate +nearly in the same manner, but by the development +of certain opinions and abstract principles of reasoning +on life and manners, or the origin of society and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>161]</a></span> +man’s nature in general, which being obscure and +uncertain, vary from time to time, and produce +corresponding changes in the human mind. They +are the wholesome dew and rain, or the mildew +and pestilence that silently destroy. To this principle +of generalisation all wise lawgivers, and the +systems of philosophers, owe their influence.</p> + +<p>It has always been with me a test of the sense and +candour of any one belonging to the opposite party, +whether he allowed Burke to be a great man. Of all +the persons of this description that I have ever known, +I never met with above one or two who would make +this concession; whether it was that party feelings +ran too high to admit of any real candour, or whether +it was owing to an essential vulgarity in their habits +of thinking, they all seemed to be of opinion that he +was a wild enthusiast, or a hollow sophist, who was to +be answered by bits of facts, by smart logic, by shrewd +questions, and idle songs. They looked upon him as +a man of disordered intellects, because he reasoned in +a style to which they had not been used, and which +confounded their dim perceptions. If you said that +though you differed with him in sentiment, yet you +thought him an admirable reasoner, and a close observer +of human nature, you were answered with a +loud laugh, and some hackneyed quotation. ‘Alas! +Leviathan was not so tamed!’ They did not know +whom they had to contend with. The corner-stone, +which the builders rejected, became the head-corner, +though to the Jews a stumbling-block, and to the +Greeks foolishness; for, indeed, I cannot discover +that he was much better understood by those of his +own party, if we may judge from the little affinity +there is between his mode of reasoning and theirs. +The simple clue to all his reasonings on politics is, I +think, as follows. He did not agree with some writers +that that mode of government is necessarily the best +which is the cheapest. He saw in the construction of +society other principles at work, and other capacities +of fulfilling the desires, and perfecting the nature of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>162]</a></span> +man, besides those of securing the equal enjoyment +of the means of animal life, and doing this at as little +expense as possible. He thought that the wants and +happiness of men were not to be provided for, as we +provide for those of a herd of cattle, merely by +attending to their physical necessities. He thought +more nobly of his fellows. He knew that man had +affections and passions and powers of imagination, as +well as hunger and thirst, and the sense of heat and +cold. He took his idea of political society from the +pattern of private life, wishing, as he himself expresses +it, to incorporate the domestic charities with the +orders of the state, and to blend them together. He +strove to establish an analogy between the compact +that binds together the community at large, and that +which binds together the several families that compose +it. He knew that the rules that form the basis of private +morality are not founded in reason, that is, in the abstract +properties of those things which are the subjects +of them, but in the nature of man, and his capacity +of being affected by certain things from habit, from +imagination, and sentiment, as well as from reason.</p> + +<p>Thus, the reason why a man ought to be attached to +his wife and children is not, surely, that they are +better than others (for in this case every one else +ought to be of the same opinion), but because he +must be chiefly interested in those things which are +nearest to him, and with which he is best acquainted, +since his understanding cannot reach equally to everything; +because he must be most attached to those +objects which he has known the longest, and which +by their situation have actually affected him the +most, not those which in themselves are the most +affecting whether they have ever made any impression +on him or no; that is, because he is by his nature +the creature of habit and feeling, and because it is +reasonable that he should act in conformity to his +nature. Burke was so far right in saying that it is +no objection to an institution that it is founded in +<em>prejudice</em>, but the contrary, if that prejudice is natural +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>163]</a></span> +and right; that is, if it arises from those circumstances +which are properly subjects of feeling and association, +not from any defect or perversion of the understanding +in those things which fall strictly under its jurisdiction. +On this profound maxim he took his stand. +Thus he contended, that the prejudice in favour of +nobility was natural and proper, and fit to be encouraged +by the positive institutions of society: not on account +of the real or personal merit of the individuals, but +because such an institution has a tendency to enlarge +and raise the mind, to keep alive the memory of past +greatness, to connect the different ages of the world +together, to carry back the imagination over a long +tract of time, and feed it with the contemplation of +remote events: because it is natural to think highly +of that which inspires us with high thoughts, which has +been connected for many generations with splendour, +and affluence, and dignity, and power, and privilege. +He also conceived, that by transferring the respect +from the person to the thing, and thus rendering it +steady and permanent, the mind would be habitually +formed to sentiments of deference, attachment, and +fealty, to whatever else demanded its respect: that it +would be led to fix its view on what was elevated and +lofty, and be weaned from that low and narrow +jealousy which never willingly or heartily admits of +any superiority in others, and is glad of every opportunity +to bring down all excellence to a level with its +own miserable standard. Nobility did not, therefore, +exist to the prejudice of the other orders of the state, +but by, and for them. The inequality of the different +orders of society did not destroy the unity and +harmony of the whole. The health and well-being +of the moral world was to be promoted by the same +means as the beauty of the natural world; by contrast, +by change, by light and shade, by variety of parts, by +order and proportion. To think of reducing all mankind +to the same insipid level, seemed to him the +same absurdity as to destroy the inequalities of surface +in a country, for the benefit of agriculture and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>164]</a></span> +commerce. In short, he believed that the interests of +men in society should be consulted, and their several +stations and employments assigned, with a view to +their nature, not as physical, but as moral beings, so +as to nourish their hopes, to lift their imagination, +to enliven their fancy, to rouse their activity, to +strengthen their virtue, and to furnish the greatest +number of objects of pursuit and means of enjoyment +to beings constituted as man is, consistently with the +order and stability of the whole.</p> + +<p>The same reasoning might be extended farther. I +do not say that his arguments are conclusive: but +they are profound and <em>true</em>, as far as they go. There +may be disadvantages and abuses necessarily interwoven +with his scheme, or opposite advantages of +infinitely greater value, to be derived from another +order of things and state of society. This, however, +does not invalidate either the truth or importance of +Burke’s reasoning; since the advantages he points +out as connected with the mixed form of government +are really and necessarily inherent in it: since they +are compatible, in the same degree, with no other; +since the principle itself on which he rests his argument +(whatever we may think of the application) is +of the utmost weight and moment; and since, on +whichever side the truth lies, it is impossible to make +a fair decision without having the opposite side of the +question clearly and fully stated to us. This Burke +has done in a masterly manner. He presents to you +one view or face of society. Let him who thinks he +can, give the reverse side with equal force, beauty, +and clearness. It is said, I know, that truth is <em>one</em>; +but to this I cannot subscribe, for it appears to me +that truth is <em>many</em>. There are as many truths as +there are things and causes of action and contradictory +principles at work in society. In making up the +account of good and evil, indeed, the final result +must be one way or the other; but the particulars on +which that result depends are infinite and various.</p> + +<p>It will be seen from what I have said, that I am +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>165]</a></span> +very far from agreeing with those who think that +Burke was a man without understanding, and a merely +florid writer. There are two causes which have given +rise to this calumny; namely, that narrowness of +mind which leads men to suppose that the truth lies +entirely on the side of their own opinions, and that +whatever does not make for them is absurd and irrational; +secondly, a trick we have of confounding +reason with judgment, and supposing that it is merely +the province of the understanding to pronounce +sentence, and not to give evidence, or argue the case; +in short, that it is a passive, not an active faculty. +Thus there are persons who never run into any extravagance, +because they are so buttressed up with the +opinions of others on all sides, that they cannot lean +much to one side or the other; they are so little +moved with any kind of reasoning, that they remain +at an equal distance from every extreme, and are +never very far from the truth, because the slowness +of their faculties will not suffer them to make much +progress in error. These are persons of great judgment. +The scales of the mind are pretty sure to +remain even, when there is nothing in them. In this +sense of the word, Burke must be allowed to have +wanted judgment, by all those who think that he was +wrong in his conclusions. The accusation of want of +judgment, in fact, only means that you yourself are +of a different opinion. But if in arriving at one error +he discovered a hundred truths, I should consider +myself a hundred times more indebted to him than if, +stumbling on that which I consider as the right side +of the question, he had committed a hundred absurdities +in striving to establish his point. I speak of +him now merely as an author, or as far as I and other +readers are concerned with him; at the same time, I +should not differ from any one who may be disposed +to contend that the consequences of his writings as +instruments of political power have been tremendous, +fatal, such as no exertion of wit or knowledge or +genius can ever counteract or atone for.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>166]</a></span> +Burke also gave a hold to his antagonists by mixing +up sentiment and imagery with his reasoning; so that +being unused to such a sight in the region of politics, +they were deceived, and could not discern the fruit +from the flowers. Gravity is the cloak of wisdom; +and those who have nothing else think it an insult to +affect the one without the other, because it destroys +the only foundation on which their pretensions are +built. The easiest part of reason is dulness; the +generality of the world are therefore concerned in +discouraging any example of unnecessary brilliancy +that might tend to show that the two things do not +always go together. Burke in some measure dissolved +the spell. It was discovered, that his gold was not +the less valuable for being wrought into elegant +shapes, and richly embossed with curious figures; +that the solidity of a building is not destroyed by +adding to it beauty and ornament; and that the +strength of a man’s understanding is not always to +be estimated in exact proportion to his want of +imagination. His understanding was not the less +real, because it was not the only faculty he possessed. +He justified the description of the poet—</p> + +<div class="cpoem25"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘How charming is divine philosophy!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not harsh and crabbed as dull fools suppose,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But musical as is Apollo’s lute!’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Those who object to this union of grace and beauty +with reason, are in fact weak-sighted people, who +cannot distinguish the noble and majestic form of +Truth from that of her sister Folly, if they are +dressed both alike! But there is always a difference +even in the adventitious ornaments they wear, which +is sufficient to distinguish them.</p> + +<p>Burke was so far from being a gaudy or flowery +writer, that he was one of the severest writers we +have. His words are the most like things; his style +is the most strictly suited to the subject. He unites +every extreme and every variety of composition; the +lowest and the meanest words and descriptions with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>167]</a></span> +the highest. He exults in the display of power, +in showing the extent, the force, and intensity of +his ideas; he is led on by the mere impulse and +vehemence of his fancy, not by the affectation of +dazzling his readers by gaudy conceits or pompous +images. He was completely carried away by his +subject. He had no other object but to produce the +strongest impression on his reader, by giving the +truest, the most characteristic, the fullest, and most +forcible description of things, trusting to the power +of his own mind to mould them into grace and +beauty. He did not produce a splendid effect by +setting fire to the light vapours that float in the +regions of fancy, as the chemists make fine colours +with phosphorus, but by the eagerness of his blows +struck fire from the flint, and melted the hardest +substances in the furnace of his imagination. The +wheels of his imagination did not catch fire from +the rottenness of the materials, but from the rapidity +of their motion. One would suppose, to hear people +talk of Burke, that his style was such as would have +suited the <i>Lady’s Magazine</i>; soft, smooth, showy, +tender, insipid, full of fine words, without any +meaning. The essence of the gaudy or glittering +style consists in producing a momentary effect by +fine words and images brought together, without +order or connection. Burke most frequently produced +an effect by the remoteness and novelty of +his combinations, by the force of contrast, by the +striking manner in which the most opposite and +unpromising materials were harmoniously blended +together; not by laying his hands on all the fine +things he could think of, but by bringing together +those things which he knew would blaze out into +glorious light by their collision. The florid style +is a mixture of affectation and commonplace. Burke’s +was an union of untameable vigour and originality.