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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..089efd3 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66074 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66074) diff --git a/old/66074-0.txt b/old/66074-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 4b62f2d..0000000 --- a/old/66074-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5439 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mere Literature and Other Essays, by -Woodrow Wilson - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Mere Literature and Other Essays - -Author: Woodrow Wilson - -Release Date: August 17, 2021 [eBook #66074] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Charlene Taylor, Charlie Howard, and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The - Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MERE LITERATURE AND OTHER -ESSAYS *** - - - - - -Books by Woodrow Wilson - - - CONGRESSIONAL GOVERNMENT. A Study in American Politics. - 16mo, $1.25. - - MERE LITERATURE, and Other Essays. 12mo, $1.50. - - - HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY - BOSTON AND NEW YORK - - - - - MERE LITERATURE - - _AND OTHER ESSAYS_ - - - BY - WOODROW WILSON - - - [Illustration] - - - BOSTON AND NEW YORK - HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY - The Riverside Press, Cambridge - - - - - Copyright, 1896, - BY WOODROW WILSON - - _All rights reserved._ - - - - - TO - STOCKTON AXSON - - BY EVERY GIFT OF MIND A CRITIC - AND LOVER OF LETTERS - BY EVERY GIFT OF HEART A FRIEND - THIS LITTLE VOLUME - IS AFFECTIONATELY - DEDICATED - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - - I. MERE LITERATURE 1 - - II. THE AUTHOR HIMSELF 28 - - III. ON AN AUTHOR’S CHOICE OF COMPANY 50 - - IV. A LITERARY POLITICIAN 69 - - V. THE INTERPRETER OF ENGLISH LIBERTY 104 - - VI. THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER 161 - - VII. A CALENDAR OF GREAT AMERICANS 187 - - VIII. THE COURSE OF AMERICAN HISTORY 213 - - -⁂ All but one of the essays brought together in this volume have -already been printed, either in the _Atlantic Monthly_, the _Century -Magazine_, or the _Forum_. The essay on Burke appears here for the -first time in print. - - - - -MERE LITERATURE. - - - - -I. - -“MERE LITERATURE.” - - -A singular phrase this, “mere literature,”--the irreverent invention -of a scientific age. Literature we know, but “mere” literature? We are -not to read it as if it meant _sheer_ literature, literature in the -essence, stripped of all accidental or ephemeral elements, and left -with nothing but its immortal charm and power. “Mere literature” is a -serious sneer, conceived in all honesty by the scientific mind, which -despises things that do not fall within the categories of demonstrable -knowledge. It means _nothing but literature_, as who should say, “mere -talk,” “mere fabrication,” “mere pastime.” The scientist, with his -head comfortably and excusably full of knowable things, takes nothing -seriously and with his hat off, except human knowledge. The creations -of the human spirit are, from his point of view, incalculable vagaries, -irresponsible phenomena, to be regarded only as play, and, for the -mind’s good, only as recreation,--to be used to while away the tedium -of a railway journey, or to amuse a period of rest or convalescence; -mere byplay, mere make-believe. - -And so very whimsical things sometimes happen, because of this -scientific and positivist spirit of the age, when the study of the -literature of any language is made part of the curriculum of our -colleges. The more delicate and subtle purposes of the study are -put quite out of countenance, and literature is commanded to assume -the phrases and the methods of science. It would be very painful if -it should turn out that schools and universities were agencies of -Philistinism; but there are some things which should prepare us for -such a discovery. Our present plans for teaching everybody involve -certain unpleasant things quite inevitably. It is obvious that you -cannot have universal education without restricting your teaching -to such things as can be universally understood. It is plain that -you cannot impart “university methods” to thousands, or create -“investigators” by the score, unless you confine your university -education to matters which dull men can investigate, your laboratory -training to tasks which mere plodding diligence and submissive patience -can compass. Yet, if you do so limit and constrain what you teach, you -thrust taste and insight and delicacy of perception out of the schools, -exalt the obvious and the merely useful above the things which are -only imaginatively or spiritually conceived, make education an affair -of tasting and handling and smelling, and so create Philistia, that -country in which they speak of “mere literature.” I suppose that in -Nirvana one would speak in like wise of “mere life.” - -The fear, at any rate, that such things may happen cannot fail to set -us anxiously pondering certain questions about the systematic teaching -of literature in our schools and colleges. How are we to impart -classical writings to the children of the general public? “Beshrew the -general public!” cries Mr. Birrell. “What in the name of the Bodleian -has the general public got to do with literature?” Unfortunately, it -has a great deal to do with it; for are we not complacently forcing the -general public into our universities, and are we not arranging that -all its sons shall be instructed how they may themselves master and -teach our literature? You have nowadays, it is believed, only to heed -the suggestions of pedagogics in order to know how to impart Burke or -Browning, Dryden or Swift. There are certain practical difficulties, -indeed; but there are ways of overcoming them. You must have strength -if you would handle with real mastery the firm fibre of these men; you -must have a heart, moreover, to feel their warmth, an eye to see what -they see, an imagination to keep them company, a pulse to experience -their delights. But if you have none of these things, you may make -shift to do without them. You may count the words they use, instead, -note the changes of phrase they make in successive revisions, put their -rhythm into a scale of feet, run their allusions--particularly their -female allusions--to cover, detect them in their previous reading. -Or, if none of these things please you, or you find the big authors -difficult or dull, you may drag to light all the minor writers of -their time, who are easy to understand. By setting an example in such -methods you render great services in certain directions. You make the -higher degrees of our universities available for the large number of -respectable men who can count, and measure, and search diligently; and -that may prove no small matter. You divert attention from thought, -which is not always easy to get at, and fix attention upon language, -as upon a curious mechanism, which can be perceived with the bodily -eye, and which is worthy to be studied for its own sake, quite apart -from anything it may mean. You encourage the examination of forms, -grammatical and metrical, which can be quite accurately determined and -quite exhaustively catalogued. You bring all the visible phenomena of -writing to light and into ordered system. You go further, and show how -to make careful literal identification of stories somewhere told ill -and without art with the same stories told over again by the masters, -well and with the transfiguring effect of genius. You thus broaden -the area of science; for you rescue the concrete phenomena of the -expression of thought--the necessary syllabification which accompanies -it, the inevitable juxtaposition of words, the constant use of -particles, the habitual display of roots, the inveterate repetition of -names, the recurrent employment of meanings heard or read--from their -confusion with the otherwise unclassifiable manifestations of what had -hitherto been accepted, without critical examination, under the lump -term “literature,” simply for the pleasure and spiritual edification to -be got from it. - -An instructive differentiation ensues. In contrast with the orderly -phenomena of speech and writing, which are amenable to scientific -processes of examination and classification, and which take rank with -the orderly successions of change in nature, we have what, for want -of a more exact term, we call “mere literature,”--the literature -which is not an expression of form, but an expression of spirit. This -is a fugitive and troublesome thing, and perhaps does not belong -in well-conceived plans of universal instruction; for it offers -many embarrassments to pedagogic method. It escapes all scientific -categories. It is not pervious to research. It is too wayward to be -brought under the discipline of exposition. It is an attribute of so -many different substances at one and the same time, that the consistent -scientific man must needs put it forth from his company, as without -responsible connections. By “mere literature” he means mere evanescent -color, wanton trick of phrase, perverse departures from categorical -statement,--something _all_ personal equation, such stuff as dreams are -made of. - -We must not all, however, be impatient of this truant child of fancy. -When the schools cast her out, she will stand in need of friendly -succor, and we must train our spirits for the function. We must -be free-hearted in order to make her happy, for she will accept -entertainment from no sober, prudent fellow who shall counsel her to -mend her ways. She has always made light of hardship, and she has -never loved or obeyed any, save those who were of her own mind,--those -who were indulgent to her humors, responsive to her ways of thought, -attentive to her whims, content with her “mere” charms. She already -has her small following of devotees, like all charming, capricious -mistresses. There are some still who think that to know her is better -than a liberal education. - -There is but one way in which you can take mere literature as an -education, and that is directly, at first hand. Almost any media except -her own language and touch and tone are non-conducting. A descriptive -catalogue of a collection of paintings is no substitute for the little -areas of color and form themselves. You do not want to hear about a -beautiful woman, simply,--how she was dressed, how she bore herself, -how the fine color flowed sweetly here and there upon her cheeks, -how her eyes burned and melted, how her voice thrilled through the -ears of those about her. If you have ever seen a woman, these things -but tantalize and hurt you, if you cannot see her. You want to be in -her presence. You know that only your own eyes can give you direct -knowledge of her. Nothing but her presence contains her life. ’Tis the -same with the authentic products of literature. You can never get their -beauty at second hand, or feel their power except by direct contact -with them. - -It is a strange and occult thing how this quality of “mere literature” -enters into one book, and is absent from another; but no man who -has once felt it can mistake it. I was reading the other day a book -about Canada. It is written in what the reviewers have pronounced to -be an “admirable, spirited style.” By this I take them to mean that -it is grammatical, orderly, and full of strong adjectives. But these -reviewers would have known more about the style in which it is written -if they had noted what happens on page 84. There a quotation from Burke -occurs. “There is,” says Burke, “but one healing, catholic principle of -toleration which ought to find favor in this house. It is wanted not -only in our colonies, but here. The thirsty earth of our own country -is gasping and gaping and crying out for that healing shower from -heaven. The noble lord has told you of the right of those people by -treaty; but I consider the right of conquest so little, and the right -of human nature so much, that the former has very little consideration -with me. I look upon the people of Canada as coming by the dispensation -of God under the British government. I would have us govern it in the -same manner as the all--wise disposition of Providence would govern -it. We know he suffers the sun to shine upon the righteous and the -unrighteous; and we ought to suffer all classes to enjoy equally the -right of worshiping God according to the light he has been pleased -to give them.” The peculiarity of such a passage as that is, that it -needs no context. Its beauty seems almost independent of its subject -matter. It comes on that eighty-fourth page like a burst of music in -the midst of small talk,--a tone of sweet harmony heard amidst a rattle -of phrases. The mild noise was unobjectionable enough until the music -came. There is a breath and stir of life in those sentences of Burke’s -which is to be perceived in nothing else in that volume. Your pulses -catch a quicker movement from them, and are stronger on their account. - -It is so with all essential literature. It has a quality to move you, -and you can never mistake it, if you have any blood in you. And it has -also a power to instruct you which is as effective as it is subtle, -and which no research or systematic method can ever rival. ’Tis a sore -pity if that power cannot be made available in the classroom. It is -not merely that it quickens your thought and fills your imagination -with the images that have illuminated the choicer minds of the race. It -does indeed exercise the faculties in this wise, bringing them into the -best atmosphere, and into the presence of the men of greatest charm and -force; but it does a great deal more than that. It acquaints the mind, -by direct contact, with the forces which really govern and modify -the world from generation to generation. There is more of a nation’s -politics to be got out of its poetry than out of all its systematic -writers upon public affairs and constitutions. Epics are better -mirrors of manners than chronicles; dramas oftentimes let you into the -secrets of statutes; orations stirred by a deep energy of emotion or -resolution, passionate pamphlets that survive their mission because -of the direct action of their style along permanent lines of thought, -contain more history than parliamentary journals. It is not knowledge -that moves the world, but ideals, convictions, the opinions or fancies -that have been held or followed; and whoever studies humanity ought to -study it alive, practice the vivisection of reading literature, and -acquaint himself with something more than anatomies which are no longer -in use by spirits. - -There are some words of Thibaut, the great jurist, which have long -seemed to me singularly penetrative of one of the secrets of the -intellectual life. “I told him,” he says,--he is speaking of an -interview with Niebuhr,--“I told him that I owed my gayety and vigor, -in great part, to my love for the classics of all ages, even those -outside the domain of jurisprudence.” Not only the gayety and vigor -of his hale old age, surely, but also his insight into the meaning -and purpose of laws and institutions. The jurist who does not love -the classics of all ages is like a post-mortem doctor presiding at a -birth, a maker of manikins prescribing for a disease of the blood, a -student of masks setting up for a connoisseur in smiles and kisses. -In narrating history, you are speaking of what was done by men; in -discoursing of laws, you are seeking to show what courses of action, -and what manner of dealing with one another, men have adopted. You -can neither tell the story nor conceive the law till you know how the -men you speak of regarded themselves and one another; and I know of -no way of learning this but by reading the stories they have told of -themselves, the songs they have sung, the heroic adventures they have -applauded. I must know what, if anything, they revered; I must hear -their sneers and gibes; must learn in what accents they spoke love -within the family circle; with what grace they obeyed their superiors -in station; how they conceived it politic to live, and wise to die; -how they esteemed property, and what they deemed privilege; when they -kept holiday, and why; when they were prone to resist oppression, and -wherefore,--I must see things with their eyes, before I can comprehend -their law books. Their jural relationships are not independent of -their way of living, and their way of thinking is the mirror of their -way of living. - -It is doubtless due to the scientific spirit of the age that these -plain, these immemorial truths are in danger of becoming obscured. -Science, under the influence of the conception of evolution, devotes -itself to the study of forms, of specific differences, of the manner -in which the same principle of life manifests itself variously under -the compulsions of changes of environment. It is thus that it has -become “scientific” to set forth the manner in which man’s nature -submits to man’s circumstances; scientific to disclose morbid moods, -and the conditions which produce them; scientific to regard man, not -as the centre or source of power, but as subject to power, a register -of external forces instead of an originative soul, and character as -a product of man’s circumstances rather than a sign of man’s mastery -over circumstance. It is thus that it has become “scientific” to -analyze language as itself a commanding element in man’s life. The -history of word-roots, their modification under the influences of -changes wrought in the vocal organs by habit or by climate, the laws of -phonetic change to which they are obedient, and their persistence under -all disguises of dialect, as if they were full of a self-originated -life, a self-directed energy of influence, is united with the study -of grammatical forms in the construction of scientific conceptions -of the evolution and uses of human speech. The impression is created -that literature is only the chosen vessel of these forms, disclosing -to us their modification in use and structure from age to age. Such -vitality as the masterpieces of genius possess comes to seem only a -dramatization of the fortunes of words. Great writers construct for the -adventures of language their appropriate epics. Or, if it be not the -words themselves that are scrutinized, but the style of their use, that -style becomes, instead of a fine essence of personality, a matter of -cadence merely, or of grammatical and structural relationships. Science -is the study of the forces of the world of matter, the adjustments, the -apparatus, of the universe; and the scientific study of literature has -likewise become a study of apparatus,--of the forms in which men utter -thought, and the forces by which those forms have been and still are -being modified, rather than of thought itself. - -The essences of literature of course remain the same under all forms, -and the true study of literature is the study of these essences,--a -study, not of forms or of differences, but of likenesses,--likenesses -of spirit and intent under whatever varieties of method, running -through all forms of speech like the same music along the chords -of various instruments. There is a sense in which literature is -independent of form, just as there is a sense in which music is -independent of its instrument. It is my cherished belief that Apollo’s -pipe contained as much eloquent music as any modern orchestra. Some -books live; many die: wherein is the secret of immortality? Not -in beauty of form, nor even in force of passion. We might say of -literature what Wordsworth said of poetry, the most easily immortal -part of literature: it is “the impassioned expression which is in the -countenance of all science; it is the breath of the finer spirit of -all knowledge.” Poetry has the easier immortality because it has the -sweeter accent when it speaks, because its phrases linger in our ears -to delight them, because its truths are also melodies. Prose has much -to overcome,--its plainness of visage, its less musical accents, its -homelier turns of phrase. But it also may contain the immortal essence -of truth and seriousness and high thought. It too may clothe conviction -with the beauty that must make it shine forever. Let a man but have -beauty in his heart, and, believing something with his might, put it -forth arrayed as he sees it, the lights and shadows falling upon it on -his page as they fall upon it in his heart, and he may die assured that -that beauty will not pass away out of the world. - -Biographers have often been puzzled by the contrast between certain -men as they lived and as they wrote. Schopenhauer’s case is one of the -most singular. A man of turbulent life, suffering himself to be cut -to exasperation by the petty worries of his lot, he was nevertheless -calm and wise when he wrote, as if the Muse had rebuked him. He wrote -at a still elevation, where small and temporary things did not come -to disturb him. ’Tis a pity that for some men this elevation is so -far to seek. They lose permanency by not finding it. Could there be a -deliberate regimen of life for the author, it is plain enough how he -ought to live, not as seeking fame, but as deserving it. - - “Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy - To those who woo her with too slavish knees; - But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy, - And dotes the more upon a heart at ease. - - * * * * * - - “Ye love-sick bards, repay her scorn with scorn; - Ye love-sick artists, madmen that ye are, - Make your best bow to her and bid adieu; - Then, if she likes it, she will follow you.” - -It behooves all minor authors to realize the possibility of their being -discovered some day, and exposed to the general scrutiny. They ought -to live as if conscious of the risk. They ought to purge their hearts -of everything that is not genuine and capable of lasting the world a -century, at least, if need be. Mere literature is made of spirit. The -difficulties of style are the artist’s difficulties with his tools. The -spirit that is in the eye, in the pose, in mien or gesture, the painter -must find in his color-box; as he must find also the spirit that -nature displays upon the face of the fields or in the hidden places -of the forest. The writer has less obvious means. Word and spirit do -not easily consort. The language which the philologists set out before -us with such curious erudition is of very little use as a vehicle -for the essences of the human spirit. It is too sophisticated and -self-conscious. What you need is, not a critical knowledge of language, -but a quick feeling for it. You must recognize the affinities between -your spirit and its idioms. You must immerse your phrase in your -thought, your thought in your phrase, till each becomes saturated with -the other. Then what you produce is as necessarily fit for permanency -as if it were incarnated spirit. - -And you must produce in color, with the touch of imagination which -lifts what you write away from the dull levels of mere exposition. -Black-and-white sketches may serve some purposes of the artist, -but very little of actual nature is in mere black-and-white. The -imagination never works thus with satisfaction. Nothing is ever -conceived completely when conceived so grayly, without suffusion -of real light. The mind creates, as great Nature does, in colors, -with deep chiaroscuro and burning lights. This is true not only of -poetry and essentially imaginative writing, but also of the writing -which seeks nothing more than to penetrate the meaning of actual -affairs,--the writing of the greatest historians and philosophers, -the utterances of orators and of the great masters of political -exposition. Their narratives, their analyses, their appeals, their -conceptions of principle, are all dipped deep in the colors of the -life they expound. Their minds respond only to realities, their eyes -see only actual circumstance. Their sentences quiver and are quick -with visions of human affairs,--how minds are bent or governed, how -action is shaped or thwarted. The great “constructive” minds, as we -call them, are of this sort. They “construct” by seeing what others -have not imagination enough to see. They do not always know more, but -they always realize more. Let the singular reconstruction of Roman -history and institutions by Theodor Mommsen serve as an illustration. -Safe men distrust this great master. They cannot find what he finds -in the documents. They will draw you truncated figures of the antique -Roman state, and tell you the limbs cannot be found, the features of -the face have nowhere been unearthed. They will cite you fragments such -as remain, and show you how far these can be pieced together toward the -making of a complete description of private life and public function -in those first times when the Roman commonwealth was young; but what -the missing sentences were they can only weakly conjecture. Their eyes -cannot descry those distant days with no other aids than these. Only -the greatest are dissatisfied, and go on to paint that ancient life -with the materials that will render it lifelike,--the materials of the -constructive imagination. They have other sources of information. They -see living men in the old documents. Give them but the torso, and they -will supply head and limbs, bright and animate as they must have been. -If Mommsen does not quite do that, another man, with Mommsen’s eye and -a touch more of color on his brush, might have done it,--may yet do it. - -It is in this way that we get some glimpse of the only relations that -scholarship bears to literature. Literature can do without exact -scholarship, or any scholarship at all, though it may impoverish -itself thereby; but scholarship cannot do without literature. It needs -literature to float it, to set it current, to authenticate it to the -race, to get it out of closets, and into the brains of men who stir -abroad. It will adorn literature, no doubt; literature will be the -richer for its presence; but it will not, it cannot, of itself create -literature. Rich stuffs from the East do not create a king, nor warlike -trappings a conqueror. There is, indeed, a natural antagonism, let it -be frankly said, between the standards of scholarship and the standards -of literature. Exact scholarship values things in direct proportion -as they are verifiable; but literature knows nothing of such tests. -The truths which it seeks are the truths of self-expression. It is a -thing of convictions, of insights, of what is felt and seen and heard -and hoped for. Its meanings lurk behind nature, not in the facts of -its phenomena. It speaks of things as the man who utters it saw them, -not necessarily as God made them. The personality of the speaker runs -throughout all the sentences of real literature. That personality may -not be the personality of a poet: it may be only the personality of -the penetrative seer. It may not have the atmosphere in which visions -are seen, but only that in which men and affairs look keenly cut in -outline, boldly massed in bulk, consummately grouped in detail, to the -reader as to the writer. Sentences of perfectly clarified wisdom may -be literature no less than stanzas of inspired song, or the intense -utterances of impassioned feeling. The personality of the sunlight is -in the keen lines of light that run along the edges of a sword no less -than in the burning splendor of the rose or the radiant kindlings of a -woman’s eye. You may feel the power of one master of thought playing -upon your brain as you may feel that of another playing upon your heart. - -Scholarship gets into literature by becoming part of the originating -individuality of a master of thought. No man is a master of thought -without being also a master of its vehicle and instrument, style, -that subtle medium of all its evasive effects of light and shade. -Scholarship is material; it is not life. It becomes immortal only when -it is worked upon by conviction, by schooled and chastened imagination, -by thought that runs alive out of the inner fountains of individual -insight and purpose. Colorless, or without suffusion of light from some -source of light, it is dead, and will not twice be looked at; but made -part of the life of a great mind, subordinated, absorbed, put forth -with authentic stamp of currency on it, minted at some definite mint -and bearing some sovereign image, it will even outlast the time when -it shall have ceased to deserve the acceptance of scholars,--when it -shall, in fact, have become “mere literature.” - -Scholarship is the realm of nicely adjusted opinion. It is the business -of scholars to assess evidence and test conclusions, to discriminate -values and reckon probabilities. Literature is the realm of conviction -and vision. Its points of view are as various as they are oftentimes -unverifiable. It speaks individual faiths. Its groundwork is not -erudition, but reflection and fancy. Your thoroughgoing scholar dare -not reflect. To reflect is to let himself in on his material; whereas -what he wants is to keep himself apart, and view his materials in -an air that does not color or refract. To reflect is to throw an -atmosphere about what is in your mind,--an atmosphere which holds all -the colors of your life. Reflection summons all associations, and -they so throng and move that they dominate the mind’s stage at once. -The plot is in their hands. Scholars, therefore, do not reflect; -they label, group kind with kind, set forth in schemes, expound -with dispassionate method. Their minds are not stages, but museums; -nothing is done there, but very curious and valuable collections are -kept there. If literature use scholarship, it is only to fill it with -fancies or shape it to new standards, of which of itself it can know -nothing. - -True, there are books reckoned primarily books of science and of -scholarship which have nevertheless won standing as literature; books -of science such as Newton wrote, books of scholarship such as Gibbon’s. -But science was only the vestibule by which such a man as Newton -entered the temple of nature, and the art he practiced was not the art -of exposition, but the art of divination. He was not only a scientist, -but also a seer; and we shall not lose sight of Newton because we value -what he was more than what he knew. If we continue Gibbon in his fame, -it will be for love of his art, not for worship of his scholarship. We -some of us, nowadays, know the period of which he wrote better even -than he did; but which one of us shall build so admirable a monument -to ourselves, as artists, out of what we know? The scholar finds his -immortality in the form he gives to his work. It is a hard saying, but -the truth of it is inexorable: be an artist, or prepare for oblivion. -You may write a chronicle, but you will not serve yourself thereby. You -will only serve some fellow who shall come after you, possessing, what -you did not have, an ear for the words you could not hit upon; an eye -for the colors you could not see; a hand for the strokes you missed. - -Real literature you can always distinguish by its form, and yet it is -not possible to indicate the form it should have. It is easy to say -that it should have a form suitable to its matter; but how suitable? -Suitable to set the matter off, adorn, embellish it, or suitable simply -to bring it directly, quick and potent, to the apprehension of the -reader? This is the question of style, about which many masters have -had many opinions; upon which you can make up no safe generalization -from the practice of those who have unquestionably given to the matter -of their thought immortal form, an accent or a countenance never to be -forgotten. Who shall say how much of Burke’s splendid and impressive -imagery is part and stuff of his thought, or tell why even that part -of Newman’s prose which is devoid of ornament, stripped to its shining -skin, and running bare and lithe and athletic to carry its tidings to -men, should promise to enjoy as certain an immortality? Why should -Lamb go so quaintly and elaborately to work upon his critical essays, -taking care to perfume every sentence, if possible, with the fine -savor of an old phrase, if the same business could be as effectively -done in the plain and even cadences of Mr. Matthew Arnold’s prose? -Why should Gibbon be so formal, so stately, so elaborate, when he -had before his eyes the example of great Tacitus, whose direct, -sententious style had outlived by so many hundred years the very -language in which he wrote? In poetry, who shall measure the varieties -of style lavished upon similar themes? The matter of vital thought -is not separable from the thinker; its forms must suit his handling -as well as fit his conception. Any style is author’s stuff which is -suitable to his purpose and his fancy. He may use rich fabrics with -which to costume his thoughts, or he may use simple stone from which -to sculpture them, and leave them bare. His only limits are those of -art. He may not indulge a taste for the merely curious or fantastic. -The quaint writers have quaint thoughts; their material is suitable. -They do not merely satisfy themselves as virtuosi, with collections of -odd phrases and obsolete meanings. They needed twisted words to fit -the eccentric patterns of their thought. The great writer has always -dignity, restraint, propriety, adequateness; what time he loses these -qualities he ceases to be great. His style neither creaks nor breaks -under his passion, but carries the strain with unshaken strength. It -is not trivial or mean, but speaks what small meanings fall in its way -with simplicity, as conscious of their smallness. Its playfulness is -within bounds; its laugh never bursts too boisterously into a guffaw. -A great style always knows what it would be at, and does the thing -appropriately, with the larger sort of taste. - -This is the condemnation of tricks of phrase, devices to catch the -attention, exaggerations and loud talk to hold it. No writer can afford -to strive after effect, if his striving is to be apparent. For just -and permanent effect is missed altogether unless it be so completely -attained as to seem like some touch of sunlight, perfect, natural, -inevitable, wrought without effort and without deliberate purpose -to be effective. Mere audacity of attempt can, of course, never win -the wished for result; and if the attempt be successful, it is not -audacious. What we call audacity in a great writer has no touch of -temerity, sauciness, or arrogance in it. It is simply high spirit, -a dashing and splendid display of strength. Boldness is ridiculous -unless it be impressive, and it can be impressive only when backed by -solid forces of character and attainment. Your plebeian hack cannot -afford the showy paces; only the full-blooded Arabian has the sinew -and proportion to lend them perfect grace and propriety. The art of -letters eschews the bizarre as rigidly as does every other fine art. It -mixes its colors with brains, and is obedient to great Nature’s sane -standards of right adjustment in all that it attempts. - -You can make no catalogue of these features of great writing; there is -no science of literature. Literature in its essence is mere spirit, and -you must experience it rather than analyze it too formally. It is the -door to nature and to ourselves. It opens our hearts to receive the -experiences of great men and the conceptions of great races. It awakens -us to the significance of action and to the singular power of mental -habit. It airs our souls in the wide atmosphere of contemplation. “In -these bad days, when it is thought more educationally useful to know -the principle of the common pump than Keats’ Ode on a Grecian Urn,” as -Mr. Birrell says, we cannot afford to let one single precious sentence -of “mere literature” go by us unread or unpraised. If this free people -to which we belong is to keep its fine spirit, its perfect temper -amidst affairs, its high courage in the face of difficulties, its wise -temperateness and wide-eyed hope, it must continue to drink deep and -often from the old wells of English undefiled, quaff the keen tonic of -its best ideals, keep its blood warm with all the great utterances of -exalted purpose and pure principle of which its matchless literature -is full. The great spirits of the past must command us in the tasks of -the future. Mere literature will keep us pure and keep us strong. Even -though it puzzle or altogether escape scientific method, it may keep -our horizon clear for us, and our eyes glad to look bravely forth upon -the world. - - - - -II. - -THE AUTHOR HIMSELF. - - -Who can help wondering, concerning the modern multitude of books, where -all these companions of his reading hours will be buried when they -die; which will have monuments erected to them; which escape the envy -of time and live? It is pathetic to think of the number that must be -forgotten, after having been removed from the good places to make room -for their betters. - -Much the most pathetic thought about books, however, is that excellence -will not save them. Their fates will be as whimsical as those of the -humankind which produces them. Knaves find it as easy to get remembered -as good men. It is not right living or learning or kind offices, simply -and of themselves, but--something else that gives immortality of fame. -Be a book never so scholarly, it may die; be it never so witty, or -never so full of good feeling and of an honest statement of truth, it -may not live. - -When once a book has become immortal, we think that we can see why -it became so. It contained, we perceive, a casting of thought which -could not but arrest and retain men’s attention; it said some things -once and for all because it gave them their best expression. Or else it -spoke with a grace or with a fire of imagination, with a sweet cadence -of phrase and a full harmony of tone, which have made it equally dear -to all generations of those who love the free play of fancy or the -incomparable music of perfected human speech. Or perhaps it uttered -with candor and simplicity some universal sentiment; perchance pictured -something in the tragedy or the comedy of man’s life as it was never -pictured before, and must on that account be read and read again as not -to be superseded. There must be something special, we judge, either -in its form or in its substance, to account for its unwonted fame and -fortune. - -This upon first analysis, taking one book at a time. A look deeper -into the heart of the matter enables us to catch at least a glimpse of -a single and common source of immortality. The world is attracted by -books as each man is attracted by his several friends. You recommend -that capital fellow So-and-So to the acquaintance of others because -of his discriminating and diverting powers of observation: the very -tones and persons--it would seem the very selves--of every type of man -live again in his mimicries and descriptions. He is the dramatist -of your circle; you can never forget him, nor can any one else; his -circle of acquaintances can never grow smaller. Could he live on and -retain perennially that wonderful freshness and vivacity of his, he -must become the most famous guest and favorite of the world. Who that -has known a man quick and shrewd to see dispassionately the inner -history, the reason and the ends, of the combinations of society, -and at the same time eloquent to tell of them, with a hold on the -attention gained by a certain quaint force and sagacity resident in -no other man, can find it difficult to understand why we still resort -to Montesquieu? Possibly there are circles favored of the gods who -have known