</p> + +<p>Burke was not a verbose writer. If he sometimes +multiplies words, it is not for want of ideas, but +because there are no words that fully express his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>168]</a></span> +ideas, and he tries to do it as well as he can by +different ones. He had nothing of the <em>set</em> or formal +style, the measured cadence, and stately phraseology +of Johnson, and most of our modern writers. This +style, which is what we understand by the <em>artificial</em>, is +all in one key. It selects a certain set of words to +represent all ideas whatever, as the most dignified +and elegant, and excludes all others as low and +vulgar. The words are not fitted to the things, +but the things to the words. Everything is seen +through a false medium. It is putting a mask on +the face of nature, which may indeed hide some +specks and blemishes, but takes away all beauty, +delicacy, and variety. It destroys all dignity or +elevation, because nothing can be raised where all +is on a level, and completely destroys all force, +expression, truth, and character, by arbitrarily confounding +the differences of things, and reducing +everything to the same insipid standard. To suppose +that this stiff uniformity can add anything to +real grace or dignity, is like supposing that the +human body, in order to be perfectly graceful, should +never deviate from its upright posture. Another +mischief of this method is, that it confounds all +ranks in literature. Where there is no room for +variety, no discrimination, no nicety to be shown +in matching the idea with its proper word, there +can be no room for taste or elegance. A man must +easily learn the art of writing, when every sentence +is to be cast in the same mould: where he is only +allowed the use of one word he cannot choose wrong, +nor will he be in much danger of making himself +ridiculous by affectation or false glitter, when, whatever +subject he treats of, he must treat of it in the +same way. This indeed is to wear golden chains for +the sake of ornament.</p> + +<p>Burke was altogether free from the pedantry which +I have here endeavoured to expose. His style was as +original, as expressive, as rich and varied, as it was +possible; his combinations were as exquisite, as playful, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>169]</a></span> +as happy, as unexpected, as bold and daring, as +his fancy. If anything, he ran into the opposite +extreme of too great an inequality, if truth and +nature could ever be carried to an extreme.</p> + +<p>Those who are best acquainted with the writings +and speeches of Burke will not think the praise I +have here bestowed on them exaggerated. Some +proof will be found of this in the following extracts. +But the full proof must be sought in his works at +large, and particularly in the <i>Thoughts on the Discontents</i>; +in his <i>Reflections on the French Revolution</i>; +in his <i>Letter to the Duke of Bedford</i>; and in the <i>Regicide +Peace</i>. The two last of these are perhaps the most +remarkable of all his writings, from the contrast they +afford to each other. The one is the most delightful +exhibition of wild and brilliant fancy that is to be +found in English prose, but it is too much like a +beautiful picture painted upon gauze; it wants something +to support it: the other is without ornament, +but it has all the solidity, the weight, the gravity of a +judicial record. It seems to have been written with a +certain constraint upon himself, and to show those +who said he could not <em>reason</em>, that his arguments +might be stripped of their ornaments without losing +anything of their force. It is certainly, of all his +works, that in which he has shown most power of +logical deduction, and the only one in which he +has made any important use of facts. In general +he certainly paid little attention to them: they were +the playthings of his mind. He saw them as he +pleased, not as they were; with the eye of the +philosopher or the poet, regarding them only in +their general principle, or as they might serve to +decorate his subject. This is the natural consequence +of much imagination: things that are probable are +elevated into the rank of realities. To those who can +reason on the essences of things, or who can invent +according to nature, the experimental proof is of little +value. This was the case with Burke. In the present +instance, however, he seems to have forced his mind +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>170]</a></span> +into the service of facts; and he succeeded completely. +His comparison between our connection with France +or Algiers, and his account of the conduct of the +war, are as clear, as convincing, as forcible examples +of this kind of reasoning, as are anywhere to be met +with. Indeed I do not think there is anything in Fox +(whose mind was purely historical), or in Chatham +(who attended to feelings more than facts), that will +bear a comparison with them.</p> + +<p>Burke has been compared to Cicero—I do not know +for what reason. Their excellences are as different, +and indeed as opposite, as they can well be. Burke had +not the polished elegance, the glossy neatness, the +artful regularity, the exquisite modulation of Cicero: +he had a thousand times more richness and originality +of mind, more strength and pomp of diction.</p> + +<p>It has been well observed, that the ancients had no +word that properly expresses what we mean by the +word <em>genius</em>. They perhaps had not the thing. +Their minds appear to have been too exact, too +retentive, too minute and subtle, too sensible to the +external differences of things, too passive under their +impressions, to admit of those bold and rapid combinations, +those lofty flights of fancy, which, glancing +from heaven to earth, unite the most opposite extremes, +and draw the happiest illustrations from +things the most remote. Their ideas were kept too +confined and distinct by the material form or vehicle +in which they were conveyed, to unite cordially +together, to be melted down in the imagination. +Their metaphors are taken from things of the same +class, not from things of different classes; the general +analogy, not the individual feeling, directs them in +their choice. Hence, as Dr. Johnson observed, their +similes are either repetitions of the same idea, or so +obvious and general as not to lend any additional +force to it; as when a huntress is compared to Diana, +or a warrior rushing into battle to a lion rushing on +his prey. Their <i>forte</i> was exquisite art and perfect +imitation. Witness their statues and other things of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>171]</a></span> +the same kind. But they had not that high and +enthusiastic fancy which some of our own writers +have shown. For the proof of this, let any one +compare Milton and Shakspeare with Homer and +Sophocles, or Burke with Cicero.</p> + +<p>It may be asked whether Burke was a poet. He +was so only in the general vividness of his fancy, and +in richness of invention. There may be poetical +passages in his works, but I certainly think that his +writings in general are quite distinct from poetry; and +that for the reason before given, namely, that the +subject-matter of them is not poetical. The finest +part of them are illustrations or personifications of +dry abstract ideas;<a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> and the union between the idea +and the illustration is not of that perfect and pleasing +kind as to constitute poetry, or indeed to be admissible, +but for the effect intended to be produced by +it; that is, by every means in our power to give +animation and attraction to subjects in themselves +barren of ornament, but which at the same time are +pregnant with the most important consequences, and +in which the understanding and the passions are +equally interested.</p> + +<p>I have heard it remarked by a person, to whose +opinion I would sooner submit than to a general +council of critics, that the sound of Burke’s prose is +not musical; that it wants cadence; and that instead +of being so lavish of his imagery as is generally supposed, +he seemed to him to be rather parsimonious in +the use of it, always expanding and making the most +of his ideas. This may be true if we compare him +with some of our poets, or perhaps with some of our +early prose writers, but not if we compare him with +any of our political writers or parliamentary speakers. +There are some very fine things of Lord Bolingbroke’s +on the same subjects, but not equal to Burke’s. As +for Junius, he is at the head of his class; but that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>172]</a></span> +class is not the highest. He has been said to have +more dignity than Burke. Yes—if the stalk of a +giant is less dignified than the strut of a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">petit-maître</i>. +I do not mean to speak disrespectfully of Junius, but +grandeur is not the character of his composition; +and if it is not to be found in Burke it is to be found +nowhere.</p> + +<p>1807.</p> + +<h3>FOOTNOTES</h3> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> +For instance, he produced less effect on the mob that +compose the English House of Commons, than Chatham or +Fox, or even Pitt.</p> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> +As in the comparison of the British Constitution to the +‘proud keep of Windsor,’ etc., the most splendid passage in +his works.</p> +</div> + + + + +<p class="ptop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>173]</a></span></p> + +<h2>ESSAY XIII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">ON THE CHARACTER OF FOX</span></h2> + + +<p>I shall begin with observing generally, that Mr. Fox +excelled all his contemporaries in the extent of his +knowledge, in the clearness and distinctness of his +views, in quickness of apprehension, in plain practical +common sense, in the full, strong, and absolute possession +of his subject. A measure was no sooner +proposed than he seemed to have an instantaneous +and intuitive perception of its various bearings and +consequences; of the manner in which it would +operate on the different classes of society, on commerce +or agriculture, on our domestic or foreign +policy; of the difficulties attending its execution; in +a word, of all its practical results, and the comparative +advantages to be gained either by adopting or +rejecting it. He was intimately acquainted with the +interests of the different parts of the community, +with the minute and complicated details of political +economy, with our external relations, with the views, +the resources, and the maxims of other states. He +was master of all those facts and circumstances which +it was necessary to know in order to judge fairly and +determine wisely; and he knew them not loosely or +lightly, but in number, weight, and measure. He +had also stored his memory by reading and general +study, and improved his understanding by the lamp +of history. He was well acquainted with the opinions +and sentiments of the best authors, with the maxims +of the most profound politicians, with the causes of +the rise and fall of states, with the general passions +of men, with the characters of different nations, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>174]</a></span> +the laws and constitution of his own country. He +was a man of large, capacious, powerful, and highly +cultivated intellect. No man could know more than +he knew; no man’s knowledge could be more sound, +more plain and useful; no man’s knowledge could lie +in more connected and tangible masses; no man +could be more perfectly master of his ideas, could +reason upon them more closely, or decide upon them +more impartially. His mind was full, even to overflowing. +He was so habitually conversant with the +most intricate and comprehensive trains of thought, +or such was the natural vigour and exuberance of his +mind, that he seemed to recall them without any +effort. His ideas quarrelled for utterance. So far +from ever being at a loss for them, he was obliged +rather to repress and rein them in, lest they should +overwhelm and confound, instead of informing the +understandings of his hearers.</p> + +<p>If to this we add the ardour and natural impetuosity +of his mind, his quick sensibility, his eagerness in the +defence of truth, and his impatience of everything +that looked like trick or artifice or affectation, we +shall be able in some measure to account for the +character of his eloquence. His thoughts came +crowding in too fast for the slow and mechanical +process of speech. What he saw in an instant, he +could only express imperfectly, word by word, and +sentence after sentence. He would, if he could, +‘have bared his swelling heart,’ and laid open at once +the rich treasures of knowledge with which his bosom +was fraught. It is no wonder that this difference +between the rapidity of his feelings, and the formal +round-about method of communicating them, should +produce some disorder in his frame; that the throng +of his ideas should try to overleap the narrow boundaries +which confined them, and tumultuously break +down their prison-doors, instead of waiting to be let +out one by one, and following patiently at due intervals +and with mock dignity, like poor dependents, in the +train of words; that he should express himself in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>175]</a></span> +hurried sentences, in involuntary exclamations, by +vehement gestures, by sudden starts and bursts of +passion. Everything showed the agitation of his +mind. His tongue faltered, his voice became almost +suffocated, and his face was bathed in tears. He was +lost in the magnitude of his subject. He reeled and +staggered under the load of feeling which oppressed +him. He rolled like the sea beaten by a tempest. +Whoever, having the feelings of a man, compared +him at these times with his boasted rival—his stiff, +straight, upright figure, his gradual contortions, +turning round as if moved by a pivot, his solemn +pauses, his deep tones, ‘whose sound reverbed their +own hollowness,’ must have said, This is a man; that +is an automaton. If Fox had needed grace, he would +have had it; but it was not the character of his +mind, nor would it have suited with the style of his +eloquence. It was Pitt’s object to smooth over the +abruptness and intricacies of his argument by the +gracefulness of his manner, and to fix the attention +of his hearers on the pomp and sound of his words. +Lord Chatham, again, strove to <em>command</em> others; +he did not try to convince them, but to overpower +their understandings by the greater strength and vehemence +of his own; to awe them by a sense of personal +superiority: and he therefore was obliged to assume +a lofty and dignified manner. It was to him they +bowed, not to truth; and whatever related to <em>himself</em>, +must therefore have a tendency to inspire respect and +admiration. Indeed, he would never have attempted +to gain that ascendant over men’s minds that he did, +if either his mind or body had been different from +what they were; if his temper had not urged him to +control and command others, or if his personal +advantages had not enabled him to secure that kind +of authority which he coveted. But it would have +been ridiculous in Fox to have affected either the +smooth plausibility, the stately gravity of the one, +or the proud domineering, imposing dignity of the +other; or even if he could have succeeded, it would +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>176]</a></span> +only have injured the effect of his speeches.<a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a> What +he had to rely on was the strength, the solidity of his +ideas, his complete and thorough knowledge of his +subject. It was his business therefore to fix the +attention of his hearers, not on himself, but on his +subject, to rivet it there, to hurry it on from words +to things:—the only circumstance of which they +required to be convinced with respect to himself, was +the sincerity of his opinions; and this would be best +done by the earnestness of his manner, by giving a +loose to his feelings, and by showing the most perfect +forgetfulness of himself, and of what others thought +of him. The moment a man shows you either by +affected words or looks or gestures, that he is thinking +of himself, and you, that he is trying either to please +or terrify you into compliance, there is an end at +once to that kind of eloquence which owes its effect +to the force of truth, and to your confidence in the +sincerity of the speaker. It was, however, to the +confidence inspired by the earnestness and simplicity +of his manner, that Mr. Fox was indebted for more +than half the effect of his speeches. Some others +might possess nearly as much information, as exact +a knowledge of the situation and interests of the +country; but they wanted that zeal, that animation, +that enthusiasm, that deep sense of the importance +of the subject, which removes all doubt or suspicion +from the minds of the hearers, and communicates its +own warmth to every breast. We may convince by +argument alone; but it is by the interest we discover +in the success of our reasonings, that we persuade +others to feel and act with us. There are two +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>177]</a></span> +circumstances which Fox’s speeches and Lord Chatham’s +had in common: they are alike distinguished by a +kind of plain downright common sense, and by the +vehemence of their manner. But still there is a great +difference between them, in both these respects. Fox +in his opinions was governed by facts—Chatham was +more influenced by the feelings of others respecting +those facts. Fox endeavoured to find out what the +consequences of any measure would be; Chatham +attended more to what people would think of it. Fox +appealed to the practical reason of mankind; Chatham +to popular prejudice. The one repelled the encroachments +of power by supplying his hearers with arguments +against it; the other by rousing their passions +and arming their resentment against those who would +rob them of their birthright. Their vehemence and +impetuosity arose also from very different feelings. +In Chatham it was pride, passion, self-will, impatience +of control, a determination to have his own way, to +carry everything before him; in Fox it was pure, good +nature, a sincere love of truth, an ardent attachment +to what he conceived to be right; all anxious concern +for the welfare and liberties of mankind. Or if we +suppose that ambition had taken a strong hold of both +their minds, yet their ambition was of a very different +kind: in the one it was the love of power, in the +other it was the love of fame. Nothing can be more +opposite than these two principles, both in their +origin and tendency. The one originates in a selfish, +haughty, domineering spirit; the other in a social +and generous sensibility, desirous of the love and +esteem of others, and anxiously bent upon gaining +merited applause. The one grasps at immediate +power by any means within its reach; the other, if it +does not square its actions by the rules of virtue, at +least refers them to a standard which comes the +nearest to it—the disinterested applause of our +country, and the enlightened judgment of posterity. +The love of fame is consistent with the steadiest +attachment to principle, and indeed strengthens and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>178]</a></span> +supports it; whereas the love of power, where this is +the ruling passion, requires the sacrifice of principle, +at every turn, and is inconsistent even with the +shadow of it. I do not mean to say that Fox had no +love of power, or Chatham no love of fame (this would +be reversing all we know of human nature), but that +the one principle predominated in the one, and the +other in the other. My reader will do me great +injustice if he supposes that in attempting to describe +the characters of different speakers by contrasting +their general qualities, I mean anything beyond the +<em>more</em> or <em>less</em>: but it is necessary to describe those +qualities simply and in the abstract, in order to make +the distinction intelligible. Chatham resented any +attack made upon the cause of liberty, of which he +was the avowed champion, as an indignity offered to +himself. Fox felt it as a stain upon the honour of his +country, and as an injury to the rights of his fellow-citizens. +The one was swayed by his own passions +and purposes, with very little regard to the consequences; +the sensibility of the other was roused, +and his passions kindled into a generous flame, by a +real interest in whatever related to the welfare of +mankind, and by an intense and earnest contemplation +of the consequences of the measures he opposed. It +was this union of the zeal of the patriot with the +enlightened knowledge of the statesman, that gave to +the eloquence of Fox its more than mortal energy; +that warmed, expanded, penetrated every bosom. He +relied on the force of truth and nature alone; the +refinements of philosophy, the pomp and pageantry +of the imagination were forgotten, or seemed light +and frivolous; the fate of nations, the welfare of +millions, hung suspended as he spoke; a torrent +of manly eloquence poured from his heart, bore +down everything in its course, and surprised into a +momentary sense of human feeling the breathing +corpses, the wire-moved puppets, the stuffed figures, +the flexible machinery, the ‘deaf and dumb things’ +of a court.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>179]</a></span> +I find (I do not know how the reader feels) that it +is difficult to write a character of Fox without running +into insipidity or extravagance. And the reason of +this is, there are no splendid contrasts, no striking +irregularities, no curious distinctions to work upon; +no ‘jutting frieze, buttress, nor coigne of ’vantage,’ +for the imagination to take hold of. It was a plain +marble slab, inscribed in plain legible characters, +without either hieroglyphics or carving. There was +the same directness and manly simplicity in everything +that he did. The whole of his character may +indeed be summed up in two words—strength and +simplicity. Fox was in the class of common men, +but he was the first in that class. Though it is easy +to describe the differences of things, nothing is more +difficult than to describe their degrees or quantities. +In what I am going to say, I hope I shall not be +suspected of a design to under-rate his powers of +mind, when in fact I am only trying to ascertain +their nature and direction. The degree and extent +to which he possessed them can only be known by +reading, or indeed by having heard his speeches.</p> + +<p>His mind, as I have already said, was, I conceive, +purely <em>historical</em>; and having said this, I have I +believe said all. But perhaps it will be necessary to +explain a little farther what I mean. I mean then, +that his memory was in an extraordinary degree +tenacious of facts; that they were crowded together +in his mind without the least perplexity or confusion; +that there was no chain of consequences too vast for +his powers of comprehension; that the different parts +and ramifications of his subject were never so involved +and intricate but that they were easily disentangled +in the clear prism of his understanding. +The basis of his wisdom was experience: he not only +knew what had happened, but by an exact knowledge +of the real state of things, he could always tell what +in the common course of events would happen in +future. The force of his mind was exerted on facts: +as long as he could lean directly upon these, as long +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>180]</a></span> +as he had the actual objects to refer to, to steady +himself by, he could analyse, he could combine, he +could compare and reason upon them, with the +utmost exactness; but he could not reason <em>out of</em> +them. He was what is understood by a <em>matter-of-fact</em> +reasoner. He was better acquainted with the concrete +masses of things, their substantial forms and +practical connections, than with their abstract nature +or general definitions. He was a man of extensive +information, of sound knowledge, and clear understanding, +rather than the acute observer or profound +thinker. He was the man of business, the accomplished +statesman, rather than the philosopher. His +reasonings were, generally speaking, calculations of +certain positive results, which, the <em>data</em> being given, +must follow as matters of course, rather than unexpected +and remote truths drawn from a deep +insight into human nature, and the subtle application +of general principles to particular cases. They consisted +chiefly in the detail and combination of a vast +number of items in an account, worked by the known +rules of political arithmetic; not in the discovery of +bold, comprehensive, and original theorems in the +science. They were rather acts of memory, of continued +attention, of a power of bringing all his ideas +to bear at once upon a single point, than of reason +or invention. He was the attentive observer who +watches the various effects and successive movements +of a machine already constructed, and can tell how to +manage it while it goes on as it has always done; but +who knows little or nothing of the principles on +which it is constructed, nor how to set it right, if it +becomes disordered, except by the most common and +obvious expedients. Burke was to Fox what the +geometrician is to the mechanic. Much has been +said of the ‘prophetic mind’ of Mr. Fox. The same +epithet has been applied to Mr. Burke, till it has +become proverbial. It has, I think, been applied +without much reason to either. Fox wanted the +scientific part. Burke wanted the practical. Fox +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>181]</a></span> +had too little imagination, Burke had too much: +that is, he was careless of facts, and was led away by +his passions to look at one side of a question only. +He had not that fine sensibility to outward impressions, +that nice <em>tact</em> of circumstances, which is necessary +to the consummate politician. Indeed, his +wisdom was more that of the legislator than of the +active statesman. They both tried their strength in +the Ulysses’ bow of politicians, the French Revolution: +and they were both foiled. Fox indeed foretold +the success of the French in combating with +foreign powers. But this was no more than what +every friend of the liberty of France foresaw or foretold +as well as he. All those on the same side of the +question were inspired with the same sagacity on the +subject. Burke, on the other hand, seems to have +been beforehand with the public in foreboding the +internal disorders that would attend the Revolution, +and its ultimate failure; but then it is at least a +question whether he did not make good his own +predictions: and certainly he saw into the causes +and connection of events much more clearly after +they had happened than before. He was however +undoubtedly a profound commentator on that apocalyptical +chapter in the history of human nature, +which I do