some fellow of infinite store of miscellaneous and curious -learning, who has greatly diverted both himself and his friends by a -way peculiar to himself of giving it out upon any and all occasions, -item by item, as if it were all homogeneous and of a piece, and by his -odd skill in making unexpected application of it to out-of-the-way, -unpromising subjects, as if there were in his view of things mental no -such disintegrating element as incongruity. Such a circle would esteem -it strange were Burton not beloved of the world. And so of those, if -any there be, who have known men of simple, calm, transparent natures, -untouched by storm or perplexity, whose talk was full of such serious, -placid reflection as seemed to mirror their own reverent hearts,--talk -often prosy, but more often touchingly beautiful, because of its -nearness to nature and the solemn truth of life. There may be those, -also, who have felt the thrill of personal contact with some stormy -peasant nature full of strenuous, unsparing speech concerning men and -affairs. These have known why a Wordsworth or a Carlyle must be read by -all generations of those who love words of first-hand inspiration. In -short, in every case of literary immortality originative personality is -present. Not origination simply,--that may be mere invention, which in -literature has nothing immortal about it; but origination which takes -its stamp and character from the originator, which is his spirit given -to the world, which is himself outspoken. - -Individuality does not consist in the use of the very personal pronoun, -_I_: it consists in tone, in method, in attitude, in point of view; -it consists in saying things in such a way that you will yourself be -recognized as a force in saying them. Do we not at once know Lamb -when he speaks? And even more formal Addison, does not his speech -bewray and endear him to us? His personal charm is less distinct, much -less fascinating, than that which goes with what Lamb speaks, but a -charm he has sufficient for immortality. In Steele the matter is more -impersonal, more mortal. Some of Dr. Johnson’s essays, you feel, might -have been written by a dictionary. It is impersonal matter that is dead -matter. Are you asked who fathered a certain brilliant, poignant bit -of political analysis? You say, Why, only Bagehot could have written -that. Does a wittily turned verse make you hesitate between laughter at -its hit and grave thought because of its deeper, covert meaning? Do you -not know that only Lowell could do that? Do you catch a strain of pure -Elizabethan music and doubt whether to attribute it to Shakespeare or -to another? Do you not _know_ the authors who still live? - -Now, the noteworthy thing about such individuality is that it will not -develop under every star, or in one place just as well as in another; -there is an atmosphere which kills it, and there is an atmosphere -which fosters it. The atmosphere which kills it is the atmosphere of -sophistication, where cleverness and fashion and knowingness thrive: -cleverness, which is froth, not strong drink; fashion, which is a thing -assumed, not a thing of nature; and knowingness, which is naught. - -Of course there are born, now and again, as tokens of some rare mood -of Nature, men of so intense and individual a cast that circumstance -and surroundings affect them little more than friction affects an -express train. They command their own development without even -the consciousness that to command costs strength. These cannot be -sophisticated; for sophistication is subordination to the ways of your -world. But these are the very greatest and the very rarest; and it -is not the greatest and the rarest alone who shape the world and its -thought. That is done also by the great and the merely extraordinary. -There is a rank and file in literature, even in the literature of -immortality, and these must go much to school to the people about them. - -It is by the number and charm of the individualities which it contains -that the literature of any country gains distinction. We turn -anywhither to know men. The best way to foster literature, if it may be -fostered, is to cultivate the author himself,--a plant of such delicate -and precarious growth that special soils are needed to produce it in -its full perfection. The conditions which foster individuality are -those which foster simplicity, thought and action which are direct, -naturalness, spontaneity. What are these conditions? - -In the first place, a certain helpful ignorance. It is best for the -author to be born away from literary centres, or to be excluded from -their ruling set if he be born in them. It is best that he start out -with his thinking, not knowing how much has been thought and said about -everything. A certain amount of ignorance will insure his sincerity, -will increase his boldness and shelter his genuineness, which is his -hope of power. Not ignorance of life, but life may be learned in any -neighborhood;--not ignorance of the greater laws which govern human -affairs, but they may be learned without a library of historians -and commentators, by imaginative sense, by seeing better than by -reading;--not ignorance of the infinitudes of human circumstance, but -these may be perceived without the intervention of universities;--not -ignorance of one’s self and of one’s neighbor; but innocence of the -sophistications of learning, its research without love, its knowledge -without inspiration, its method without grace; freedom from its shame -at trying to know many things as well as from its pride of trying to -know but one thing; ignorance of that faith in small confounding facts -which is contempt for large reassuring principles. - -Our present problem is not how to clarify our reasonings and perfect -our analyses, but how to reënrich and reënergize our literature. That -literature is suffering, not from ignorance, but from sophistication -and self-consciousness; and it is suffering hardly less from excess -of logical method. Ratiocination does not keep us pure, render us -earnest, or make us individual and specific forces in the world. Those -inestimable results are accomplished by whatever implants principle -and conviction, whatever quickens with inspiration, fills with purpose -and courage, gives outlook, and makes character. Reasoned thinking -does indeed clear the mind’s atmospheres and lay open to its view -fields of action; but it is loving and believing, sometimes hating and -distrusting, often prejudice and passion, always the many things which -we call the one thing, character, which create and shape our acting. -Life quite overtowers logic. Thinking and erudition alone will not -equip for the great tasks and triumphs of life and literature: the -persuading of other men’s purposes, the entrance into other men’s minds -to possess them forever. Culture broadens and sweetens literature, -but native sentiment and unmarred individuality create it. Not all of -mental power lies in the processes of thinking. There is power also -in passion, in personality, in simple, native, uncritical conviction, -in unschooled feeling. The power of science, of system, is executive, -not stimulative. I do not find that I derive inspiration, but only -information, from the learned historians and analysts of liberty; but -from the sonneteers, the poets, who, speak its spirit and its exalted -purpose,--who, recking nothing of the historical method, obey only the -high method of their own hearts,--what may a man not gain of courage -and confidence in the right way of politics? - -It is your direct, unhesitating, intent, headlong man, who has his -sources in the mountains, who digs deep channels for himself in the -soil of his times and expands into the mighty river, to become a -landmark forever; and not your “broad” man, sprung from the schools, -who spreads his shallow, extended waters over the wide surfaces of -learning, to leave rich deposits, it may be, for other men’s crops to -grow in, but to be himself dried up by a few score summer noons. The -man thrown early upon his own resources, and already become a conqueror -of success before being thrown with the literary talkers; the man grown -to giant’s stature in some rural library, and become exercised there -in a giant’s prerogatives before ever he has been laughingly told, to -his heart’s confusion, of scores of other giants dead and forgotten -long ago; the man grounded in hope and settled in conviction ere he has -discovered how many hopes time has seen buried, how many convictions -cruelly given the lie direct by fate; the man who has carried his youth -into middle age before going into the chill atmosphere of _blasé_ -sentiment; the quiet, stern man who has cultivated literature on a -little oatmeal before thrusting himself upon the great world as a -prophet and seer; the man who pronounces new eloquence in the rich -dialect in which he was bred; the man come up to the capital from the -provinces,--these are the men who people the world’s mind with new -creations, and give to the sophisticated learned of the next generation -new names to conjure with. - -If you have a candid and well-informed friend among city lawyers, ask -him where the best masters of his profession are bred,--in the city or -in the country. He will reply without hesitation, “In the country.” -You will hardly need to have him state the reason. The country lawyer -has been obliged to study all parts of the law alike, and he has known -no reason why he should not do so. He has not had the chance to make -himself a specialist in any one branch of the law, as is the fashion -among city practitioners, and he has not coveted the opportunity to -do it. There would not have been enough special cases to occupy or -remunerate him if he had coveted it. He has dared attempt the task -of knowing the whole law, and yet without any sense of daring, but as -a matter of course. In his own little town, in the midst of his own -small library of authorities, it has not seemed to him an impossible -task to explore all the topics that engage his profession; the guiding -principles, at any rate, of all branches of the great subject were -open to him in a few books. And so it often happens that when he has -found his sea legs on the sequestered inlets at home, and ventures, -as he sometimes will, upon the great, troublous, and much-frequented -waters of city practice in search of more work and larger fees, the -country lawyer will once and again confound his city-bred brethren by -discovering to them the fact that the law is a many-sided thing of -principles, and not altogether a one-sided thing of technical rule and -arbitrary precedent. - -It would seem to be necessary that the author who is to stand as a -distinct and imperative individual among the company of those who -express the world’s thought should come to a hard crystallization -before subjecting himself to the tense strain of cities, the corrosive -acids of critical circles. The ability to see for one’s self is -attainable, not by mixing with crowds and ascertaining how they look -at things, but by a certain aloofness and self-containment. The -solitariness of some genius is not accidental; it is characteristic -and essential. To the constructive imagination there are some immortal -feats which are possible only in seclusion. The man must heed first and -most of all the suggestions of his own spirit; and the world can be -seen from windows overlooking the street better than from the street -itself. - -Literature grows rich, various, full-voiced largely through the -re-discovery of truth, by thinking re-thought, by stories re-told, by -songs re-sung. The song of human experience grows richer and richer -in its harmonies, and must grow until the full accord and melody are -come. If too soon subjected to the tense strain of the city, a man -cannot expand; he is beaten out of his natural shape by the incessant -impact and press of men and affairs. It will often turn out that the -unsophisticated man will display not only more force, but more literary -skill even, than the trained _littérateur_. For one thing, he will -probably have enjoyed a fresher contact with old literature. He reads -not for the sake of a critical acquaintance with this or that author, -with no thought of going through all his writings and “working him up,” -but as he would ride a spirited horse, for love of the life and motion -of it. - -A general impression seems to have gained currency that the last of -the bullying, omniscient critics was buried in the grave of Francis -Jeffrey; and it is becoming important to correct the misapprehension. -There never was a time when there was more superior knowledge, more -specialist omniscience, among reviewers than there is to-day; not -pretended superior knowledge, but real. Jeffrey’s was very real of -its kind. For those who write books, one of the special, inestimable -advantages of lacking a too intimate knowledge of the “world of -letters” consists in not knowing all that is known by those who review -books, in ignorance of the fashions among those who construct canons -of taste. The modern critic is a leader of fashion. He carries with -him the air of a literary worldliness. If your book be a novel, your -reviewer will know all previous plots, all former, all possible, -motives and situations. You cannot write anything absolutely new for -him, and why should you desire to do again what has been done already? -If it be a poem, the reviewer’s head already rings with the whole gamut -of the world’s metrical music; he can recognize any simile, recall all -turns of phrase, match every sentiment; why seek to please him anew -with old things? If it concern itself with the philosophy of politics, -he can and will set himself to test it by the whole history of its -kind from Plato down to Benjamin Kidd. How can it but spoil your -sincerity to know that your critic will know everything? Will you not -be tempted of the devil to anticipate his judgment or his pretensions -by pretending to know as much as he? - -The literature of creation naturally falls into two kinds: that which -interprets nature or human action, and that which interprets self. Both -of these may have the flavor of immortality, but neither unless it be -free from self-consciousness. No man, therefore, can create after the -best manner in either of these kinds who is an _habitué_ of the circles -made so delightful by those interesting men, the modern _literati_, -sophisticated in all the fashions, ready in all the catches of the -knowing literary world which centres in the city and the university. He -cannot always be simple and straightforward. He cannot be always and -without pretension himself, bound by no other man’s canons of taste in -speech or conduct. In the judgment of such circles there is but one -thing for you to do if you would gain distinction: you must “beat the -record;” you must do certain definite literary feats better than they -have yet been done. You are pitted against the literary “field.” You -are hastened into the paralysis of comparing yourself with others, -and thus away from the health of unhesitating self-expression and -directness of first-hand vision. - -It would be not a little profitable if we could make correct analysis -of the proper relations of learning--learning of the critical, accurate -sort--to origination, of learning’s place in literature. Although -learning is never the real parent of literature, but only sometimes its -foster-father, and although the native promptings of soul and sense are -its best and freshest sources, there is always the danger that learning -will claim, in every court of taste which pretends to jurisdiction, -exclusive and preëminent rights as the guardian and preceptor of -authors. An effort is constantly being made to create and maintain -standards of literary worldliness, if I may coin such a phrase. The -thorough man of the world affects to despise natural feeling; does at -any rate actually despise all displays of it. He has an eye always -on his world’s best manners, whether native or imported, and is at -continual pains to be master of the conventions of society; he will -mortify the natural man as much as need be in order to be in good form. -What learned criticism essays to do is to create a similar literary -worldliness, to establish fashions and conventions in letters. - -I have an odd friend in one of the northern counties of Georgia,--a -county set off by itself among the mountains, but early found out by -refined people in search of summer refuge from the unhealthful air of -the southern coast. He belongs to an excellent family of no little -culture, but he was surprised in the midst of his early schooling by -the coming on of the war; and education given pause in such wise seldom -begins again in the schools. He was left, therefore, to “finish” his -mind as best he might in the companionship of the books in his uncle’s -library. These books were of the old sober sort: histories, volumes of -travels, treatises on laws and constitutions, theologies, philosophies -more fanciful than the romances encased in neighbor volumes on another -shelf. But they were books which were used to being taken down and -read; they had been daily companions to the rest of the family, and -they became familiar companions to my friend’s boyhood. He went to -them day after day, because theirs was the only society offered him in -the lonely days when uncle and brothers were at the war, and the women -were busy about the tasks of the home. How literally did he make those -delightful old volumes his familiars, his cronies! He never dreamed the -while, however, that he was becoming learned; it never seemed to occur -to him that everybody else did not read just as he did, in just such -a library. He found out afterwards, of course, that he had kept much -more of such company than had the men with whom he loved to chat at -the post-office or around the fire in the village shops, the habitual -resorts of all who were socially inclined; but he attributed that to -lack of time on their part, or to accident, and has gone on thinking -until now that all the books that come within his reach are the natural -intimates of man. And so you shall hear him, in his daily familiar -talk with his neighbors, draw upon his singular stores of wise, quaint -learning with the quiet colloquial assurance, “They tell me,” as if -books contained current rumor; and quote the poets with the easy -unaffectedness with which others cite a common maxim of the street! He -has been heard to refer to Dr. Arnold of Rugby as “that school teacher -over there in England.” - -Surely one may treasure the image of this simple, genuine man of -learning as the image of a sort of masterpiece of Nature in her own -type of erudition, a perfect sample of the kind of learning that might -beget the very highest sort of literature; the literature, namely, of -authentic individuality. It is only under one of two conditions that -learning will not dull the edge of individuality: first, if one never -suspect that it is creditable and a matter of pride to be learned, and -so never become learned for the sake of becoming so; or, second, if -it never suggest to one that investigation is better than reflection. -Learned investigation leads to many good things, but one of these is -not great literature, because learned investigation commands, as the -first condition of its success, the repression of individuality. - -His mind is a great comfort to every man who has one; but a heart is -not often to be so conveniently possessed. Hearts frequently give -trouble; they are straightforward and impulsive, and can seldom be -induced to be prudent. They must be schooled before they will become -insensible; they must be coached before they can be made to care first -and most for themselves: and in all cases the mind must be their -schoolmaster and