not think Fox was. Whether led to it by +the events or not, he saw thoroughly into the principles +that operated to produce them; and he pointed +them out to others in a manner which could not be +mistaken. I can conceive of Burke, as the genius of +the storm, perched over Paris, the centre and focus +of anarchy (so he would have us believe), hovering +‘with mighty wings outspread over the abyss, and +rendering it pregnant,’ watching the passions of men +gradually unfolding themselves in new situations, +penetrating those hidden motives which hurried them +from one extreme into another, arranging and analysing +the principles that alternately pervaded the +vast chaotic mass, and extracting the elements of +order and the cement of social life from the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>182]</a></span> +decomposition of all society; while Charles Fox in the +meantime dogged the heels of the allies (all the +while calling out to them to stop) with his sutler’s +bag, his muster roll, and army estimates at his back. +He said, You have only fifty thousand troops, the +enemy have a hundred thousand: this place is dismantled, +it can make no resistance: your troops +were beaten last year, they must therefore be disheartened +this. This is excellent sense and sound +reasoning, but I do not see what it has to do with +philosophy. But why was it necessary that Fox +should be a philosopher? Why, in the first place, +Burke was a philosopher, and Fox, to keep up with +him, must be so too. In the second place, it was +necessary in order that his indiscreet admirers, who +have no idea of greatness but as it consists in certain +names and pompous titles, might be able to talk big +about their patron. It is a bad compliment we pay +to our idol when we endeavour to make him out +something different from himself; it shows that we +are not satisfied with what he is. I have heard it said +that he had as much imagination as Burke. To this +extravagant assertion I shall make what I conceive +to be a very cautious and moderate answer: that +Burke was as superior to Fox in this respect as Fox +perhaps was to the first person you would meet in the +street. There is, in fact, hardly an instance of imagination +to be met with in any of his speeches; what +there is, is of the rhetorical kind. I may, however, +be wrong. He might excel as much in profound +thought, and richness of fancy, as he did in other +things; though I cannot perceive it. However, when +any one publishes a book called The Beauties of Fox, +containing the original reflections, brilliant passages, +lofty metaphors, etc., to be found in his speeches, +without the detail or connection, I shall be very ready +to give the point up.</p> + +<p>In logic Fox was inferior to Pitt—indeed, in all +the formalities of eloquence, in which the latter +excelled as much as he was deficient in the soul of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>183]</a></span> +substance. When I say that Pitt was superior to +Fox in logic, I mean that he excelled him in the +formal division of the subject, in always keeping it in +view, as far as he chose; in being able to detect any +deviation from it in others; in the management of +his general topics; in being aware of the mood and +figure in which the argument must move, with all its +nonessentials, dilemmas, and alternatives; in never +committing himself, nor ever suffering his antagonist +to occupy an inch of the plainest ground, but under +cover of a syllogism. He had more of ‘the dazzling +fence of argument,’ as it has been called. He was, +in short, better at his weapon. But then, unfortunately, +it was only a dagger of lath that the wind +could turn aside; whereas Fox wore a good trusty +blade, of solid metal, and real execution.</p> + +<p>I shall not trouble myself to inquire whether Fox +was a man of strict virtue and principle; or in other +words, how far he was one of those who screw themselves +up to a certain pitch of ideal perfection, who, +as it were, set themselves in the stocks of morality, +and make mouths at their own situation. He was +not one of that tribe, and shall not be tried by their +self-denying ordinances. But he was endowed with +one of the most excellent natures that ever fell to the +lot of any of God’s creatures. It has been said, that +‘an honest man’s the noblest work of God.’ There is +indeed a purity, a rectitude, an integrity of heart, a +freedom from every selfish bias, and sinister motive, +a manly simplicity and noble disinterestedness of +feeling, which is in my opinion to be preferred before +every other gift of nature or art. There is a greatness +of soul that is superior to all the brilliancy of +the understanding. This strength of moral character, +which is not only a more valuable but a rarer quality +than strength of understanding (as we are oftener led +astray by the narrowness of our feelings, than want of +knowledge), Fox possessed in the highest degree. +He was superior to every kind of jealousy, of suspicion, +of malevolence; to every narrow and sordid +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>184]</a></span> +motive. He was perfectly above every species of +duplicity, of low art and cunning. He judged of +everything in the downright sincerity of his nature, +without being able to impose upon himself by any +hollow disguise, or to lend his support to anything +unfair or dishonourable. He had an innate love of +truth, of justice, of probity, of whatever was generous +or liberal. Neither his education, nor his connections, +nor his situation in life, nor the low intrigues +and virulence of party, could ever alter the simplicity +of his taste, nor the candid openness of his nature. +There was an elastic force about his heart, a freshness +of social feeling, a warm glowing humanity, which +remained unimpaired to the last. He was by nature +a gentleman. By this I mean that he felt a certain +deference and respect for the person of every man; +he had an unaffected frankness and benignity in his +behaviour to others, the utmost liberality in judging +of their conduct and motives. A refined humanity +constitutes the character of a gentleman. He was +the true friend of his country, as far as it is possible +for a statesman to be so. But his love of his country +did not consist in his hatred of the rest of mankind. +I shall conclude this account by repeating what Burke +said of him at a time when his testimony was of the +most value. ‘To his great and masterly understanding +he joined the utmost possible degree of +moderation: he was of the most artless, candid, +open, and benevolent disposition; disinterested in +the extreme; of a temper mild and placable, even +to a fault; and without one drop of gall in his +constitution.’</p> + +<p>1807.</p> + +<h3>FOOTNOTE</h3> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> +There is an admirable, judicious, and truly useful remark +in the preface to Spenser (not by Dr. Johnson, for he left +Spenser out of his poets, but by <em>one</em> Upton), that the question +was not whether a better poem might not have been written +on a different plan, but whether Spenser would have written +a better one on a different plan. I wish to apply this to Fox’s +<em>ungainly</em> manner. I do not mean to say, that his manner +was the best possible (for that would be to say that he was the +greatest man conceivable), but that it was the best for him.</p> +</div> + + +<p class="ptop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>185]</a></span></p> + +<h2>ESSAY XIV<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">ON THE CHARACTER OF MR. PITT</span></h2> + + +<p>The character of Mr. Pitt was, perhaps, one of the +most singular that ever existed. With few talents, +and fewer virtues, he acquired and preserved in one +of the most trying situations, and in spite of all opposition, +the highest reputation for the possession of +every moral excellence, and as having carried the +attainments of eloquence and wisdom as far as human +abilities could go. This he did (strange as it appears) +by a negation (together with the common virtues) of +the common vices of human nature, and by the complete +negation of every other talent that might interfere +with the only one which he possessed in a supreme +degree, and which indeed may be made to include the +appearance of all others—an artful use of words, and +a certain dexterity of logical arrangement. In these +alone his power consisted; and the defect of all other +qualities which usually constitute greatness, contributed +to the more complete success of these. Having +no strong feelings, no distinct perceptions, his mind +having no link as it were, to connect it with the world +of external nature, every subject presented to him +nothing more than a <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">tabula rasa</i>, on which he was at +liberty to lay whatever colouring of language he +pleased; having no general principles, no comprehensive +views of things, no moral habits of thinking, no +system of action, there was nothing to hinder him +from pursuing any particular purpose, by any means +that offered; having never any plan, he could not be +convicted of inconsistency, and his own pride and obstinacy +were the only rules of his conduct. Having +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>186]</a></span> +no insight into human nature, no sympathy with the +passions of men, or apprehension of their real designs, +he seemed perfectly insensible to the consequences of +things, and would believe nothing till it actually +happened. The fog and haze in which he saw everything +communicated itself to others; and the total +indistinctness and uncertainty of his own ideas tended +to confound the perceptions of his hearers more +effectually, than the most ingenious misrepresentation +could have done. Indeed, in defending his conduct +he never seemed to consider himself as at all responsible +for the success of his measures, or to suppose +that future events were in our own power; but that +as the best-laid schemes might fail, and there was no +providing against all possible contingencies, this was +a sufficient excuse for our plunging at once into any +dangerous or absurd enterprise, without the least +regard to consequences. His reserved logic confined +itself solely to the <em>possible</em> and the <em>impossible</em>; and he +appeared to regard the <em>probable</em> and <em>improbable</em>, the +only foundation of moral prudence or political wisdom, +as beneath the notice of a profound statesman; as if +the pride of the human intellect were concerned in +never entrusting itself with subjects, where it may +be compelled to acknowledge its weakness.<a name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a> From his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>187]</a></span> +manner of reasoning, he seemed not to have believed +that the truth of his statements depended on the +reality of the facts, but that the things depended on +the order in which he arranged them in words: you +would not suppose him to be agitating a serious +question which had real grounds to go upon, but to +be declaiming upon an imaginary thesis, proposed as +an exercise in the schools. He never set himself to +examine the force of the objections that were brought +against his measures, or attempted to establish these +upon clear, solid grounds of his own; but constantly +contented himself with first gravely stating the +logical form, or dilemma, to which the question +reduced itself, and then, after having declared his +opinion, proceeded to amuse his hearers by a series +of rhetorical commonplaces, connected together in +grave, sonorous, and elaborately, constructed periods, +without ever showing their real application to the +subject in dispute. Thus, if any member of the +Opposition disapproved of any measure, and enforced +his objections by pointing out the many evils with +which it was fraught, or the difficulties attending its +execution, his only answer was, ‘That it was true +there might be inconveniences attending the measure +proposed, but we were to remember, that every expedient +that could be devised might be said to be +nothing more than a choice of difficulties, and that +all that human prudence could do was to consider on +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>188]</a></span> +which side the advantages lay; that for his part, he +conceived that the present measure was attended with +more advantages and fewer disadvantages than any +other that could be adopted; that if we were diverted +from our object by every appearance of difficulty, the +wheels of government would be clogged by endless +delays and imaginary grievances; that most of the +objections made to the measure appeared to him to +be trivial, others of them unfounded and improbable; +or that if a scheme free from all these objections could +be proposed, it might after all prove inefficient; while, +in the meantime, a material object remained unprovided +for, or the opportunity of action was lost.’ This +mode of reasoning is admirably described by Hobbes, +in speaking of the writings of some of the Schoolmen, +of whom he says, that ‘They had learned the trick of +imposing what they list upon their readers, and declining +the force of true reason by verbal forks: that is, +distinctions which signify nothing, but serve only to +astonish the multitude of ignorant men.’ That what +I have here stated comprehends the whole force of his +mind, which consisted solely in this evasive dexterity +and perplexing formality, assisted by a copiousness +of words and commonplace topics, will, I think, be +evident in any one who carefully looks over his +speeches, undazzled by the reputation or personal +influence of the speaker. It will be in vain to look in +them for any of the common proofs of human genius +or wisdom. He has not left behind him a single +memorable saying—not one profound maxim—one +solid observation—one forcible description—one +beautiful thought—one humorous picture—one affecting +sentiment.<a name="FNanchor_14_14" id="FNanchor_14_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a> He has made no addition whatever +to the stock of human knowledge. He did not possess +any one of those faculties which contribute to the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>189]</a></span> +instruction and delight of mankind—depth of understanding, +imagination, sensibility, wit, vivacity, clear +and solid judgment. But it may be asked, If these +qualities are not to be found in him, where are we to +look for them? And I may be required to point out +instances of them. I shall answer, then, that he had +none of the profound legislative wisdom, piercing +sagacity, or rich, impetuous, high-wrought imagination +of Burke; the manly eloquence, strong sense, +exact knowledge, vehemence, and natural simplicity +of Fox: the ease, brilliancy, and acuteness of Sheridan. +It is not merely that he had not all these qualities +in the degree that they were severally possessed +by his rivals, but he had not any of them in any striking +degree. His reasoning is a technical arrangement +of unmeaning commonplaces; his eloquence merely +rhetorical; his style monotonous and artificial. If he +could pretend to any one excellence in an eminent +degree, it was to taste in composition. There is +certainly nothing low, nothing puerile, nothing far-fetched +or abrupt in his speeches; there is a kind of +faultless regularity pervading them throughout; but +in the confined, mechanical, passive mode of eloquence +which he adopted, it seemed rather more difficult to +commit errors than to avoid them. A man who is +determined never to move out of the beaten road, +cannot lose his way. However, habit, joined to the +peculiar mechanical memory which he possessed, +carried this correctness to a degree which, in an +extemporaneous speaker, was almost miraculous; he +perhaps hardly ever uttered a sentence that was not +perfectly regular and connected. In this respect he +not only had the advantage over his own contemporaries, +but perhaps no one that ever lived equalled +him in this singular faculty. But for this, he would +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>190]</a></span> +always have passed for a common man; and to this +the constant sameness, and, if I may so say, vulgarity +of his ideas, must have contributed not a little, as +there was nothing to distract his mind from this one +object of his unintermitted attention; and as even +in his choice of words he never aimed at anything +more than a certain general propriety, and stately +uniformity of style. His talents were exactly fitted +for the situation in which he was placed; where it +was his business, not to overcome others, but to avoid +being overcome. He was able to baffle opposition, not +from strength or firmness, but from the evasive +ambiguity and impalpable nature of his resistance, +which gave no hold to the rude grasp of his +opponents: no force could bind the loose phantom, +and his mind (though ‘not matchless, and his pride +humbled by such rebuke’), soon rose from defeat +unhurt,</p> + +<div class="cpoem25"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘And in its liquid texture mortal wound<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Receiv’d no more than can the fluid air.’<a name="FNanchor_15_15" id="FNanchor_15_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a><br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>1806.</p> + +<h3>FOOTNOTES</h3> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> +One instance may serve as an example for all the rest:—When +Mr. Fox last summer (1805) predicted the failure of +the new confederacy against France, from a consideration of +the circumstances and relative situation of both parties, that +is, from an exact knowledge of the actual state of things, Mr. +Pitt contented himself with answering—and, as in the blindness +of his infatuation, he seemed to think quite satisfactorily—‘That +he could not assent to the honourable gentleman’s +reasoning, for that it went to this, that we were never to +attempt to mend the situation of our affairs, because in so +doing we might possibly make them worse.’ No; it was not +on account of this abstract possibility in human affairs, or +because we were not absolutely sure of succeeding (for that +any child might know), but because it was in the highest +degree probable, or <em>morally</em> certain, that the scheme would +fail, and leave us in a worse situation than we were before, +that Mr. Fox disapproved of the attempt. There is in this a +degree of weakness and imbecility, a defect of understanding +bordering on idiotism, a fundamental ignorance of the first +principles of human reason and prudence, that in a great +minister is utterly astonishing, and almost incredible. +Nothing could ever drive him out of his dull forms, and +naked generalities; which, as they are susceptible neither of +degree nor variation, are therefore equally applicable to every +emergency that can happen: and in the most critical aspect +of affairs, he saw nothing but the same flimsy web of remote +possibilities and metaphysical uncertainty. In his mind the +wholesome pulp of practical wisdom and salutary advice was +immediately converted into the dry chaff and husks of a +miserable logic.</p> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_14_14" id="Footnote_14_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_14_14"><span class="label">[14]</span></a> +I do remember one passage which has some meaning in +it. At the time of the Regency Bill, speaking of the proposal +to take the king’s servants from him, he says, ‘What must +that great personage feel when he waked from the trance of +his faculties, and asked for his attendants, if he were told +that his subjects had taken advantage of his momentary +absence of mind, and stripped him of the symbols of his +personal elevation.’ There is some grandeur in this. His +admirers should have it inscribed in letters of gold; for they +will not find another instance of the same kind.</p> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_15_15" id="Footnote_15_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_15_15"><span class="label">[15]</span></a> +I will only add, that it is the property of true genius to +force the admiration even of enemies. No one was ever hated +or envied for his powers of mind, if others were convinced of +their real excellence. The jealousy and uneasiness produced +in the mind by the display of superior talents almost always +arises from a suspicion that there is some trick or deception +in the case, and that we are imposed on by an appearance of +what is not really there. True warmth and vigour communicate +warmth and vigour; and we are no longer inclined to +dispute the inspiration of the oracle, when we feel the ‘<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">presens +Divus</i>’ in our own bosoms. But when, without gaining any +new light or heat, we only find our ideas thrown into perplexity +and confusion by an art that we cannot comprehend, +this is a kind of superiority which must always be painful, +and can be cordially admitted. For this reason the +extraordinary talents of Mr. Pitt were always viewed, except +by those of his own party, with a sort of jealousy, and <em>grudgingly</em> +acknowledged; while those of his rivals were admitted +by all parties in the most unreserved manner, and carried by +acclamation.</p> +</div> + + +<p class="ptop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>191]</a></span></p> + +<h2>ESSAY XV<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">ON THE CHARACTER OF LORD CHATHAM</span></h2> + + +<p>Lord Chatham’s genius burnt brightest at the last. +The spark of liberty, which had lain concealed and +dormant, buried under the dirt and rubbish of state +intrigue and vulgar faction, now met with congenial +matter, and kindled up ‘a flame of sacred vehemence’ +in his breast. It burst forth with a fury and a +splendour that might have awed the world, and made +kings tremble. He spoke as a man should speak, +because he felt as a man should feel, in such circumstances. +He came forward as the advocate of liberty, +as the defender of the rights of his fellow-citizens, as +the enemy of tyranny, as the friend of his country, +and of mankind. He did not stand up to make a +vain display of his talents, but to discharge a duty, +to maintain that cause which lay nearest to his +heart, to preserve the ark of the British constitution +from every sacrilegious touch, as the high-priest of +his calling, with a pious zeal. The feelings and the +rights of Englishmen were enshrined in his heart; +and with their united force braced every nerve, possessed +every faculty, and communicated warmth and +vital energy to every part of his being. The whole +man moved under this impulse. He felt the cause of +liberty as his own. He resented every injury done to +her as an injury to himself, and every attempt to defend +it as an insult upon his understanding. He did not +stay to dispute about words, about nice distinctions, +about trifling forms. Be laughed at the little attempts +of little retailers of logic to entangle him in senseless +argument. He did not come there as to a debating club, +or law court, to start questions and hunt them down; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>192]</a></span> +to wind and unwind the web of sophistry; to pick out +the threads, and untie every knot with scrupulous +exactness; to bandy logic with every pretender to a +paradox; to examine, to sift evidence; to dissect a +doubt and halve a scruple; to weigh folly and knavery +in scales together, and see on which side the balance +preponderated; to prove that liberty, truth, virtue, +and justice were good things, or that slavery and corruption +were bad things. He did not try to prove +those truths which did not require any proof, but to +make others feel them with the same force that he +did; and to tear off the flimsy disguises with which the +sycophants of power attempted to cover them. The +business of an orator is not to convince, but persuade; +not to inform, but to rouse the mind; to build upon +the habitual prejudices of mankind (for reason of itself +will do nothing), and to add feeling to prejudice, and +action to feeling. There is nothing new or curious or +profound in Lord Chatham’s speeches. All is obvious +and common; there is nothing but what we already +knew, or might have found out for ourselves. We +see nothing but the familiar everyday face of nature. +We are always in broad daylight. But then there is +the same difference between our own conceptions of +things and his representation of them, as there is +between the same objects seen on a dull cloudy day +or in the blaze of sunshine. His common sense has +the effect of inspiration. He electrifies his hearers, +not by the novelty of his ideas, but by their force and +intensity. He has the same ideas as other men, but +he has them in a thousand times greater clearness and +strength and vividness. Perhaps there is no man so +poorly furnished with thoughts and feelings but that +if he could recollect all that he knew, and had all his +ideas at perfect command, he would be able to confound +the puny arts of the most dexterous sophist that +pretended to make a dupe of his understanding. But +in the mind of Chatham, the great substantial truths of +common sense, the leading maxims of the Constitution, +the real interests and general feelings of mankind +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>193]</a></span> +were in a manner embodied. He comprehended the +whole of his subject at a single glance—everything +was firmly riveted to its place; there was no feebleness, +no forgetfulness, no pause, no distraction; the +ardour of his mind overcame every obstacle, and he +crushed the objections of his adversaries as we crush +an insect under our feet. His imagination was of the +same character with his understanding, and was under +the same guidance. Whenever he gave way to it, it ‘flew +an eagle flight, forth and right on’; but it did not become +enamoured of its own emotion, wantoning in giddy +circles, or ‘sailing with supreme dominion through +the azure deep of air.’ It never forgot its errand, but +went straight forward, like an arrow to its mark, with +an unerring aim. It was his servant, not his master.</p> + +<p>To be a great orator does not require the highest +faculties of the human mind, but it requires the highest +exertion of the common faculties of our nature. +He has no occasion to dive into the depths of science, +or to soar aloft on angels’ wings. He keeps upon the +surface, he stands firm upon the ground, but his form +is majestic, and his eye sees far and near: he moves +among his fellows, but he moves among them as a +giant among common men. He has no need to read +the heavens, to unfold the system of the universe, or +create new worlds for the delighted fancy to dwell in; +it is enough that he see things as they are; that he +knows and feels and remembers the common circumstances +and daily transactions that are passing in the +world around him. He is not raised above others by +being superior to the common interests, prejudices, +and passions of mankind, but by feeling them in a +more intense degree than they do. Force, then, is +the sole characteristic excellence of an orator; it is +almost the only one that can be of any service to him. +Refinement, depth, elevation, delicacy, originality, +ingenuity, invention, are not wanted; he must appeal +to the sympathies of human nature, and whatever is +not founded in these, is foreign to his purpose. He +does not create, he can only imitate or echo back the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>194]</a></span> +public sentiment. His object is to call up the feelings +of the human breast; but he cannot call up what is +not already there. The first duty of an orator is to be +understood by every one; but it is evident that what +all can understand, is not in itself difficult of comprehension. +He cannot add anything to the materials +afforded him by the knowledge and experience of others.