coach. They are irregular forces; but the mind may -be trained to observe all points of circumstance and all motives of -occasion. - -No doubt it is considerations of this nature that must be taken to -explain the fact that our universities are erected entirely for the -service of the tractable mind, while the heart’s only education must be -gotten from association with its neighbor heart, and in the ordinary -courses of the world. Life is its only university. Mind is monarch, -whose laws claim supremacy in those lands which boast the movements -of civilization, and it must command all the instrumentalities of -education. At least such is the theory of the constitution of the -modern world. It is to be suspected that, as a matter of fact, mind -is one of those modern monarchs who reign, but do not govern. That -old House of Commons, that popular chamber in which the passions, the -prejudices, the inborn, unthinking affections long ago repudiated by -mind, have their full representation, controls much the greater part -of the actual conduct of affairs. To come out of the figure, reasoned -thought is, though perhaps the presiding, not yet the regnant force in -the world. In life and in literature it is subordinate. The future may -belong to it; but the present and past do not. Faith and virtue do not -wear its livery; friendship, loyalty, patriotism, do not derive their -motives from it. It does not furnish the material for those masses of -habit, of unquestioned tradition, and of treasured belief which are -the ballast of every steady ship of state, enabling it to spread its -sails safely to the breezes of progress, and even to stand before the -storms of revolution. And this is a fact which has its reflection in -literature. There is a literature of reasoned thought; but by far the -greater part of those writings which we reckon worthy of that great -name is the product, not of reasoned thought, but of the imagination -and of the spiritual vision of those who see,--writings winged, not -with knowledge, but with sympathy, with sentiment, with heartiness. -Even the literature of reasoned thought gets its life, not from its -logic, but from the spirit, the insight, and the inspiration which -are the vehicle of its logic. Thought presides, but sentiment has the -executive powers; the motive functions belong to feeling. - -“Many people give many theories of literary composition,” says the most -natural and stimulating of English critics, “and Dr. Blair, whom we -will read, is sometimes said to have exhausted the subject; but, unless -he has proved the contrary, we believe that the knack in style is to -write like a human being. Some think they must be wise, some elaborate, -some concise; Tacitus wrote like a pair of stays; some startle us, as -Thomas Carlyle, or a comet, inscribing with his tail. But legibility -is given to those who neglect these notions, and are willing to be -themselves, to write their own thoughts in their own words, in the -simplest words, in the words wherein they were thought.... Books are -for various purposes,--tracts to teach, almanacs to sell, poetry to -make pastry; but this is the rarest sort of a book,--a book to read. As -Dr. Johnson said, ‘Sir, a good book is one you can hold in your hand, -and take to the fire.’ Now there are extremely few books which can, -with any propriety, be so treated. When a great author, as Grote or -Gibbon, has devoted a whole life of horrid industry to the composition -of a large history, one feels one ought not to touch it with a mere -hand,--it is not respectful. The idea of slavery hovers over the -Decline and Fall. Fancy a stiffly dressed gentleman, in a stiff chair, -slowly writing that stiff compilation in a stiff hand; it is enough to -stiffen you for life.” - -It is devoutly to be wished that we might learn to prepare the best -soils for mind, the best associations and companionships, the least -possible sophistication. We are busy enough nowadays finding out -the best ways of fertilizing and stimulating mind; but that is not -quite the same thing as discovering the best soils for it, and the -best atmospheres. Our culture is, by erroneous preference, of the -reasoning faculty, as if that were all of us. Is it not the instinctive -discontent of readers seeking stimulating contact with authors that -has given us the present almost passionately spoken dissent from the -standards set themselves by the realists in fiction, dissatisfaction -with mere recording or observation? And is not realism working out upon -itself the revenge its enemies would fain compass? Must not all April -Hopes exclude from their number the hope of immortality? - -The rule for every man is, not to depend on the education which other -men prepare for him,--not even to consent to it; but to strive to -see things as they are, and to be himself as he is. Defeat lies in -self-surrender. - - - - -III. - -ON AN AUTHOR’S CHOICE OF COMPANY. - - -Once and again, it would seem, a man is born into the world belated. -Strayed out of a past age, he comes among us like an alien, lives -removed and singular, and dies a stranger. There was a touch of this -strangeness in Charles Lamb. Much as he was loved and befriended, he -was not much understood; for he drew aloof in his studies, affected a -“self-pleasing quaintness” in his style, took no pains to hit the taste -of his day, wandered at sweet liberty in an age which could scarcely -have bred such another. “Hang the age!” he cried. “I will write for -antiquity.” And he did. He wrote as if it were still Shakespeare’s day; -made the authors of that spacious time his constant companions and -study; and deliberately became himself “the last of the Elizabethans.” -When a new book came out, he said, he always read an old one. - -The case ought, surely, to put us occasionally upon reflecting. May an -author not, in some degree, by choosing his literary company, choose -also his literary character, and so, when he comes to write, write -himself back to his masters? May he not, by examining his own tastes -and yielding himself obedient to his natural affinities, join what -congenial group of writers he will? The question can be argued very -strongly in the affirmative, and that not alone because of Charles -Lamb’s case. It might be said that Lamb was antique only in the forms -of his speech; that he managed very cleverly to hit the taste of his -age in the substance of what he wrote, for all the phraseology had so -strong a flavor of quaintness and was not at all in the mode of the -day. It would not be easy to prove that; but it really does not matter. -In his tastes, certainly, Lamb was an old author, not a new one; a -“modern antique,” as Hood called him. He wrote for his own age, of -course, because there was no other age at hand to write for, and the -age he liked best was past and gone; but he wrote what he fancied the -great generations gone by would have liked, and what, as it has turned -out in the generosity of fortune, subsequent ages have warmly loved and -reverently canonized him for writing; as if there were a casual taste -that belongs to a day and generation, and also a permanent taste which -is without date, and he had hit the latter. - -Great authors are not often men of fashion. Fashion is always a -harness and restraint, whether it be fashion in dress or fashion -in vice or fashion in literary art; and a man who is bound by it is -caught and formed in a fleeting mode. The great writers are always -innovators; for they are always frank, natural, and downright, and -frankness and naturalness always disturb, when they do not wholly break -down, the fixed and complacent order of fashion. No genuine man can -be deliberately in the fashion, indeed, in what he says, if he have -any movement of thought or individuality in him. He remembers what -Aristotle says, or if he does not, his own pride and manliness fill -him with the thought instead. The very same action that is noble if -done for the satisfaction of one’s own sense of right or purpose of -self-development, said the Stagirite, may, if done to satisfy others, -become menial and slavish. “It is the object of any action or study -that is all-important,” and if the author’s chief object be to please -he is condemned already. The true spirit of authorship is a spirit of -liberty which scorns the slave’s trick of imitation. It is a masterful -spirit of conquest within the sphere of ideas and of artistic form,--an -impulse of empire and origination. - -Of course a man may choose, if he will, to be less than a free -author. He may become a reporter; for there is such a thing as -reporting for books as well as reporting for newspapers, and there -have been reporters so amazingly clever that their very aptness and -wit constitute them a sort of immortals. You have proof of this in -Horace Walpole, at whose hands gossip and compliment receive a sort -of apotheosis. Such men hold the secret of a kind of alchemy by which -things trivial and temporary may be transmuted into literature. But -they are only inspired reporters, after all; and while a man was -wishing, he might wish to be more, and climb to better company. - -Every man must, of course, whether he will or not, feel the spirit -of the age in which he lives and thinks and does his work; and the -mere contact will direct and form him more or less. But to wish to -serve the spirit of the age at any sacrifice of individual naturalness -or conviction, however small, is to harbor the germ of a destroying -disease. Every man who writes ought to write for immortality, even -though he be of the multitude that die at their graves; and the -standards of immortality are of no single age. There are many qualities -and causes that give permanency to a book, but universal vogue during -the author’s lifetime is not one of them. Many authors now immortal -have enjoyed the applause of their own generations; many authors now -universally admired will, let us hope, pass on to an easy immortality. -The praise of your own day is no absolute disqualification; but it may -be if it be given for qualities which your friends are the first to -admire, for ’tis likely they will also be the last. There is a greater -thing than the spirit of the age, and that is the spirit of the ages. -It is present in your own day; it is even dominant then, with a sort of -accumulated power and mastery. If you can strike it, you will strike, -as it were, into the upper air of your own time, where the forces are -which run from age to age. Lower down, where you breathe, is the more -inconstant air of opinion, inhaled, exhaled, from day to day,--the -variant currents, the forces that will carry you, not forward, but -hither and thither. - -We write nowadays a great deal with our eyes circumspectly upon the -tastes of our neighbors, but very little with our attention bent upon -our own natural, self-speaking thoughts and the very truth of the -matter whereof we are discoursing. Now and again, it is true, we are -startled to find how the age relishes still an old-fashioned romance, -if written with a new-fashioned vigor and directness; how quaint and -simple and lovely things, as well as what is altogether modern and -analytic and painful, bring our most judicious friends crowding, -purses in hand, to the book-stalls; and for a while we are puzzled to -see worn-out styles and past modes revived. But we do not let these -things seriously disturb our study of prevailing fashions. These books -of adventure are not at all, we assure ourselves, in the true spirit of -the age, with its realistic knowledge of what men really do think and -purpose, and the taste for them must be only for the moment or in jest. -We need not let our surprise at occasional flurries and variations in -the literary market cloud or discredit our analysis of the real taste -of the day, or suffer ourselves to be betrayed into writing romances, -however much we might rejoice to be delivered from the drudgery of -sociological study, and made free to go afield with our imaginations -upon a joyous search for hidden treasure or knightly adventure. - -And yet it is quite likely, after all, that the present age is -transient. Past ages have been. It is probable that the objects and -interests now so near us, looming dominant in all the foreground of our -day, will sometime be shifted and lose their place in the perspective. -That has happened with the near objects and exaggerated interests of -other days, so violently sometimes as to submerge and thrust out of -sight whole libraries of books. It will not do to reckon upon the -persistence of new things. ’Twere best to give them time to make trial -of the seasons. The old things of art and taste and thought are the -permanent things. We know that they are because they have lasted long -enough to grow old; and we deem it safe to assess the spirit of the age -by the same test. No age adds a great deal to what it received from -the age that went before it; no time gets an air all its own. The same -atmosphere holds from age to age; it is only the little movements of -the air that are new. In the intervals when the trades do not blow, -fleeting cross-winds venture abroad, the which if a man wait for he may -lose his voyage. - -No man who has anything to say need stop and bethink himself whom he -may please or displease in the saying of it. He has but one day to -write in, and that is his own. He need not fear that he will too much -ignore it. He will address the men he knows when he writes, whether he -be conscious of it or not; he may dismiss all fear on that score and -use his liberty to the utmost. There are some things that can have no -antiquity and must ever be without date, and genuineness and spirit -are of their number. A man who has these must ever be “timely,” and -at the same time fit to last, if he can get his qualities into what -he writes. He may freely read, too, what he will that is congenial, -and form himself by companionships that are chosen simply because -they are to his taste; that is, if he be genuine and in very truth a -man of independent spirit. Lamb would have written “for antiquity” -with a vengeance had his taste for the quaint writers of an elder day -been an affectation, or the authors he liked men themselves affected -and ephemeral. No age this side antiquity would ever have vouchsafed -him a glance or a thought. But it was not an affectation, and the men -he preferred were as genuine and as spirited as he was. He was simply -obeying an affinity and taking cheer after his own kind. A man born -into the real patriciate of letters may take his pleasure in what -company he will without taint or loss of caste; may go confidently -abroad in the free world of books and choose his comradeships without -fear of offense. - -More than that, there is no other way in which he can form himself, if -he would have his power transcend a single age. He belittles himself -who takes from the world no more than he can get from the speech of his -own generation. The only advantage of books over speech is that they -may hold from generation to generation, and reach, not a small group -merely, but a multitude of men; and a man who writes without being a -man of letters is curtailed of his heritage. It is in this world of -old and new that he must form himself if he would in the end belong to -it and increase its bulk of treasure. If he has conned the new theories -of society, but knows nothing of Burke; the new notions about fiction, -and has not read his Scott and his Richardson; the new criminology, and -wots nothing of the old human nature; the new religions, and has never -felt the power and sanctity of the old, it is much the same as if he -had read Ibsen and Maeterlinck, and had never opened Shakespeare. How -is he to know wholesome air from foul, good company from bad, visions -from nightmares? He has framed himself for the great art and handicraft -of letters only when he has taken all the human parts of literature as -if they were without date, and schooled himself in a catholic sanity of -taste and judgment. - -Then he may very safely choose what company his own work shall be done -in,--in what manner, and under what masters. He cannot choose amiss -for himself or for his generation if he choose like a man, without -light whim or weak affectation; not like one who chooses a costume, -but like one who chooses a character. What is it, let him ask himself, -that renders a bit of writing a “piece of literature”? It is reality. -A “wood-note wild,” sung unpremeditated and out of the heart; a -description written as if with an undimmed and seeing eye upon the very -object described; an exposition that lays bare the very soul of the -matter; a motive truly revealed; anger that is righteous and justly -spoken; mirth that has its sources pure; phrases to find the heart -of a thing, and a heart seen in things for the phrases to find; an -unaffected meaning set out in language that is its own,--such are the -realities of literature. Nothing else is of the kin. Phrases used for -their own sake; borrowed meanings which the borrower does not truly -care for; an affected manner; an acquired style; a hollow reason; words -that are not fit; things which do not live when spoken,--these are its -falsities, which die in the handling. - -The very top breed of what is unreal is begotten by imitation. -Imitators succeed sometimes, and flourish, even while a breath may -last; but “imitate and be damned” is the inexorable threat and prophecy -of fate with regard to the permanent fortunes of literature. That has -been notorious this long time past. It is more worth noting, lest some -should not have observed it, that there are other and subtler ways of -producing what is unreal. There are the mixed kinds of writing, for -example. Argument is real if it come vital from the mind; narrative -is real if the thing told have life and the narrator unaffectedly -see it while he speaks; but to narrate and argue in the same breath -is naught. Take, for instance, the familiar example of the early -history of Rome. Make up your mind what was the truth of the matter, -and then, out of the facts as you have disentangled them, construct -a firmly touched narrative, and the thing you create is real, has -the confidence and consistency of life. But mix the narrative with -critical comment upon other writers and their variant versions of the -tale, show by a nice elaboration of argument the whole conjectural -basis of the story, set your reader the double task of doubting and -accepting, rejecting and constructing, and at once you have touched -the whole matter with unreality. The narrative by itself might have -had an objective validity; the argument by itself an intellectual -firmness, sagacity, vigor, that would have sufficed to make and keep -it potent; but together they confound each other, destroy each other’s -atmosphere, make a double miscarriage. The story is rendered unlikely, -and the argument obscure. This is the taint which has touched all our -recent historical writing. The critical discussion and assessment of -the sources of information, which used to be a thing for the private -mind of the writer, now so encroach upon the open text that the story, -for the sake of which we would believe the whole thing was undertaken, -is oftentimes fain to sink away into the foot-notes. The process has -ceased to be either pure exegesis or straightforward narrative, and -history has ceased to be literature. - -Nor is this our only sort of mixed writing. Our novels have become -sociological studies, our poems vehicles of criticism, our sermons -political manifestos. We have confounded all processes in a common use, -and do not know what we would be at. We can find no better use for -Pegasus than to carry our vulgar burdens, no higher key for song than -questionings and complainings. Fancy pulls in harness with intellectual -doubt; enthusiasm walks apologetically alongside science. We try to -make our very dreams engines of social reform. It is a parlous state -of things for literature, and it is high time authors should take -heed what company they keep. The trouble is, they all want to be “in -society,” overwhelmed with invitations from the publishers, well known -and talked about at the clubs, named every day in the newspapers, -photographed for the news-stalls; and it is so hard to distinguish -between fashion and form, costume and substance, convention and truth, -the things that show well and the things that last well; so hard to -draw away from the writers that are new and talked about and note those -who are old and walk apart, to distinguish the tones which are merely -loud from the tones that are genuine, to get far enough away from the -press and the hubbub to see and judge the movements of the crowd! - -Some will do it. Choice spirits will arise and make conquest of us, -not “in society,” but with what will seem a sort of outlawry. The -great growths of literature spring up in the open, where the air is -free and they can be a law unto themselves. The law of life, here as -elsewhere, is the law of nourishment: with what was the earth laden, -and the atmosphere? Literatures are renewed, as they are originated, -by uncontrived impulses of nature, as if the sap moved unbidden in the -mind. Once conceive the matter so, and Lamb’s quaint saying assumes a -sort of gentle majesty. A man should “write for antiquity” as a tree -grows into the ancient air,--this old air that has moved upon the face -of the world ever since the day of creation, which has set the law of -life to all things, which has nurtured the forests and won the flowers -to their perfection, which has fed men’s lungs with life, sped their -craft upon the seas, borne abroad their songs and their cries, blown -their forges to flame, and buoyed up whatever they have contrived. ’Tis -a common medium, though a various life; and the figure may serve the -author for instruction. - -The breeding of authors is no doubt a very occult thing, and no man can -set the rules of it; but at least the sort of “ampler ether” in which -they are best brought to maturity is known. Writers have liked to speak -of the Republic of Letters, as if to mark their freedom and equality; -but there is a better phrase, namely, the Community of Letters; for -that means intercourse and comradeship and a life in common. Some take -up their abode in it as if they had made no search for a place to dwell -in, but had come into the freedom of it by blood and birthright. Others -buy the freedom with a great price, and seek out all the sights and -privileges of the place with an eager thoroughness and curiosity. Still -others win their way into it with a certain grace and aptitude, next -best to the ease and dignity of being born to the right. But for all it -is a bonny place to be. Its comradeships are a liberal education. Some, -indeed, even there, live apart; but most run always in the market-place -to know what all the rest have said. Some keep special company, while -others keep none at all. But all feel the atmosphere and life of the -place in their several degrees. - -No doubt there are national groups, and Shakespeare is king among -the English, as Homer is among the Greeks, and sober Dante among his -gay countrymen. But their thoughts all have in common, though speech -divide them; and sovereignty does not exclude comradeship or embarrass -freedom. No doubt there is many a willful, ungoverned fellow endured -there without question, and many a churlish cynic, because he possesses -that patent of genuineness or of a wit which strikes for the heart of -things, which, without further test, secures citizenship in that free -company. What a gift of tongues is there, and of prophecy! What strains -of good talk, what counsel of good judgment, what cheer of good tales, -what sanctity of silent thought! The sight-seers who pass through from -day to day, the press of voluble men at the gates, the affectation of -citizenship by mere sojourners, the folly of those who bring new styles -or affect old ones, the procession of the generations, disturb the calm -of that serene community not a whit. They will entertain a man a whole -decade, if he happen to stay so long, though they know all the while he -can have no permanent place among them. - -’T would be a vast gain to have the laws of that community better -known than they are. Even the first principles of its constitution -are singularly unfamiliar. It is not a community of writers, but a -community of letters. One gets admission, not because he writes,--write -he never so cleverly, like a gentleman and a man of wit,--but because -he is literate, a true initiate into the secret craft and mystery of -letters. What that secret is a man may know, even though he cannot -practice or appropriate it. If a man can see the permanent element -in things,--the true sources of laughter, the real fountains of -tears, the motives that strike along the main lines of conduct, the -acts which display the veritable characters of men, the trifles that -are significant, the details that make the mass,--if he know these -things, and can also choose words with a like knowledge of their power -to illuminate and reveal, give color to the eye and passion to the -thought, the secret is his, and an entrance to that immortal communion. - -It may be that some learn the mystery of that insight without tutors; -but most must put themselves under governors and earn their initiation. -While a man lives, at any rate, he can keep the company of the -masters whose words contain the mystery and open it to those who can -see, almost with every accent; and in such company it may at last be -revealed to him,--so plainly that he may, if he will, still linger in -such comradeship when he is dead. - -It would seem that there are two tests which admit to that company, and -that they are conclusive. The one is, Are you individual? the other, -Are you conversable? “I beg pardon,” said a grave wag, coming face -to face with a small person of most consequential air, and putting -glass to eye in calm scrutiny--“I beg pardon; but are you anybody -in particular?” Such is very much the form of initiation into the -permanent communion of the realm of letters. Tell them, No, but that -you have done much better--you have caught the tone of a great age, -studied taste, divined opportunity, courted and won a vast public, -been most timely and most famous; and you shall be pained to find them -laughing in your face. Tell them you are earnest, sincere, consecrate -to a cause, an apostle and reformer, and they will still ask you, “But -are you anybody in particular?” They will mean, “Were you your own man -in what you thought, and not a puppet? Did you speak with an individual -note and distinction that marked you able to think as well as to -speak,--to be yourself in thoughts and in words also?” “Very well, -then; you are welcome enough.” - -“That is, if you be also conversable.” It is plain enough what they -mean by that, too. They mean, if you have spoken in such speech and -spirit as can be understood from age to age, and not in the pet terms -and separate spirit of a single day and generation. Can the old authors -understand you, that you would associate with them? Will men be able to -take your meaning in the differing days to come? Or is it perishable -matter of the day that you deal in--little controversies that carry no -lasting principle at their heart; experimental theories of life and -science, put forth for their novelty and with no test of their worth; -pictures in which fashion looms very large, but human nature shows very -small; things that please everybody, but instruct no one; mere fancies -that are an end in themselves? Be you never so clever an artist in -words and in ideas, if they be not the words that wear and mean the -same thing, and that a thing intelligible, from age to age, the ideas -that shall hold valid and luminous in whatever day or company, you may -clamor at the gate till your lungs fail and get never an answer. - -For that to what you seek admission is a veritable “community.” In it -you must be able to be, and to remain, conversable. How are you to test -your preparation meanwhile, unless you look to your comradeships now -while yet it is time to learn? Frequent the company in which you may -learn the speech and the manner which are fit to last. Take to heart -the admirable example you shall see set you there of using speech and -manner to speak your real thought and be genuinely and simply yourself. - - - - -IV. - -A LITERARY POLITICIAN. - - -“Literary politician” is not a label much in vogue, and may need first -of all a justification, lest even the man of whom I am about to speak -should decline it from his very urn. I do not mean a politician who -affects literature; who seems to appreciate the solemn moral purpose -of Wordsworth’s Happy Warrior, and yet is opposed to ballot reform. -Neither do I mean a literary man who affects politics; who earns his -victories through the publishers, and his defeats at the hands of the -men who control the primaries. I mean the man who has the genius to see -deep into affairs, and the discretion to keep out of them,--the man to -whom, by reason of knowledge and imagination and sympathetic insight, -governments and policies are as open books, but who, instead of trying -to put haphazard characters of his own into those books, wisely prefers -to read their pages aloud to others. A man this who knows polities, and -yet does not handle policies. - -There is, no doubt, a very widespread skepticism as to the existence of -such a man. Many people would ask you to prove him as well as define -him; and that, as they assume, upon a very obvious principle. It is -a rule of universal acceptance in theatrical circles that no one can -write a good play who has no practical acquaintance with the stage. -A knowledge of greenroom possibilities and of stage machinery, it is -held, must go before all successful attempts to put either passion -or humor into action on the boards, if pit and gallery are to get a -sense of reality from the performance. No wonder that Sheridan’s plays -were effective, for Sheridan was both author and actor; but abundant -wonder that simple Goldsmith succeeded with his exquisite “She Stoops -to Conquer,”--unless we are to suppose that an Irishman of the last -century, like the Irishman of this, had some sixth sense which enabled -him to understand other people’s business better than his own; for poor -Goldsmith could not act (even off the stage), and his only connection -with the theatre seems to have been his acquaintance with Garrick. -Lytton, we know, had Macready constantly at his elbow, to give and -enforce suggestions calculated to render plays playable. And in our -own day, the authors of what we indulgently call “dramatic literature” -find themselves constantly obliged to turn tragedies into comedies, -comedies into farces, to satisfy the managers; for managers know the -stage, and pretend to know all possible audiences also. The writer for -the stage must be playwright first, author second. - -Similar principles of criticism are not a little affected by those -who play the parts, great and small, on the stage of politics. There -is on that stage, too, it is said, a complex machinery of action and -scene-shifting, a greenroom tradition and practice as to costume and -make-up, as to entry and exit, necessities of concession to footlights -and of appeal to the pit, quite as rigorous and quite as proper for -study as are the concomitants of that other art which we frankly call -acting. This is an idea, indeed, accepted in some quarters outside -the political playhouse as well as within it. Mr. Sydney Colvin, for -example, declares very rightly that:-- - -“Men of letters and of thought are habitually too much given to -declaiming at their ease against the delinquencies of men of action -and affairs. The inevitable friction of practical politics,” he -argues, “generates heat enough already, and the office of the thinker -and critic should be to supply not heat, but light. The difficulties -which attend his own unmolested task--the task of seeking after and -proclaiming salutary truths--should teach him to make allowance for -the far more urgent difficulties which beset the politician; the man -obliged, amidst the clash of interests and temptations, to practice -from hand to mouth, and at his peril, the most uncertain and at the -same time the most indispensable of the experimental arts.” - -Mr. Colvin is himself of the class of men of letters and of thought; he -accordingly puts the case against his class much more mildly than the -practical politician would desire to see it put. Practical politicians -are wont to regard closeted writers upon politics with a certain -condescension, dashed with slight traces of uneasy concern. “Literary -men can say strong things of their age,” observes Mr. Bagehot, “for no -one expects that they will go out and act on them. They are a kind of -ticket-of-leave lunatics, from whom no harm is for the moment expected; -who seem quiet, but on whose vagaries a practical public must have its -eye.” I suppose that the really serious, practical man in politics -would see nothing of satirical humor in such a description. He would -have you note that, although traced with a sharp point of wit, the -picture is nevertheless true. He can cite you a score of instances -illustrative of the danger of putting faith in the political judgments -of those who are not politicians bred in the shrewd and moving world of -political management. - -The genuine practical politician, such as (even our enemies being the -witnesses) we must be acknowledged to produce in great numbers and -perfection in this country, reserves his acidest contempt for the -literary man who assumes to utter judgments touching public affairs -and political institutions. If he be a reading man, as will sometimes -happen, he is able to point you, in illustration of what you are to -expect in such cases, to the very remarkable essays of the late Mr. -Matthew Arnold on parliamentary policy and the Irish question. If he -be not a reading man, as sometimes happens, he is able to ask, much to -your confusion, “What does a fellow who lives inside a library know -about politics, anyhow?” You have to admit, if you are candid, that -most fellows who live in libraries know little enough. You remember -Macaulay, and acknowledge that, although he made admirable speeches in -Parliament, held high political office, and knew all the considerable -public men of his time, he did imagine the creation to have been made -in accordance with Whig notions; did hope to find the judgments of -Lord Somers some day answering mankind as standards for all possible -times and circumstances. You recall Gibbon, and allow, to your own -thought at least, that, had he not remained silent in his seat, a -very few of his sentences would probably have sufficed to freeze the -House of Commons stiff. The ordinary literary man, even though he be -an eminent historian, is ill enough fitted to be a mentor in affairs -of government. For, it must be admitted, things are for the most part -very simple in books, and in practical life very complex. Not all the -bindings of a library inclose the various world of circumstance. - -But the practical politician should discriminate. Let him find a -man with an imagination which, though it stands aloof, is yet quick -to conceive the very things in the thick of which the politician -struggles. To that man he should resort for instruction. And that there -is occasionally such a man we have proof in Bagehot, the man who first -clearly distinguished the facts of the English constitution from its -theory. - -Walter Bagehot is a name known to not a few of those who have a zest -for the juiciest things of literature, for the wit that illuminates -and the knowledge that refreshes. But his fame is still singularly -disproportioned to his charm; and one feels once and again like -publishing him, at least to all spirits of his own kind. It would be -a most agreeable good fortune to introduce Bagehot to men who have -not read him! To ask your friend to know Bagehot is like inviting him -to seek pleasure. Occasionally, a man is born into the world whose -mission it evidently is to clarify the thought of his generation, -and to vivify it; to give it speed where it is slow, vision where it -is blind, balance where it is out of poise, saving humor where it is -dry,--and such a man was Walter Bagehot. When he wrote of history, he -made it seem human and probable; when he wrote of political economy, -he made it seem credible, entertaining,--nay, engaging even; when he -wrote criticism, he wrote sense. You have in him a man who can jest to -your instruction, who will beguile you into being informed beyond your -wont and wise beyond your birthright. Full of manly, straightforward -meaning, earnest to find the facts that guide and strengthen conduct, a -lover of good men and seers, full of knowledge and a consuming desire -for it, he is yet genial withal, with the geniality of a man of wit, -and alive in every fibre of him, with a life he can communicate to -you. One is constrained to agree, almost, with the verdict of a witty -countryman of his, who happily still lives to cheer us, that when -Bagehot died he “carried away into the next world more originality of -thought than is now to be found in the three Estates of the Realm.” - -An epitome of Bagehot’s life can be given very briefly. He was born in -February, 1826, and died in March, 1877,--the month in which one would -prefer to die. Between those two dates he had much quaint experience as -a boy, and much sober business experience as a man. He wrote essays on -poets, prose writers, statesmen, whom he would, with abundant insight, -but without too much respect of persons; also books on banking, on -the early development of society, and on English politics, kindling a -flame of interest with these dry materials such as made men stare who -had often described the facts of society themselves, but who had never -dreamed of applying fire to them, as Bagehot did, to make them give -forth light and wholesome heat. He set the minds of a few fortunate -friends aglow with the delights of the very wonderful tongue which -nature had given him through his mother. And then he died, while his -power was yet young. Not a life of event or adventure, but a life -of deep interest, none the less, because a life in which those two -things of our modern life, commonly deemed incompatible, business and -literature, namely, were combined without detriment to either; and from -which, more interesting still, politics gained a profound expounder in -one who was no politician and no party man, but, as he himself said, -“between sizes in politics.” - -Mr. Bagehot was born in the centre of Somersetshire, that southwestern -county of old England whose coast towns look across Bristol Channel to -the highlands of Wales: a county of small farms, and pastures that keep -their promise of fatness to many generous milkers; a county broken into -abrupt hills, and sodden moors hardly kept from the inroads of the sea, -as well as rural valleys open to the sun; a county visited by mists -from the sea, and bathed in a fine soft atmosphere all its own; visited -also by people of fashion, for it contains Bath; visited now also by -those who have read Lorna Doone, for within it lies part of that Exmoor -Forest in which stalwart John Ridd lived and wrought his mighty deeds -of strength and love: a land which the Celts kept for long against both -Saxon and Roman, but which Christianity easily conquered, building -Wells Cathedral and the monastery at Glastonbury. Nowhere else, in days -of travel, could Bagehot find a land of so great delight