</p> + +<p>Lord Chatham, in his speeches, was neither philosopher +nor poet. As to the latter, the difference between +poetry and eloquence I take to be this: that the object +of the one is to delight the imagination, that of the +other to impel the will. The one ought to enrich and +feed the mind itself with tenderness and beauty, the +other furnishes it with motives of action. The one +seeks to give immediate pleasure, to make the mind +dwell with rapture on its own workings—it is to itself +‘both end and use’: the other endeavours to call up +such images as will produce the strongest effect upon +the mind, and makes use of the passions only as instruments +to attain a particular purpose. The poet +lulls and soothes the mind into a forgetfulness of itself, +and ‘laps it in Elysium’: the orator strives to awaken it +to a sense of its real interests, and to make it feel the +necessity of taking the most effectual means for securing +them. The one dwells in an ideal world; the +other is only conversant with realities. Hence poetry +must be more ornamented, must be richer and fuller +and more delicate, because it is at liberty to select +whatever images are naturally most beautiful, and +likely to give most pleasure; whereas the orator is +confined to particular facts, which he may adorn as +well as he can, and make the most of, but which he +cannot strain beyond a certain point without running +into extravagance and affectation, and losing his end. +However, from the very nature of the case, the orator +is allowed a greater latitude, and is compelled to +make use of harsher and more abrupt combinations +in the decoration of his subject; for his art is an +attempt to reconcile beauty and deformity together: +on the contrary, the materials of poetry, which are +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>195]</a></span> +chosen at pleasure, are in themselves beautiful, and +naturally combine with whatever else is beautiful. +Grace and harmony are therefore essential to poetry, +because they naturally arise out of the subject; but +whatever adds to the effect, whatever tends to +strengthen the idea or give energy to the mind, is of +the nature of eloquence. The orator is only concerned +to give a tone of masculine firmness to the will, to +brace the sinews and muscles of the mind; not to +delight our nervous sensibilities, or soften the mind +into voluptuous indolence. The flowery and sentimental +style is of all others the most intolerable in a +speaker.—I shall only add on this subject, that +modesty, impartiality, and candour, are not the virtues +of a public speaker. He must be confident, +inflexible, uncontrollable, overcoming all opposition +by his ardour and impetuosity. We do not <em>command</em> +others by sympathy with them, but by power, by +passion, by will. Calm inquiry, sober truth, and +speculative indifference will never carry any point. +The passions are contagious; and we cannot contend +against opposite passions with nothing but naked +reason. Concessions to an enemy are clear loss; he +will take advantage of them, but make us none in +return. He will magnify the weak sides of our argument, +but will be blind to whatever makes against +himself. The multitude will always be inclined to +side with that party whose passions are the most +inflamed, and whose prejudices are the most inveterate. +Passion should therefore never be sacrificed +to punctilio. It should indeed be governed by prudence, +but it should itself govern and lend its impulse +and direction to abstract reason. Fox was a reasoner, +Lord Chatham was an orator. Burke was both a +reasoner and a poet; and was therefore still farther +removed from that conformity with the vulgar notions +and mechanical feelings of mankind, which will always +be necessary to give a man the chief sway in a popular +assembly.</p> + +<p>1806.</p> + + + +<p class="ptop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>196]</a></span></p> + +<h2>ESSAY XVI<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">BELIEF, WHETHER VOLUNTARY?</span></h2> + +<div class="cpoem26"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + + +<p>It is an axiom in modern philosophy (among many +other false ones) that belief is absolutely involuntary, +since we draw our inferences from the premises laid +before us, and cannot possibly receive any other +impression of things than that which they naturally +make upon us. This theory, that the understanding +is purely passive in the reception of truth, and that +our convictions are not in the power of our will, was +probably first invented or insisted upon as a screen +against religious persecution, and as an answer to +those who imputed bad motives to all who differed +from the established faith, and thought they could +reform heresy and impiety by the application of fire +and the sword. No doubt, that is not the way: for +the will in that case irritates itself and grows refractory +against the doctrines thus absurdly forced upon +it; and as it has been said, the blood of the martyrs is +the seed of the Church. But though force and terror +may not be always the surest way to make converts, it +does not follow that there may not be other means of +influencing our opinions, besides the naked and abstract +evidence for any proposition: the sun melts the resolution +which the storm could not shake. In such points +as, whether an object is black or white or whether two +and two make four,<a name="FNanchor_16_16" id="FNanchor_16_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a> we may not be able to believe as +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>197]</a></span> +we please or to deny the evidence of our reason and +senses: but in those points on which mankind differ, +or where we can be at all in suspense as to which side +we shall take, the truth is not quite so plain or +palpable; it admits of a variety of views and shades +of colouring, and it should appear that we can dwell +upon whichever of these we choose, and heighten or +soften the circumstances adduced in proof, according +as passion and inclination throw their casting-weight +into the scale. Let any one, for instance, have been +brought up in an opinion, let him have remained in it +all his life, let him have attached all his notions of +respectability, of the approbation of his fellow-citizens +or his own self-esteem to it, let him then first hear it +called in question, and a strong and unforeseen objection +stated to it, will not this startle and shock him as +if he had seen a spectre, and will he not struggle to +resist the arguments that would unsettle his habitual +convictions, as he would resist the divorcing of soul +and body? Will he come to the consideration of the +question impartially, indifferently, and without any +wrong bias, or give the painful and revolting truth +the same cordial welcome as the long-cherished and +favourite prejudice? To say that the truth or falsehood +of a proposition is the only circumstance that +gains it admittance into the mind, independently of +the pleasure or pain it affords us, is itself an assertion +made in pure caprice or desperation. A person may +have a profession or employment connected with a +certain belief, it may be the means of livelihood to +him, and the changing it may require considerable +sacrifices, or may leave him almost without resource +(to say nothing of mortified pride)—this will not mend +the matter. The evidence against his former opinion +may be so strong (or may appear so to him) that he +may be obliged to give it up, but not without a pang +and after having tried every artifice and strained every +nerve to give the utmost weight to the arguments +favouring his own side, and to make light of and +throw those against him into the background. And +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>198]</a></span> +nine times in ten this bias of the will and tampering +with the proofs will prevail. It is only with very +vigorous or very candid minds that the understanding +exercises its just and boasted prerogative, and induces +its votaries to relinquish a profitable delusion and +embrace the dowerless truth. Even then they have +the sober and discreet part of the world, all the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">bons +pères de famille</i>, who look principally to the main +chance, against them, and they are regarded as little +better than lunatics or profligates to fling up a good +salary and a provision for themselves and families for +the sake of that foolish thing, a <em>Conscience</em>! With +the herd, belief on all abstract and disputed topics is +voluntary, that is, is determined by considerations of +personal ease and convenience, in the teeth of logical +analysis and demonstration, which are set aside as +mere waste of words. In short, generally speaking, +people stick to an opinion that they have long supported +and that supports them. How else shall we +account for the regular order and progression of +society: for the maintenance of certain opinions +in particular professions and classes of men, as we +keep water in cisterns, till in fact they stagnate +and corrupt: and that the world and every individual +in it is not ‘blown about with every wind of doctrine’ +and whisper of uncertainty? There is some more solid +ballast required to keep things in their established +order than the restless fluctuation of opinion and +‘infinite agitation of wit.’ We find that people in Protestant +countries continue Protestants, and in Catholic +countries Papists. This, it may be answered, is owing +to the ignorance of the great mass of them; but is +their faith less bigoted, because it is not founded on a +regular investigation of the proofs, and is merely an +obstinate determination to believe what they have +been told and accustomed to believe? Or is it not +the same with the doctors of the church and its most +learned champions, who read the same texts, turn +over the same authorities, and discuss the same +knotty points through their whole lives, only to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>199]</a></span> +arrive at opposite conclusions? How few are shaken +in their opinions, or have the grace to confess it? +Shall we then suppose them all impostors, and that +they keep up the farce of a system, of which they do +not believe a syllable? Far from it: there may be +individual instances, but the generality are not only +sincere but bigots. Those who are unbelievers and +hypocrites scarcely know it themselves, or if a man is +not quite a knave, what pains will he not take to +make a fool of his reason, that his opinions may tally +with his professions? Is there then a Papist and a +Protestant understanding—one prepared to receive +the doctrine of transubstantiation and the other to +reject it? No such thing: but in either case the +ground of reason is pre-occupied by passion, habit, +example—<em>the scales are falsified</em>. Nothing can therefore +be more inconsequential than to bring the +authority of great names in favour of opinions long +established and universally received. Cicero’s being +a Pagan was no proof in support of the Heathen +mythology, but simply of his being born at Rome +before the Christian era; though his lurking scepticism +on the subject and sneers at the augurs told +against it, for this was an acknowledgment drawn +from him in spite of a prevailing prejudice. Sir +Isaac Newton and Napier of Merchiston both wrote +on the <i>Apocalypse</i>; but this is neither a ground for a +speedy anticipation of the Millennium, nor does it +invalidate the doctrine of the gravitation of the +planets or the theory of logarithms. One party +would borrow the sanction of these great names in +support of their wildest and most mystical opinions; +others would arraign them of folly and weakness for +having attended to such subjects at all. Neither +inference is just. It is a simple question of chronology, +or of the time when these celebrated mathematicians +lived, and of the studies and pursuits which +were then chiefly in vogue. The wisest man is the +slave of opinion, except on one or two points on which +he strikes out a light for himself and holds a torch to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>200]</a></span> +the rest of the world. But we are disposed to make it +out that all opinions are the result of reason, because +they profess to be so; and when they are <em>right</em>, that +is, when they agree with ours, that there can be no +alloy of human frailty or perversity in them; the +very strength of our prejudice making it pass for pure +reason, and leading us to attribute any deviation from +it to bad faith or some unaccountable singularity or +infatuation. <em>Alas, poor human nature!</em> Opinion is +for the most part only a battle, in which we take part +and defend the side we have adopted, in the one case +or the other, with a view to share the honour of the +spoil. Few will stand up for a losing cause, or have +the fortitude to adhere to a proscribed opinion; and +when they do, it is not always from superior strength +of understanding or a disinterested love of truth, but +from obstinacy and sullenness of temper. To affirm +that we do not cultivate an acquaintance with truth as +she presents herself to us in a more or less pleasing +shape, or is shabbily attired or well-dressed, is as +much as to say that we do not shut our eyes to +the light when it dazzles us, or withdraw our hands +from the fire when it scorches us.</p> + +<div class="cpoem24"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Masterless passion sways us to the mood<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of what it likes or loathes.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Are we not averse to believe bad news relating to +ourselves—forward enough if it relates to others? +If something is said reflecting on the character of an +intimate friend or near relative, how unwilling we +are to lend an ear to it, how we catch at every excuse +or palliating circumstance, and hold out against the +clearest proof, while we instantly believe any idle +report against an enemy, magnify the commonest +trifles into crimes, and torture the evidence against +him to our heart’s content! Do not we change our +opinion of the same person, and make him out to be +<em>black</em> or <em>white</em> according to the terms we happen to be +on? If we have a favourite author, do we not exaggerate +his beauties and pass over his defects, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>201]</a></span> +<i>vice versâ</i>? The human mind plays the interested +advocate much oftener than the upright and inflexible +judge, in the colouring and relief it gives to the facts +brought before it. We believe things not more +because they are true or probable, than because we +desire, or (if the imagination once takes that turn) +because we dread them. ‘Fear has more devils than +vast hell can hold.’ The sanguine always hope, the +gloomy always despond, from temperament and not +from forethought. Do we not disguise the plainest +facts from ourselves if they are disagreeable? Do we +not flatter ourselves with impossibilities? What girl +does not look in the glass to persuade herself she +is handsome? What woman ever believes herself +old, or does not hate to be called so: though she +knows the exact year and day of her age, the more she +tries to keep up the appearance of youth to herself and +others? What lover would ever acknowledge a flaw in +the character of his mistress, or would not construe her +turning her back on him into a proof of attachment? +The story of <i>January and May</i> is pat to our purpose; for +the credulity of mankind as to what touches our inclinations +has been proverbial in all ages: yet we are +told that the mind is passive in making up these wilful +accounts and is guided by nothing but the <i>pros</i> and +<i>cons</i> of evidence. Even in action and where we may +determine by proper precaution the event of things, +instead of being compelled to shut our eyes to what +we cannot help, we still are the dupes of the feeling +of the moment, and prefer amusing ourselves with +fair appearances to securing more solid benefits by a +sacrifice of Imagination and stubborn Will to Truth. +The blindness of passion to the most obvious and +well-known consequences is deplorable. There seems +to be a particular fatality in this respect. Because a +thing is in our power <em>till</em> we have committed ourselves, +we appear to dally, to trifle with, to make +light of it, and to think it will still be in our power +<em>after</em> we have committed ourselves. Strange perversion +of the reasoning faculties, which is little short of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>202]</a></span> +madness, and which yet is one of the constant and +practical sophisms of human life! It is as if one should +say—I am in no danger from a tremendous machine +unless I touch such a spring and therefore I will +approach it, I will play with the danger, I will laugh +at it, and at last in pure sport and wantonness of +heart, from my sense of previous security, I <em>will</em> touch +it—and <em>there’s an end</em>. While the thing remains in +contemplation, we may be said to stand safe and smiling +on the brink: as soon as we proceed to action we +are drawn into the vortex of passion and hurried to +our destruction. A person taken up with some one +purpose or passion is intent only upon that: he drives +out the thought of everything but its gratification: in +the pursuit of that he is blind to consequences: his +first object being attained, they all at once, and as if +by magic, rush upon his mind. The engine recoils, he +is caught in his own snare. A servant girl, for some +pique, or for an angry word, determines to poison her +mistress. She knows beforehand (just as well as she +does afterwards) that it is at least a hundred chances +to one she will be hanged if she succeeds, yet this has +no more effect upon her than if she had never heard +of any such matter. The only idea that occupies her +mind and hardens it against every other, is that of +the affront she has received, and the desire of revenge; +she broods over it; she meditates the mode, she is +haunted with her scheme night and day; it works +like poison; it grows into a madness, and she can +have no peace till it is accomplished and <em>off her mind</em>; +but the moment this is the case, and her passion is +assuaged, fear takes place of hatred, the slightest suspicion +alarms her with the certainty of her fate, from +which she before wilfully averted her thoughts; she +runs wildly from the officers before they know anything +of the matter; the gallows stares her in the +face, and if none else accuses her, so full is she of her +danger and her guilt, that she probably betrays herself. +She at first would see no consequences to result +from her crime but the getting rid of a present +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>203]</a></span> +uneasiness; she now sees the very worst. The whole +seems to depend on the turn given to the imagination, +on our immediate disposition to attend to this or that +view of the subject, the evil or the good. As long as +our intention is unknown to the world, before it +breaks out into action, it seems to be deposited in our +own bosoms, to be a mere feverish dream, and to be +left with all its consequences under our imaginary +control: but no sooner is it realised and known to +others, than it appears to have escaped from our +reach, we fancy the whole world are up in arms +against us, and vengeance is ready to pursue and +overtake us. So in the pursuit of pleasure, we see +only that side of the question which we approve; the +disagreeable consequences (which may take place) +make no part of our intention or concern, or of the +wayward exercise of our will: if they should happen +we cannot help it; they form an ugly and unwished-for +contrast to our favourite speculation: we turn +our thoughts another way, repeating the adage <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Quod +sic mihi ostendis incredulus odi</i>. It is a good remark +in <i>Vivian Grey</i> that a bankrupt walks in the streets +the day before his name is in the Gazette with the +same erect and confident brow as ever, and only feels +the mortification of his situation after it becomes +known to others. Such is the force of sympathy, and +its power to take off the edge of internal conviction! +As long we can impose upon the world, we can +impose upon ourselves, and trust to the flattering +appearances, though we know them to be false. We +put off the evil day as long as we can, make a jest of +it as the certainty becomes more painful, and refuse +to acknowledge the secret to ourselves till it can no +longer be kept from all the world. In short, we +believe just as little or as much as we please of those +things in which our will can be supposed to interfere; +and it is only by setting aside our own interests and +inclinations on more general questions that we stand +any chance of arriving at a fair and rational judgment. +Those who have the largest hearts have the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>204]</a></span> +soundest understandings; and he is the truest philosopher +who can forget himself. This is the reason +why philosophers are often said to be mad, for thinking +only of the abstract truth and of none of its +worldly adjuncts—it seems like an absence of mind, +or as if the devil had got into them! If belief were +not in some degree voluntary, or were grounded +entirely on strict evidence and absolute proof, every +one would be a martyr to his opinions, and we should +have no power of evading or glossing over those +matter-of-fact conclusions for which positive vouchers +could be produced, however painful these conclusions +might be to our own feelings, or offensive to the +prejudices of others.</p> + +<h3>FOOTNOTE</h3> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_16_16" id="Footnote_16_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_16_16"><span class="label">[16]</span></a> +Hobbes is of opinion that men would deny this, if they +had any interest in doing so.</p> +</div> + + +<p class="ptop"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>205]</a></span></p> + +<h2>ESSAY XVII<br /> +<br /> +<span class="vsmlfont">A FAREWELL TO ESSAY-WRITING</span></h2> + +<div class="cpoem21"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘This life is best, if quiet life is best.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + + +<p>Food, warmth, sleep, and a book; these are all I +at present ask—the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">ultima Thule</i> of my wandering +desires. Do you not then wish for</p> + +<div class="cpoem25"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">‘A friend in your retreat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whom you may whisper, solitude is sweet?’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Expected, well enough:—gone, still better. Such +attractions are strengthened by distance. Nor a +mistress? ‘Beautiful mask! I know thee!’ When +I can judge of the heart from the face, of the +thoughts from the lips, I may again trust myself. +Instead of these give me the robin red-breast, pecking +the crumbs at the door, or warbling on the leafless +spray, the same glancing form that has followed +me wherever I have been, and ‘done its spiriting +gently’; or the rich notes of the thrush that startle +the ear of winter, and seem to have drunk up the +full draught of joy from the very sense of contrast. +To these I adhere, and am faithful, for they are true +to me; and, dear in themselves, are dearer for the +sake of what is departed, leading me back (by the +hand) to that dreaming world, in the innocence of +which they sat and made sweet music, waking the +promise of future years, and answered by the eager +throbbings of my own breast. But now ‘the credulous +hope of mutual minds is o’er,’ and I turn back +from the world that has deceived me, to nature that +lent it a false beauty, and that keeps up the illusion +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>206]</a></span> +of the past. As I quaff my libations of tea in a +morning, I love to watch the clouds sailing from the +west, and fancy that ‘the spring comes slowly up +this way.’ In this hope, while ‘fields are dank and +ways are mire,’ I follow the same direction to a +neighbouring wood, where, having gained the dry, +level greensward, I can see my way for a mile before +me, closed in on each side by copse-wood, and ending +in a point of light more or less brilliant, as the day is +bright or cloudy. What a walk is this to me! I +have no need of book or companion—the days, the +hours, the thoughts of my youth are at my side, and +blend with the air that fans my cheek. Here I can +saunter for hours, bending my eye forward, stopping +and turning to look back, thinking to strike off into +some less trodden path, yet hesitating to quit the one +I am in, afraid to snap the brittle threads of memory. +I remark the shining trunks and slender branches of +the birch trees, waving in the idle breeze; or a +pheasant springs up on whirring wing; or I recall +the spot where I once found a wood-pigeon at the +foot of a tree, weltering in its gore, and think how +many seasons have flown since ‘it left its little life +in air.’ Dates, names, faces come back—to what +purpose? Or why think of them now? Or rather why +not think of them oftener? We walk through life, +as through a narrow path, with a thin curtain drawn +around it; behind are ranged rich portraits, airy +harps are strung—yet we will not stretch forth our +hands and lift aside the veil, to catch glimpses of +the one, or sweep the chords of the other. As in a +theatre, when the old-fashioned green curtain drew +up, groups of figures, fantastic dresses, laughing faces, +rich banquets, stately columns, gleaming vistas appeared +beyond; so we have only at any time to +‘peep through the blanket of the past,’ to possess +ourselves at once of all that has regaled our senses, +that is stored up in our memory, that has struck our +fancy, that has pierced our hearts:—yet to all this +we are indifferent, insensible, and seem intent only +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>207]</a></span> +on the present vexation, the future disappointment. +If there is a Titian hanging up in the room with me, +I scarcely regard it: how then should I be expected +to strain the mental eye so far, or to throw down, +by the magic spells of the will, the stone walls that +enclose it in the Louvre? There is one head there of +which I have often thought, when looking at it, that +nothing should ever disturb me again, and I would +become the character it represents—such perfect +calmness and self-possession reigns in it! Why do I +not hang all image of this in some dusky corner of +my brain, and turn all eye upon it ever and anon, +as I have need of some such talisman to calm my +troubled thoughts? The attempt is fruitless, if not +natural; or, like that of the French, to hang garlands +on the grave, and to conjure back the dead by miniature +pictures of them while living! It is only some +actual coincidence or local association that tends, +without violence, to ‘open all the cells where memory +slept.’ I can easily, by stooping over the long-sprent +grass and clay cold clod, recall the tufts of primroses, +or purple hyacinths, that formerly grew on the same +spot, and cover the bushes with leaves and singing-birds, +as they were eighteen summers ago; or prolonging +my walk and hearing the sighing gale rustle +through a tall, straight wood at the end of it, call +fancy that I distinguish the cry of hounds, and +the fatal group issuing from it, as in the tale of +Theodore and Honoria. A moaning gust of wind +aids the belief; I look once more to see whether the +trees before me answer to the idea of the horror-stricken +grove, and an air-built city towers over their +grey tops.</p> + +<div class="cpoem28"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Of all the cities in Romanian lands,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The chief and most renown’d Ravenna stands.’<a name="FNanchor_17_17" id="FNanchor_17_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_17_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a><br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>I return home resolved to read the entire poem +through, and, after dinner, drawing my chair to the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>208]</a></span> +fire, and holding a small print close to my eyes, +launch into the full tide of Dryden’s couplets (a +stream of sound), comparing his didactic and descriptive +pomp with the simple pathos and picturesque +truth of Boccaccio’s story, and tasting with a pleasure, +which none but all habitual reader can feel, some +quaint examples of pronunciation in this accomplished +versifier.