save in the -northwest corner of Spain, where a golden light lay upon everything, -where the sea shone with a rare, soft lustre, and where there was a -like varied coast-line to that he knew and loved at home. He called it -“a sort of better Devonshire:” and Devonshire is Somersetshire,--only -more so! The atmospheric effects of his county certainly entered the -boy Bagehot, and colored the nature of the man. He had its glow, its -variety, its richness, and its imaginative depth. - -But better than a fair county is a good parentage, and that, too, -Bagehot had; just the parentage one would wish to have who desired -to be a force in the world’s thought. His father, Thomas Watson -Bagehot, was for thirty years managing director and vice-president of -Stuckey’s Banking Company, one of the oldest and best of those sturdy -joint-stock companies which have for so many years stood stoutly up -alongside the Bank of England as managers of the vast English fortune. -But he was something more than a banker. He was a man of mind, of -strong liberal convictions in politics, and of an abundant knowledge -of English history wherewith to back up his opinions. He was one of -the men who think, and who think in straight lines; who see, and -see things. His mother was a Miss Stuckey, a niece of the founder -of the banking company. But it was not her connection with bankers -that made her an invaluable mother. She had, besides beauty, a most -lively and stimulating wit; such a mind as we most desire to see in -a woman,--a mind that stirs without irritating you, that rouses but -does not belabor, amuses and yet subtly instructs. She could preside -over the young life of her son in such a way as at once to awaken his -curiosity and set him in the way of satisfying it. She was brilliant -company for a boy, and rewarding for a man. She had suggestive people, -besides, among her kinsmen, into whose companionship she could bring -her son. Bagehot had that for which no university can ever offer an -equivalent,--the constant and intelligent sympathy of both his parents -in his studies, and their companionship in his tastes. To his father’s -strength his mother added vivacity. He would have been wise, perhaps, -without her; but he would not have been wise so delightfully. - -Bagehot got his schooling in Bristol, his university training in -London. In Bristol lived Dr. Prichard, his mother’s brother-in-law, -and author of a notable book on the Physical History of Men. From him -Bagehot unquestionably got his bent towards the study of race origins -and development. In London, Cobden and Bright were carrying on an -important part of their great agitation for the repeal of the corn -laws, and were making such speeches as it stirred and bettered young -men to hear. Bagehot had gone to University Hall, London, rather than -to Oxford or Cambridge, because his father was a Unitarian, and would -not have his son submit to the religious tests then required at the -great universities. But there can be no doubt that there was more to be -had at University Hall in that day than at either Oxford or Cambridge. -Oxford and Cambridge were still dragging the very heavy chains of a -hindering tradition; the faculty of University Hall contained many -thorough and some eminent scholars; what was more, University Hall was -in London, and London itself was a quickening and inspiring teacher for -a lad in love with both books and affairs, as Bagehot was. He could -ask penetrating questions of his professors, and he could also ask -questions of London, seek out her secrets of history, and so experience -to the full the charm of her abounding life. In after years, though -he loved Somersetshire and clung to it with a strong home-keeping -affection, he could never stay away from London for more than six weeks -at a time. Eventually he made it his place of permanent residence. - -His university career over, Bagehot did what so many thousands of -young graduates before him had done,--he studied for the bar; and -then, having prepared himself to practice law, followed another large -body of young men in deciding to abandon it. He joined his father in -his business as ship-owner and banker in Somersetshire, and in due -time took his place among the directors of Stuckey’s Company. For the -rest of his life, this man, whom the world knows as a man of letters, -was first of all a man of business. In his later years, however, -he identified himself with what may be called the literary side of -business by becoming editor of that great financial authority, the -“London Economist.” He had, so to say, married into this position. -His wife was the daughter of the Rt. Hon. James Wilson, who was -the mind and manager, as well as the founder of the “Economist.” -Wilson’s death seemed to leave the great financial weekly by natural -succession to Bagehot; and certainly natural selection never made a -better choice. It was under Bagehot that the “Economist” became a -sort of financial providence for business men on both sides of the -Atlantic. Its sagacious prescience constituted Bagehot himself a sort -of supplementary chancellor of the exchequer, the chancellors of -both parties resorting to him with equal confidence and solicitude. -His constant contact with London, and with the leaders of politics -and opinion there, of course materially assisted him also to those -penetrating judgments touching the structure and working of English -institutions which have made his volume on the English Constitution and -his essays on Bolingbroke and Brougham and Peel, on Mr. Gladstone and -Sir George Cornewall Lewis, the admiration and despair of all who read -them. - -Those who know Bagehot only as the writer of some of the most -delightful and suggestive literary criticisms in the language wonder -that he should have been an authority on practical politics; those who -used to regard the “London Economist” as omniscient, and who knew him -only as the editor of it, marvel that he dabbled in literary criticism, -and incline to ask themselves, when they learn of his vagaries in that -direction, whether he can have been so safe a guide as they deemed him, -after all; those who know him through his political writings alone -venture upon the perusal of his miscellaneous essays with not a little -surprise and misgiving that their master should wander so far afield. -And yet the whole Bagehot is the only Bagehot. Each part of the man -is incomplete, not only, but a trifle incomprehensible, also, without -the other parts. What delights us most in his literary essays is their -broad practical sagacity, so uniquely married as it is with pure taste -and the style of a rapid artist in words. What makes his financial and -political writings whole and sound is the scope of his mind outside -finance and politics, the validity of his observation all around the -circle of thought and affairs. He was the better critic for being a -competent man of business and a trusted financial authority. He was the -more sure-footed in his political judgments because of his play of mind -in other and supplementary spheres of human activity. - -The very appearance of the man was a sort of outer index to the -singular variety of capacity that has made him so notable a figure in -the literary annals of England. A mass of black, wavy hair; a dark eye, -with depths full of slumberous, playful fire; a ruddy skin that bespoke -active blood, quick in its rounds; the lithe figure of an excellent -horseman; a nostril full, delicate, quivering, like that of a blooded -racer,--such were the fitting outward marks of a man in whom life and -thought and fancy abounded; the aspect of a man of unflagging vivacity, -of wholesome, hearty humor, of a ready intellectual sympathy, of wide -and penetrative observation. It is no narrow, logical shrewdness or -cold penetration that looks forth at you through that face, even if a -bit of mockery does lurk in the privatest corner of the eye. Among the -qualities which he seeks out for special praise in Shakespeare is a -broad tolerance and sympathy for illogical and common minds. It seems -to him an evidence of size in Shakespeare that he was not vexed with -smallness, but was patient, nay, sympathetic even, in his portrayal -of it. “If every one were logical and literary,” he exclaims, “how -would there be scavengers, or watchmen, or caulkers, or coopers? A -patient sympathy, a kindly fellow-feeling for the narrow intelligence -necessarily induced by narrow circumstances,--a narrowness which, in -some degrees, seems to be inevitable, and is perhaps more serviceable -than most things to the wise conduct of life,--this, though quick and -half-bred minds may despise it, seems to be a necessary constituent -in the composition of manifold genius. ‘How shall the world be -served?’ asks the host in Chaucer. We must have cart-horses as well as -race-horses, draymen as well as poets. It is no bad thing, after all, -to be a slow man and to have one idea a year. You don’t make a figure, -perhaps, in argumentative society, which requires a quicker species of -thought, but is that the worse?” - -One of the things which strike us most in Bagehot himself is his -capacity to understand inferior minds; and there can be no better test -of sound genius. He stood in the midst of affairs, and knew the dull -duty and humdrum fidelity which make up the equipment of the ordinary -mind for business, for the business which keeps the world steady in its -grooves and makes it fit for habitation. He perceived quite calmly, -though with an odd, sober amusement, that the world is under the -dominion, in most things, of the average man, and the average man he -knows. He is, he explains, with his characteristic covert humor, “a -cool, common person, with a considerate air, with figures in his mind, -with his own business to attend to, with a set of ordinary opinions -arising from and suited to ordinary life. He can’t bear novelty or -originalities. He says, ‘Sir, I never heard such a thing before in my -life;’ and he thinks this a _reductio ad absurdum_. You may see his -taste by the reading of which he approves. Is there a more splendid -monument of talent and industry than the ‘Times’? No wonder that -the average man--that any one--believes in it.... But did you ever -see anything there you had never seen before?... Where are the deep -theories, and the wise axioms, and the everlasting sentiments which the -writers of the most influential publication in the world have been the -first to communicate to an ignorant species? Such writers are far too -shrewd.... The purchaser desires an article which he can appreciate -at sight, which he can lay down and say, ‘An excellent article, very -excellent; exactly my own sentiments.’ Original theories give trouble; -besides, a grave man on the Coal Exchange does not desire to be an -apostle of novelties among the contemporaneous dealers in fuel; he -wants to be provided with remarks he can make on the topics of the -day which will not be known not to be his, that are not too profound, -which he can fancy the paper only reminded him of. And just in the -same way,”--thus he proceeds with the sagacious moral,--“precisely as -the most popular political paper is not that which is abstractedly the -best or most instructive, but that which most exactly takes up the -minds of men where it finds them, catches the floating sentiment of -society, puts it in such a form as society can fancy would convince -another society which did not believe, so the most influential of -constitutional statesmen is the one who most felicitously expresses -the creed of the moment, who administers it, who embodies it in laws -and institutions, who gives it the highest life it is capable of, who -induces the average man to think, ‘I could not have done it any better -if I had had time myself.’” - -See how his knowledge of politics proceeds out of his knowledge of men. -“You may talk of the tyranny of Nero and Tiberius,” he exclaims, “but -the real tyranny is the tyranny of your next-door neighbor. What law is -so cruel as the law of doing what he does? What yoke is so galling as -the necessity of being like him? What espionage of despotism comes to -your door so effectually as the eye of the man who lives at your door? -Public opinion is a permeating influence, and it exacts obedience to -itself; it requires us to think other men’s thoughts, to speak other -men’s words, to follow other men’s habits. Of course, if we do not, no -formal ban issues, no corporeal pain, the coarse penalty of a barbarous -society, is inflicted on the offender, but we are called ‘eccentric;’ -there is a gentle murmur of ‘most unfortunate ideas,’ ‘singular young -man,’ ‘well intentioned, I dare say, but unsafe, sir, quite unsafe.’ -The prudent, of course, conform.” - -There is, no doubt, a touch of mockery in all this, but there is -unquestionable insight in it, too, and a sane knowledge also of the -fact that dull, common judgments are, after all, the cement of society. -It is Bagehot who says somewhere that it is only dull nations, like the -Romans and the English, who can become or remain for any length of time -self-governing nations, because it is only among them that duty is done -through lack of knowledge sufficient or imagination enough to suggest -anything else to do: only among them that the stability of slow habit -can be had. - -It would be superficial criticism to put forward Bagehot’s political -opinions as themselves the proof of his extraordinary power as a -student and analyst of institutions. His life, his broad range of -study, his quick versatility, his shrewd appreciation of common -men, his excursions through all the fields that men traverse in -their thought of one another and in their contact with the world’s -business,--these are the soil out of which his political judgments -spring, from which they get their sap and bloom. In order to know -institutions, you must know men; you must be able to imagine histories, -to appreciate characters radically unlike your own, to see into -the heart of society and assess its notions, great and small. Your -average critic, it must be acknowledged, would be the worst possible -commentator on affairs. He has all the movements of intelligence -without any of its reality. But a man who sees authors with a -Chaucerian insight into them as men, who knows literature as a realm of -vital thought conceived by real men, of actual motive felt by concrete -persons, this is a man whose opinions you may confidently ask, if not -on current politics, at any rate on all that concerns the permanent -relations of men in society. - -It is for such reasons that one must first make known the most masterly -of the critics of English political institutions as a man of catholic -tastes and attainments, shrewdly observant of many kinds of men and -affairs. Know him once in this way, and his mastery in political -thought is explained. If I were to make choice, therefore, of extracts -from his works with a view to recommend him as a politician, I should -choose those passages which show him a man of infinite capacity to -see and understand men of all kinds, past and present. By showing in -his case the equipment of a mind open on all sides to the life and -thought of society, and penetrative of human secrets of many sorts, I -should authenticate his credentials as a writer upon politics, which is -nothing else than the public and organic life of society. - -Examples may be taken almost at random. There is the passage on Sydney -Smith, in the essay on the First Edinburgh Reviewers. We have all -laughed with that great-hearted clerical wit; but it is questionable -whether we have all appreciated him as a man who wrote and wrought -wisdom. Indeed, Sydney Smith may be made a very delicate test of sound -judgment, the which to apply to friends of whom you are suspicious. -There was a man beneath those excellent witticisms, a big, wholesome, -thinking man; but none save men of like wholesome natures can see and -value his manhood and his mind at their real worth. - -“Sydney Smith was an after-dinner writer. His words have a flow, a -vigor, an expression, which is not given to hungry mortals.... There -is little trace of labor in his composition; it is poured forth like an -unceasing torrent, rejoicing daily to run its course. And what courage -there is in it! There is as much variety of pluck in writing across a -sheet as in riding across a country. Cautious men ... go tremulously, -like a timid rider; they turn hither and thither; they do not go -straight across a subject, like a masterly mind. A few sentences are -enough for a master of sentences. The writing of Sydney Smith is suited -to the broader kind of important questions. For anything requiring fine -nicety of speculation, long elaborateness of deduction, evanescent -sharpness of distinction, neither his style nor his mind was fit. He -had no patience for long argument, no acuteness for delicate precision, -no fangs for recondite research. Writers, like teeth, are divided into -incisors and grinders. Sydney Smith was a molar. He did not run a long, -sharp argument into the interior of a question; he did not, in the -common phrase, go deeply into it; but he kept it steadily under the -contract of a strong, capable, jawlike understanding,--pressing its -surface, effacing its intricacies, grinding it down. Yet this is done -without toil. The play of the molar is instinctive and placid; he could -not help it; it would seem that he had an enjoyment in it.” - -One reads this with a feeling that Bagehot both knows and likes -Sydney Smith, and heartily appreciates him as an engine of Whig -thought; and with the conviction that Bagehot himself, knowing thus -and enjoying Smith’s freehand method of writing, could have done the -like himself,--could himself have made English ring to all the old -Whig tunes, like an anvil under the hammer. And yet you have only to -turn back a page in the same essay to find quite another Bagehot,--a -Bagehot such as Sydney Smith could not have been. He is speaking of -that other militant Edinburgh reviewer, Lord Jeffrey, and is recalling, -as every one recalls, Jeffrey’s review of Wordsworth’s “Excursion.” -The first words of that review, as everybody remembers, were, “This -will never do;” and there followed upon those words, though not a -little praise of the poetical beauties of the poem, a thoroughly -meant condemnation of the school of poets of which Wordsworth was the -greatest representative. Very celebrated in the world of literature is -the leading case of Jeffrey _v._ Wordsworth. It is in summing up this -case that Bagehot gives us a very different taste of his quality:-- - -“The world has given judgment. Both Mr. Wordsworth and Lord Jeffrey -have received their reward. The one had his own generation, the -laughter of men, the applause of drawing-rooms, the concurrence of -the crowd; the other a succeeding age, the fond enthusiasm of secret -students, the lonely rapture of lonely minds. And each has received -according to his kind. If all cultivated men speak differently because -of the existence of Wordsworth and Coleridge; if not a thoughtful -English book has appeared for forty years without some trace for good -or evil of their influence; if sermon-writers subsist upon their -thoughts; if ‘sacred poets’ thrive by translating their weaker portions -into the speech of women; if, when all this is over, some sufficient -part of their writing will ever be found fitting food for wild musing -and solitary meditation, surely this is because they possessed the -inner nature,--‘an intense and glowing mind,’ ‘the vision and the -faculty divine.’ But if, perchance, in their weaker moments, the great -authors of the ‘Lyrical Ballads’ did ever imagine that the world was -to pause because of their verses, that ‘Peter Bell’ would be popular -in drawing-rooms, that ‘Christabel’ would be perused in the city, that -people of fashion would make a handbook of ‘The Excursion,’ it was well -for them to be told at once that this was not so. Nature ingeniously -prepared a shrill artificial voice, which spoke in season and out of -season, enough and more than enough, what will ever be the idea of -the cities of the plain concerning those who live alone among the -mountains, of the frivolous concerning the grave, of the gregarious -concerning the recluse, of those who laugh concerning those who laugh -not, of the common concerning the uncommon, of those who lend on usury -concerning those who lend not; the notion of the world of those whom it -will not reckon among the righteous,--it said, ‘This won’t do!’ And so -in all time will the lovers of polished Liberalism speak concerning the -intense and lonely prophet.” - -This is no longer the Bagehot who could “write across a sheet” with -Sydney Smith. It is now a Bagehot whose heart is turned away from the -cudgeling Whigs to see such things as are hidden from the bearers of -cudgels, and revealed only to those who can await in the sanctuary of a -quiet mind the coming of the vision. - -Single specimens of such a man’s writing do not suffice, of course, -even as specimens. They need their context to show their appositeness, -the full body of the writing from which they are taken to show the mass -and system of the thought. Even separated pieces of his matter prepare -us, nevertheless, for finding in Bagehot keener, juster estimates of -difficult historical and political characters than it is given the -merely exact historian, with his head full of facts and his heart -purged of all imagination, to speak. There is his estimate of the -cavalier, for example: “A cavalier is always young. The buoyant life -arises before us, rich in hope, strong in vigor, irregular in action: -men young and ardent, ‘framed in the prodigality of nature;’ open -to every enjoyment, alive to every passion, eager, impulsive; brave -without discipline, noble without principle; prizing luxury, despising -danger; capable of high sentiment, but in each of whom the - - ‘addiction was to courses vain; - His companies unlettered, rude, and shallow; - His hours filled up with riots, banquets, sports, - And never noted in him any study, - Any retirement, any sequestration - From open haunts and popularity.’ - -The political sentiment is part of the character; the essence of -Toryism is enjoyment.... The way to keep up old customs is to enjoy old -customs; the way to be satisfied with the present state of things is to -enjoy the present state of things. Over the cavalier mind this world -passes with a thrill of delight; there is an exultation in a daily -event, zest in the ‘regular thing,’ joy at an old feast.” - -Is it not most natural that the writer of a passage like that should -have been a consummate critic of politics, seeing institutions through -men, the only natural way? It was as necessary that he should be able -to enjoy Sydney Smith and recognize the seer in Wordsworth as that he -should be able to conceive the cavalier life and point of view; and -in each perception there is the same power. He is as little at fault -in understanding men of his own day. What would you wish better than -his celebrated character of a “constitutional statesman,” for example? -“A constitutional statesman is a man of common opinions and uncommon -abilities.” Peel is his example. “His opinions resembled the daily -accumulating insensible deposits of a rich alluvial soil. The great -stream of time flows on with all things on its surface; and slowly, -grain by grain, a mould of wise experience is unconsciously left on the -still, extended intellect.... The stealthy accumulating words of Peel -seem like the quiet leavings of some outward tendency, which brought -these, but might as well have brought others. There is no peculiar -stamp, either, on the ideas. They might have been any one’s ideas. They -belong to the general diffused stock of observations which are to be -found in the civilized world.... He insensibly takes in and imbibes the -ideas of those around him. If he were left in a vacuum, he would have -no ideas.” - -What strikes one most, perhaps, in all these passages, is the realizing -imagination which illuminates them. And it is an imagination with a -practical character all its own. It is not a creating, but a conceiving -imagination; not the imagination of the fancy, but the imagination -of the understanding. Conceiving imaginations, however, are of two -kinds. For the one kind the understanding serves as a lamp of guidance; -upon the other the understanding acts as an electric excitant, a -keen irritant. Bagehot’s was evidently of the first kind; Carlyle’s, -conspicuously of the second. There is something in common between the -minds of these two men as they conceive society. Both have a capital -grip upon the actual; both can conceive without confusion the complex -phenomena of society; both send humorous glances of searching insight -into the hearts of men. But it is the difference between them that most -arrests our attention. Bagehot has the scientific imagination, Carlyle -the passionate. Bagehot is the embodiment of witty common sense; all -the movements of his mind illustrate that vivacious sanity which he -has himself called “animated moderation.” Carlyle, on the other hand, -conceives men and their motives too often with a hot intolerance; -there is heat in his imagination,--a heat that sometimes scorches -and consumes. Life is for him dramatic, full of fierce, imperative -forces. Even when the world rings with laughter, it is laughter which, -in his ears, is succeeded by an echo of mockery; laughter which is -but a defiance of tears. The actual which you touch in Bagehot is the -practical, operative actual of a world of workshops and parliaments,--a -world of which workshops and parliaments are the natural and desirable -products. Carlyle flouts at modern legislative assemblies as “talking -shops,” and yearns for action such as is commanded by masters of -action; preaches the doctrine of work and silence in some thirty -volumes octavo. Bagehot points out that prompt, crude action is the -instinct and practice of the savage; that talk, the deliberation of -assemblies, the slow concert of masses of men, is the cultivated fruit -of civilization, nourishing to all the powers of right action in a -society which is not simple and primitive, but advanced and complex. -He is no more imposed upon by parliamentary debates than Carlyle is. -He knows that they are stupid, and, so far as wise utterance goes, in -large part futile, too. But he is not irritated, as Carlyle is, for, -to say the fact, he sees more than Carlyle sees. He sees the force -and value of the stupidity. He is wise, along with Burke, in regarding -prejudice as the cement of society. He knows that slow thought is -the ballast of a self-governing state. Stanch, knitted timbers are -as necessary to the ship as sails. Unless the hull is conservative -in holding stubbornly together in the face of every argument of sea -weather, there’ll be lives and fortunes lost. Bagehot can laugh at -unreasoning bias. It brings a merry twinkle into his eye to undertake -the good sport of dissecting stolid stupidity. But he would not for the -world abolish bias and stupidity. He would much rather have society -hold together; much rather see it grow than undertake to reconstruct -it. “You remember my joke against you about the moon,” writes Sydney -Smith to Jeffrey; “d--n the solar system--bad light--planets too -distant--pestered with comets--feeble contrivance; could make a better -with great ease.” There was nothing of this in Bagehot. He was inclined -to be quite tolerant of the solar system. He understood that society -was more quickly bettered by sympathy than by antagonism. - -Bagehot’s limitations, though they do not obtrude themselves upon -your attention as his excellencies do, are in truth as sharp-cut and -clear as his thought itself. It would not be just the truth to say -that his power is that of critical analysis only, for he can and does -construct thought concerning antique and obscure systems of political -life and social action. But it is true that he does not construct for -the future. You receive stimulation from him and a certain feeling of -elation. There is a fresh air stirring in all his utterances that is -unspeakably refreshing. You open your mind to the fine influence, and -feel younger for having been in such an atmosphere. It is an atmosphere -clarified and bracing almost beyond example elsewhere. But you know -what you lack in Bagehot if you have read Burke. You miss the deep -eloquence which awakens purpose. You are not in contact with systems of -thought or with principles that dictate action, but only with a perfect -explanation. - -You would go to Burke, not to Bagehot, for inspiration in the infinite -tasks of self-government; though you would, if you were wise, go to -Bagehot rather than to Burke if you wished to realize just what were -the practical daily conditions under which those tasks were to be -worked out. - -Moreover, there is a deeper lack in Bagehot. He has no sympathy with -the voiceless body of the people, with the “mass of unknown men.” He -conceives the work of government to be a work which is possible only -to the instructed few. He would have the mass served, and served with -devotion, but he would trouble to see them attempt to serve themselves. -He has not the stout fibre and the unquestioning faith in the right -and capacity of inorganic majorities which make the democrat. He has -none of the heroic boldness necessary for faith in wholesale political -aptitude and capacity. He takes democracy in detail in his thought, and -to take it in detail makes it look very awkward indeed. - -And yet surely it would not occur to the veriest democrat that ever -vociferated the “sovereignty of the people” to take umbrage at anything -Bagehot might chance to say in dissection of democracy. What he says is -seldom provokingly true. There is something in it all that is better -than a “saving clause,” and that is a saving humor. Humor ever keeps -the whole of his matter sound; it is an excellent salt that keeps sweet -the sharpest of his sayings. Indeed, Bagehot’s wit is so prominent -among his gifts that I am tempted here to enter a general plea for -wit as fit company for high thoughts and weighty subjects. Wit does -not make a subject light; it simply beats it into shape to be handled -readily. For my part, I make free acknowledgment that no man seems -to me master of his subject who cannot take liberties with it; who -cannot slap his propositions on the back and be hail-fellow well met -with them. Suspect a man of shallowness who always takes himself and -all that he thinks seriously. For light on a dark subject commend me -to a ray of wit. Most of your solemn explanations are mere farthing -candles in the great expanse of a difficult question. Wit is not, I -admit, a steady light, but ah! its flashes give you sudden glimpses of -unsuspected things such as you will never see without it. It is the -summer lightning, which will bring more to your startled eye in an -instant, out of the hiding of the night, than you will ever be at the -pains to observe in the full blaze of noon. - -Wit is movement, is play of mind; and the mind cannot get play without -a sufficient playground. Without movement outside the world of books, -it is impossible a man should see aught but the very neatly arranged -phenomena of that world. But it is possible for a man’s thought to be -instructed by the world of affairs without the man himself becoming a -part of it. Indeed, it is exceedingly hard for one who is in and of -it to hold the world of affairs off at arm’s length and observe it. -He has no vantage-ground. He had better for a while seek the distance -of books, and get his perspective. The literary politician, let it be -distinctly said, is a very fine, a very superior species of the man -thoughtful. He reads books as he would listen to men talk. He stands -apart, and looks on, with humorous, sympathetic smile, at the play of -policies. He will tell you for the asking what the players are thinking -about. He divines at once how the parts are cast. He knows beforehand -what each act is to discover. He might readily guess what the dialogue -is to contain. Were you short of scene-shifters, he could serve you -admirably in an emergency. And he is a better critic of the play than -the players. - -Had I command of the culture of men, I should wish to raise up for -the instruction and stimulation of my nation more than one sane, -sagacious, penetrative critic of men and affairs like Walter Bagehot. -But that, of course. The proper thesis to draw from his singular -genius is this: It is not the constitutional lawyer, nor the student -of the mere machinery and legal structure of institutions, nor the -politician, a mere handler of that machinery, who is competent to -understand and expound government; but the man who finds the materials -for his thought far and wide, in everything that reveals character and -circumstance and motive. It is necessary to stand with the poets as -well as with lawgivers; with the fathers of the race as well as with -your neighbor of to-day; with those who toil and are sick at heart as -well as with those who prosper and laugh and take their pleasure; with -the merchant and the manufacturer as well as with the closeted student; -with the schoolmaster and with those whose only school is life; with -the orator and with the men who have wrought always in silence; in the -midst of thought and also in the midst of affairs, if you would really -comprehend those great wholes of history and of character which are the -vital substance of politics. - - - - -V. - -THE INTERPRETER OF ENGLISH LIBERTY. - - -In the middle of the last century two Irish adventurers crossed over -into England in search of their fortunes. Rare fellows they were, -bringing treasure with them; but finding it somehow hard to get upon -the market: traders with a curious cargo, offering edification in -exchange for a living, and concealing the best of English under a rich -brogue. They were Edmund Burke and Oliver Goldsmith. - -They did not cross over together: ’twas no joint venture. They had -been fellow students at Trinity College, Dublin; but they had not, -so far as we can learn, known each other there. Each went his own -way till they became comrades in the reign of Samuel Johnson at the -Turk’s Head Tavern. Burke stepped very boldly forth into the exposed -paths of public life; Goldsmith plunged into the secret ways about -Grub Street. The one gave us essays upon public questions incomparable -for their reach of view and their splendid power of expression; the -other gave us writings so exquisite for their delicacy, purity, and -finish as to incline us to love him almost as much as those who knew -him loved him. We could not easily have forgiven Ireland if she had -_not_ given us these men. The one had grave faults of temper; the other -was a reckless, roystering fellow, with a most irrepressible Irish -disposition; but how much less we should have known without Burke, how -much less we should have enjoyed without Goldsmith! They have conquered -places for themselves in English literature from which we neither can -nor would dislodge them. For their sakes alone we can afford to forgive -Ireland all the trouble she has caused us. - -There is no man anywhere to be found in the annals of Parliament who -seems more thoroughly to belong to England than does Edmund Burke, -indubitable Irishman though he was. His words, now that they have cast -off their brogue, ring out the authentic voice of the best political -thought of the English race. “If any man ask me,” he cries, “what a -free government is, I answer, that, for any practical purpose, it is -what the people think so,--and that they, and not I, are the natural, -lawful, and competent judges of the matter.” “Abstract liberty, like -other mere abstractions, is not to be found. Liberty adheres in -some sensible object; and every nation has formed to itself some -favorite point, which by way of eminence becomes the criterion of -their happiness.” These sentences, taken from his writings on American -affairs, might serve as a sort of motto of the practical spirit of our -race in affairs of government. Look further, and you shall see how his -imagination presently illuminates and suffuses his maxims of practical -sagacity with a fine blaze of insight, a keen glow of feeling, in which -you recognize that other masterful quality of the race, its intense -and elevated conviction. “My hold on the colonies,” he declares, “is -in the close affection which grows from common names, from kindred -blood, from similar privileges, and equal protection. These are the -ties which, though light as air, are as strong as links of iron. Let -the colonies always keep the idea of their civil rights associated with -your government,--they will cling and grapple to you, and no force -under heaven will be of power to tear them from their allegiance. But -let it once be understood that your government may be one thing and -their privileges another, that these two things may exist without any -mutual relation,--and the cement is gone, the cohesion is loosened, and -everything hastens to decay and dissolution. So long as you have the -wisdom to keep the sovereign power of this country as the sanctuary of -liberty, the sacred temple consecrated to our common faith, wherever -the chosen race and sons of England worship freedom, they will turn -their faces towards you.” “We cannot, I fear,” he says proudly of the -colonies, “we cannot falsify the pedigree of this fierce people, and -persuade them that they are not sprung from a nation in whose veins -the blood of freedom circulates. The language in which they would hear -you tell them this tale would detect the imposition; your speech would -betray you. An Englishman is the unfittest person on earth to argue -another Englishman into slavery.” Does not your blood stir at these -passages? And is it not because, besides loving what is nobly written, -you feel that every word strikes towards the heart of the things that -have made your blood what it has proved to be in the history of our -race? - -These passages, it should be remembered, are taken from a speech in -Parliament and from a letter written by Burke to his constituents -in Bristol. He had no thought to make them permanent sentences of -political philosophy. They were meant only to serve an immediate -purpose in the advancement of contemporaneous policy. They were framed -for the circumstances of the time. They speak out spontaneously amidst -matter of the moment: and they could be matched everywhere throughout -his pamphlets and public utterances. No other similar productions that -I know of have this singular, and as it were inevitable, quality of -permanency. They have emerged from the mass of political writings put -forth in their time with their freshness untouched, their significance -unobscured, their splendid vigor unabated. It is this that we marvel -at, that they should remain modern and timely, purged of every element -and seed of decay. The man who could do this must needs arrest our -attention and challenge our inquiry. We wish to account for him as we -should wish to penetrate the secrets of the human spirit and know the -springs of genius. - -Of the public life of Burke we know all that we could wish. He became -so prominent a figure in the great affairs of his day that even the -casual observer cannot fail to discern the main facts of his career; -while the close student can follow him year by year through every -step of his service. But his private life was withdrawn from general -scrutiny in an unusual degree. He manifested always a marked reserve -about