</p> + +<div class="cpoem27"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">‘Which when Honoria view’d,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fresh <em>impulse</em> her former fright renew’d.’<a name="FNanchor_18_18" id="FNanchor_18_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_18_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a><br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<div class="cpoem28"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘And made th’ <em>insult</em>, which in his grief appears,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The means to mourn thee with my pious tears.’<a name="FNanchor_19_19" id="FNanchor_19_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_19_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a><br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>These trifling instances of the wavering and unsettled +state of the language give double effect to the firm +and stately march of the verse, and make me dwell +with a sort of tender interest on the difficulties and +doubts of all earlier period of literature. They pronounced +words then in a manner which we should +laugh at now; and they wrote verse in a manner +which we can do anything but laugh at. The pride of +a new acquisition seems to give fresh confidence to it; +to impel the rolling syllables through the moulds +provided for them, and to overflow the envious bounds +of rhyme into time-honoured triplets.</p> + +<p>What sometimes surprises me in looking back to +the past, is, with the exception already stated, to find +myself so little changed in the time. The same +images and trains of thought stick by me: I have +the same tastes, likings, sentiments, and wishes that +I had then. One great ground of confidence and +support has, indeed, been struck from under my +feet; but I have made it up to myself by proportionable +pertinacity of opinion. The success of the great +cause, to which I had vowed myself, was to me more +than all the world: I had a strength in its strength, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>209]</a></span> +a resource which I knew not of, till it failed me for +the second time.</p> + +<div class="cpoem21"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Fall’n was Glenartny’s stately tree!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh! ne’er to see Lord Ronald more!’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>It was not till I saw the axe laid to the root, that I +found the full extent of what I had to lose and suffer. +But my conviction of the right was only established +by the triumph of the wrong; and my earliest hopes +will be my last regrets. One source of this unbendingness +(which some may call obstinacy), is that, +though living much alone, I have never worshipped +the Echo. I see plainly enough that black is not +white, that the grass is green, that kings are not +their subjects; and, in such self-evident cases, do +not think it necessary to collate my opinions with +the received prejudices. In subtler questions, and +matters that admit of doubt, as I do not impose my +opinion on others without a reason, so I will not give +up mine to them without a better reason; and a +person calling me names, or giving himself airs of +authority, does not convince me of his having taken +more pains to find out the truth than I have, but the +contrary. Mr. Gifford once said, that ‘while I was +sitting over my gin and tobacco-pipes, I fancied +myself a Leibnitz.’ He did not so much as know +that I had ever read a metaphysical book:—was I +therefore, out of complaisance or deference to him, +to forget whether I had or not? Leigh Hunt is +puzzled to reconcile the shyness of my pretensions +with the inveteracy and sturdiness of my principles. +I should have thought they were nearly the same +thing. Both from disposition and habit, I can <em>assume</em> +nothing in word, look, or manner. I cannot steal a +march upon public opinion in any way. My standing +upright, speaking loud, entering a room gracefully, +proves nothing; therefore I neglect these ordinary +means of recommending myself to the good graces and +admiration of strangers (and, as it appears, even of +philosophers and friends). Why? Because I have +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>210]</a></span> +other resources, or, at least, am absorbed in other +studies and pursuits. Suppose this absorption to be +extreme, and even morbid—that I have brooded over +an idea till it has become a kind of substance in my +brain, that I have reasons for a thing which I have +found out with much labour and pains, and to which +I can scarcely do justice without the utmost violence +of exertion (and that only to a few persons)—is this a +reason for my playing off my out-of-the-way notions +in all companies, wearing a prim and self-complacent +air, as if I were ‘the admired of all observers’? or is +it not rather an argument (together with a want of +animal spirits), why I should retire into myself, and +perhaps acquire a nervous and uneasy look, from a +consciousness of the disproportion between the interest +and conviction I feel on certain subjects, and +my ability to communicate what weighs upon my own +mind to others? If my ideas, which I do not avouch, +but suppose, lie below the surface, why am I to be +always attempting to dazzle superficial people with +them, or smiling, delighted, at my own want of success?</p> + +<p>In matters of taste and feeling, one proof that my +conclusions have not been quite shallow or hasty, is +the circumstance of their having been lasting. I +have the same favourite books, pictures, passages that +I ever had: I may therefore presume that they will +last me my life—nay, I may indulge a hope that my +thoughts will survive me. This continuity of impression +is the only thing on which I pride myself. Even +Lamb, whose relish of certain things is as keen and +earnest as possible, takes a surfeit of admiration, and +I should be afraid to ask about his select authors or +particular friends, after a lapse of ten years. As to +myself, any one knows where to have me. What I +have once made up my mind to, I abide by to the +end of the chapter. One cause of my independence +of opinion is, I believe, the liberty I give to others, +or the very diffidence and distrust of making converts. +I should be an excellent man on a jury. I might say +little, but should starve ‘the other eleven obstinate +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>211]</a></span> +fellows’ out. I remember Mr. Godwin writing to +Mr. Wordsworth, that ‘his tragedy of <i>Antonio</i> could +not fail of success.’ It was damned past all redemption. +I said to Mr. Wordsworth that I thought this +a natural consequence; for how could any one have a +dramatic turn of mind who judged entirely of others +from himself? Mr. Godwin might be convinced of +the excellence of his work; but how could he know +that others would be convinced of it, unless by supposing +that they were as wise as himself, and as infallible +critics of dramatic poetry—so many Aristotles +sitting in judgment on Euripides! This shows why +pride is connected with shyness and reserve; for the +really proud have not so high an opinion of the +generality as to suppose that they can understand +them, or that there is any common measure between +them. So Dryden exclaims of his opponents with +bitter disdain—</p> + +<div class="cpoem28"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘Nor can I think what thoughts they can conceive.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>I have not sought to make partisans, still less did I +dream of making enemies; and have therefore kept +my opinions myself, whether they were currently +adopted or not. To get others to come into our ways +of thinking, we must go over to theirs; and it is +necessary to follow, in order to lead. At the time +I lived here formerly, I had no suspicion that I should +ever become a voluminous writer, yet I had just the +same confidence in my feelings before I had ventured +to air them in public as I have now. Neither the +outcry <em>for</em> or <em>against</em> moves me a jot: I do not say +that the one is not more agreeable than the other.</p> + +<p>Not far from the spot where I write, I first read +Chaucer’s <i>Flower and Leaf</i>, and was charmed with that +young beauty, shrouded in her bower, and listening +with ever-fresh delight to the repeated song of the +nightingale close by her—the impression of the scene, +the vernal landscape, the cool of the morning, the +gushing notes of the songstress,</p> + +<div class="cpoem28"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘And ayen methought she sung close by mine ear,’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>212]</a></span> +is as vivid as if it had been of yesterday; and nothing +can persuade me that that is not a fine poem. I do +not find this impression conveyed in Dryden’s version, +and therefore nothing can persuade me that that is as +fine. I used to walk out at this time with Mr. and +Miss Lamb of an evening, to look at the Claude +Lorraine skies over our heads melting from azure into +purple and gold, and to gather mushrooms, that +sprung up at our feet, to throw into our hashed +mutton at supper. I was at that time an enthusiastic +admirer of Claude, and could dwell for ever on one or +two of the finest prints from him hung round my +little room; the fleecy flocks, the bending trees, the +winding streams, the groves, the nodding temples, +the air-wove hills, and distant sunny vales; and tried +to translate them into their lovely living hues. People +then told me that Wilson was much superior to +Claude: I did not believe them. Their pictures have +since been seen together at the British Institution, +and all the world have come into my opinion. I have +not, on that account, given it up. I will not compare +our hashed mutton with Amelia’s; but it put us in +mind of it, and led to a discussion, sharply seasoned +and well sustained, till midnight, the result of which +appeared some years after in the <i>Edinburgh Review</i>. +Have I a better opinion of those criticisms on that +account, or should I therefore maintain them with +greater vehemence and tenaciousness? Oh no: Both +rather with less, now that they are before the public, +and it is for them to make their election.</p> + +<p>It is in looking back to such scenes that I draw my +best consolation for the future. Later impressions +come and go, and serve to fill till the intervals; but +these are my standing resource, my true classics. If +I have had few real pleasures or advantages, my ideas, +from their sinewy texture, have been to me in the +nature of realities; and if I should not be able to add +to the stock, I can live by husbanding the interest. +As to my speculations, there is little to admire in +them but my admiration of others; and whether they +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[<span class="hidden">Pg </span>213]</a></span> +have an echo in time to come or not, I have learned +to set a grateful value on the past, and am content to +wind up the account of what is personal only to +myself and the immediate circle of objects in which +I have moved, with an act of easy oblivion,</p> + +<div class="cpoem30"> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">‘And curtain-close such scene from every future view.’<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +</div> + +<p><span class="smcap">Winterslow</span>, <i>Feb. 20, 1828</i>.</p> + +<h3>FOOTNOTE</h3> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_17_17" id="Footnote_17_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_17_17"><span class="label">[17]</span></a> +Dryden’s <i>Theodore and Honoria</i>, princip.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_18_18" id="Footnote_18_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_18_18"><span class="label">[18]</span></a> +Dryden’s <i>Theodore and Honoria</i>, princip.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"> +<p><a name="Footnote_19_19" id="Footnote_19_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_19_19"><span class="label">[19]</span></a> +Dryden’s <i>Sigismonda and Guiscardo</i>.</p> +</div> + + +<p class="center padtop padbase smlfont">Edinburgh: Printed by T. and A. <span class="smcap">Constable</span></p> + + + +<div class="bbox"> +<p><b>Transcriber's Note</b></p> + +<p>Minor punctuation errors have been repaired.</p> + +<p>Archaic spelling is preserved as printed.</p> + +<p>The following typographic errors have been repaired:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>Page <a href="#Page_35">35</a>—Crichton amended to Chrichton (with reference to the "Cabinet +of Curiosities," which also contains the story of Eugene Aram)—"The +name of the ‘Admirable Chrichton’ was suddenly started ..."</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#Page_134">134</a>—lawer’s amended to lawyer’s—"... on a word, or a lawyer’s +<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">ipse dixit</i>."</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#Page_156">156</a>—stimulute amended to stimulate—"... something like an +attempt to stimulate the superficial dulness ..."</p> + +<p>Page <a href="#Page_162">162</a>—on amended to no—"Burke was so far right in saying that it +is no objection ..."</p> +</div> +</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Winterslow, by William Hazlitt + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WINTERSLOW *** + +***** This file should be named 39269-h.htm or 39269-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/9/2/6/39269/ + +Produced by Sam W. and the Online Distributed Proofreading +Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +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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