his individual and domestic affairs, deliberately, it would seem, -shielding them from impertinent inquiry. He loved the privacy of life -in a great city, where one may escape notice in the crowd and enjoy -a grateful “freedom from remark and petty censure.” “Though I have -the honor to represent Bristol,” he said to Boswell, “I should not -like to live there; I should be obliged to be _so much upon my good -behavior_. In London a man may live in splendid society at one time, -and in frugal retirement at another, without animadversion. There, and -there alone, a man’s house is truly his _castle_, in which he can be -in perfect safety from intrusion whenever he pleases. I never shall -forget how well this was expressed to me one day by Mr. Meynell: ‘The -chief advantage of London,’ he said, ‘is, that a man is always _so -near his burrow_.’” Burke took to his burrow often enough to pique -our curiosity sorely. This singular, high-minded adventurer had some -queer companions, we know: questionable fellows, whose life he shared, -perhaps with a certain Bohemian relish, without sharing their morals -or their works. It seems as incongruous that such wisdom and public -spirit as breathe through his writings should have come to his thought -in such company as that an exquisite idyll like Goldsmith’s “Vicar of -Wakefield” should have been conceived and written in squalid garrets. -But neither Burke nor Goldsmith had been born into such comradeships -or such surroundings. Doubtless, as sometimes happens, their minds -kept their first freshness, taking no taint from the world that touched -them on every hand in their manhood, after their minds had been -formed. Goldsmith, as everybody knows, remained an innocent all his -life, a naïf and pettish boy amidst sophisticated men; and Burke too, -notwithstanding his dignity and commanding intellectual habit, shows -sometimes a touch of the same simplicity, a like habit of unguarded -self-revelation. ’Twas their form, no doubt, of that impulsive and -ingenuous quality which we observe in all Irishmen, and which we often -mistake for simplicity. ’Twas a flavor of their native soil. It was -also something more and better than that, however. Not every Irishman -displays such hospitality for direct and simple images of truth as -these men showed, for that is characteristic only of the open and -unsophisticated mind,--the mind that has kept pure and open eyes. Not -that Burke always sees the truth; he is even deeply prejudiced often, -and there are some things that he cannot see. But the passion that -dominates him when he is wrong, as when he is right, is a natural -passion, born with him, not acquired from a disingenuous world that -mistakes interest for justice. His nature tells in everything. It is -stock of his character which he contributes to the subjects his mind -handles. He is trading always with the original treasure he brought -over with him at the first. He has never impaired his genuineness, or -damaged his principles. - -Just where Burke got his generous constitution and predisposition to -enlightened ways of thinking it is not easy to see. Certainly Richard -Burke, his brother, the only other member of the family whose character -we discern distinctly, had a quite opposite bent. The father was a -steady Dublin attorney, a Protestant, and a man, so far as we know, of -solid but not brilliant parts. The mother had been a Miss Nagle, of -a Roman Catholic family, which had multiplied exceedingly in County -Cork. Of the home and its life we know singularly little. We are told -that many children were born to the good attorney, but we hear of only -four of them that grew to maturity, Garret, Edmund, Richard, and a -sister best known to Edmund’s biographers as Mrs. French. Edmund, the -second son, was born on the twelfth of January, 1729, in the second -year of the reign of George II., Robert Walpole being chief minister -of the Crown. How he fared or what sort of lad he was for the first -twelve years of his life we have no idea. We only know that in the -year 1741, being then twelve years old, he was sent with his brothers -Garret and Richard to the school of one Abraham Shackleton, a most -capable and exemplary Quaker, at Ballytore, County Kildare, to get, in -some two years’ time, what he himself always accounted the best part -of his education. The character of the good master at Ballytore told -upon the sensitive boy, who all his life through had an eye for such -elevation and calm force of quiet rectitude as are to be seen in the -best Quakers; and with Richard Shackleton, the master’s son, he formed -a friendship from which no vicissitude of his subsequent career ever -loosened his heart a whit. All his life long the ardent, imaginative -statesman, deeply stirred as he was by the momentous agitation of -affairs,--swept away as he was from other friends,--retained his love -for the grave, retired, almost austere, but generous and constant man -who had been his favorite schoolfellow. It is but another evidence of -his unfailing regard for whatever was steady, genuine, and open to the -day in character and conduct. - -At fourteen he left Ballytore and was entered at Trinity College, -Dublin. Those were days when youths went to college tender, before they -had become too tough to take impressions readily. But Burke, even at -that callow age, cannot be said to have been teachable. He learned a -vast deal, indeed, but he did not learn much of it from his nominal -masters at Trinity. Apparently Master Shackleton, at Ballytore, had -enabled him to find his own mind. His four years at college were years -of wide and eager reading, but not years of systematic and disciplinary -study. With singular, if not exemplary, self-confidence, he took his -education into his own hands. He got at the heart of books through -their spirit, it would seem, rather than through their grammar. He -sought them out for what they could yield him in thought, rather than -for what they could yield him in the way of exact scholarship. That -this boy should have had such an appetite for the world’s literature, -old and new, need not surprise us. Other lads before and since have -found big libraries all too small for them. What should arrest our -attention is, the law of mind disclosed in the habits of such lads: -the quick and various curiosity of original minds, and particularly -of imaginative minds. They long for matter to expand themselves upon: -they will climb any dizzy height from which an exciting prospect is -promised: it is their joy by some means to see the world of men and -affairs. Burke set out as a boy to see the world that is contained -in books; and in his journeyings he met a man after his own heart in -Cicero, the copious orator and versatile man of affairs,--the only man -at all like Burke for richness, expansiveness, and variety of mind in -all the ancient world. Cicero he conned as his master and model. And -then, having had his fill for the time of discursive study and having -completed also his four years of routine, he was graduated, taking his -degree in the spring of 1748. - -His father had entered him as a student at the Middle Temple in 1747, -meaning that he should seek the prizes of his profession in England -rather than in the little world at home; but he did not take up his -residence in London until 1750, by which time he had attained his -majority. What he did with the intervening two years, his biographers -do not at all know, and it is idle to speculate, being confident, as we -must, that he quite certainly did whatever he pleased. He did the same -when he went up to London to live his terms at the Temple. “The law,” -he declared to Parliament more than twenty years afterwards, “is, in -my opinion, one of the first and noblest of human sciences,--a science -which does more to quicken and invigorate the understanding than all -other kinds of learning put together; but it is not apt, except in -persons very happily born, to open and to liberalize the mind exactly -in the same proportion;” and, although himself a person “very happily -born” in respect of all natural powers, he felt that the life of a -lawyer would inevitably confine his roving mind within intolerably -narrow limits. He learned the law, as he learned everything else, with -an eye to discovering its points of contact with affairs, its intimate -connections with the structure and functions of human society; and, -studying it thus, he made his way to so many of its secrets, won so -firm a mastery of its central principles, as always to command the -respect and even the admiration of lawyers. But the good attorney in -Dublin was sorely disappointed. This was not what he had wanted. The -son in whom he had centred his hopes preferred the life of the town -to systematic study in his chambers; wrote for the papers instead of -devoting himself to the special profession he had been sent to master. -“Of his leisure time,” said the “Annual Register” just after his death, -“of his leisure time much was spent in the company of Mrs. Woffington, -a celebrated actress, whose conversation was not less sought by men of -wit and genius than by men of pleasure.” - -We know very little about the life of Burke for the ten years, -1750–60, his first ten years in England,--except that he did _not_ -diligently apply himself to his nominal business, the study of the -law; and between the years 1752 and 1757 his biographers can show -hardly one authentic trace of his real life. They know neither his -whereabouts nor his employments. Only one scrap of his correspondence -remains from those years to give us any hint of the time. Even Richard -Shackleton, his invariable confidant and bosom friend, hears never a -word from him during that period, and is told afterwards only that -his correspondent has been “sometimes in London, sometimes in remote -parts of the country, sometimes in France,” and will “shortly, please -God, be in America.” He disappears a poor law student, under suspicion -of his father for systematic neglect of duty; when he reappears he is -married to the daughter of a worthy physician and is author of two -philosophical works which are attracting a great deal of attention. We -have reason to believe that, in the mean time, he did as much writing -as they would take for the booksellers; we know that he frequented the -London theatres and several of the innumerable debating clubs with -which nether London abounded, whetting his faculties, it is said, upon -those of a certain redoubtable baker. He haunted the galleries and -lobbies of the House of Commons. His health showed signs of breaking, -and Dr. Nugent took him from his lodgings in the Temple to his own -house and allowed him to fall in love with his daughter. Partly for -the sake of his health, perhaps, but more particularly, no doubt, for -the sake of satisfying an eager mind and a restless habit, he wandered -off to “remote parts of the country” and to France, with one William -Burke for company, a man either related to him or not related to him, -he did not himself know which. In 1755, a long-suffering patience at -length exhausted, his father shut the home treasury against him; and -then,--’twas the next year,--he published two philosophical works and -married Miss Nugent. - -One might say, no doubt, that this is an intelligible enough account of -a young fellow’s life between twenty and thirty: and that we can fill -in the particulars for ourselves. We have known other young Irishmen -of restless and volatile natures, and need make no mystery of this -one. Goldsmith, too, disappeared, we remember, in that same decade, -making show of studying medicine in Edinburgh, but not really studying -it, and then wandering off to the Continent, and going it afoot in -light-hearted, happy-go-lucky fashion through the haunts both of the -gay Latin races and the sad Teutonic, greatly to the delectation, no -doubt, of the natives,--for all the world loves an innocent Irishman, -with his heart upon his sleeve. ’Twould all be very plain indeed if -we found in Burke that light-hearted vein. But we do not. The fellow -is sober and strenuous from the first, studying the things he was not -sent to study with even too intent application, to the damage of his -health, and looking through the pleasures of the town to the heart of -the nation’s affairs. He was a grave youth, evidently, gratifying his -mind rather than his senses in the pleasures he sought; and when he -emerges from obscurity it is first to give us a touch of his quality in -the matter of intellectual amusement, and then to turn at once to the -serious business of the discussion of affairs to which the rest of his -life was to be devoted. - -The two books which he gave the world in 1756 were “A Vindication of -Natural Society,” a satirical piece in the manner of Bolingbroke, -and “A Philosophical Inquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the -Sublime and Beautiful,” which he had begun when he was nineteen and -had since reconsidered and revised. Bolingbroke, not finding revealed -religion to his taste, had written a “Vindication of Natural Religion” -which his vigorous and elevated style and skillful dialectic had -done much to make plausible. Burke put forth his “Vindication of -Natural Society” as a posthumous work of the late noble lord, and so -skillfully veiled the satirical character of the imitation as wholly -to deceive some very grave critics, who thought they could discern -Bolingbroke’s flavor upon the tasting. For the style, too, they took to -be unmistakably Bolingbroke’s own. It had all his grandeur and air of -distinction: it had his vocabulary and formal outline of phrase. The -imitation was perfect. And yet if you will scrutinize it, the style -is not Bolingbroke’s, except in a trick or two, but Burke’s. It seems -Bolingbroke’s rather because it is cold and without Burke’s usual moral -fervor than because it is rich and majestic and various. There is no -great formal difference between Burke’s style and Bolingbroke’s: but -there is a great moral and intellectual difference. When Burke is not -in earnest there is perhaps no important difference at all. And in the -“Vindication of Natural Society” Burke is not in earnest. The book is -not, indeed, a parody, and its satirical quality is much too covert -to make it a successful satire. Much that Burke urges against civil -society he could urge in good faith, and his mind works soberly upon -it. It is only the main thesis that he does not seriously mean. The -rest he might have meant as Bolingbroke would have meant it. - -The essay on The Sublime and Beautiful, though much admired by so great -a master as Lessing, has not worn very well as philosophy. It is full, -however, of acute and interesting observations, and is adorned in -parts with touches of rich color put on with the authentic strokes of a -master. We preserve it, perhaps, only because Burke wrote it; and yet -when we read it we feel inclined to pronounce it worth keeping for its -own sake. - -Both these essays were apprentice work. Burke was trying his hand. They -make us the more curious about the conditions of what must have been -a notable apprenticeship. Young Burke must have gone to school to the -world in a way worth knowing. But we cannot know, and that’s the end on -’t. Probably even William Burke, Edmund’s companion, could give us no -very satisfactory account of the matter. The explanation lay in what he -thought and not in what he did as he knocked about the world. - -The company Burke kept was as singular as his talents, though scarcely -so eminent. _We_ speak of “Burke,” but the London of his day spoke of -“the Burkes,” meaning William, who may or may not have been Edmund’s -kinsman, Edmund himself, and Richard, Edmund’s younger brother, who -had followed him to London to become, to say truth, an adventurer -emphatically not of the elevated sort. Edmund was destined to become -the leader of England’s thought in more than one great matter of -policy, and has remained a master among all who think profoundly -upon public affairs; but William was for long the leader and master -of “the Burkes.” He was English born; had been in Westminster School; -and had probably just come out from Christ Church, Oxford, when he -became the companion of Edmund’s wanderings. He was a man of intellect -and literary power enough to be deemed the possible author of the -“Letters of Junius;” he was born moreover with an eye for the ways of -the world, and could push his own fortunes with an unhesitating hand. -It was he who first got public office, and it was he who formed the -influential connections which got Edmund into Parliament. He himself -entered the House at the same time, and remained there, a useful party -member, for some eight years. He made those from whom he sought favors -dislike him for his audacity in demanding the utmost, and more than -the utmost, that he could possibly hope to get; but he seems to have -made those whom he served love him with a very earnest attachment. He -was self-seeking; but he was capable of generosity, to the point of -self-sacrifice even, when he wished to help his friend. He early formed -a partnership with Richard Burke in immense stock-jobbing speculations -in the securities of the East India Company; but he also formed a -literary partnership with Edmund in the preparation of a sketch of the -European settlements in America, and made himself respected as a strong -party writer in various pamphlets on questions of the day. He could -unite the two brothers by speculating with the one and thinking with -the other. - -Such were “the Burkes.” Edmund’s home was always the home also of the -other two, whenever they wished to make it so; the strongest personal -affection, avowed always by Edmund with his characteristic generous -warmth, bound the three men together; their purses they had in common. -Edmund was not expected, apparently, to take part in the speculations -which held William and Richard together; something held him aloof to -which they consented,--some natural separateness of mind and character -which they evidently accepted and respected. There can hardly be said -to have been any aloofness of _disposition_ on Edmund’s part. There -is something in an Irishman,--even in an Irishman who holds himself -to the strictest code of upright conduct,--which forbids his acting -as moral censor upon others. He can love a man none the less for -generous and manly qualities because that man does what he himself -would not do. Burke, moreover, had an easy standard all his life -about accepting money favors. He seems to have felt somehow that his -intense and whole-hearted devotion to his friends justified gifts and -forgiven loans of money from them. He shared the prosperity of his -kinsmen without compunction, using what he got most liberally for the -assistance of others; and when their fortunes came to a sudden ruin, -he helped them with what he had. We ought long ago to have learned -that the purest motives and the most elevated standards of conduct -may go along with a singular laxness of moral detail in some men; and -that such characters will often constrain us to love them to the point -of justifying everything that they ever did. Edmund Burke’s close -union with William and Richard does not present the least obstacle to -our admiration for the noble qualities of mind and heart which he so -conspicuously possessed, or make us for a moment doubt the thorough -disinterestedness of his great career. - -Burke’s marriage was a very happy one. Mrs. Burke’s thoroughly sweet -temperament acted as a very grateful and potent charm to soothe her -husband’s mind when shaken by the agitations of public affairs; her -quiet capacity for domestic management relieved him of many small cares -which might have added to his burdens. Her affection satisfied his -ardent nature. He speaks of her in his will as “my entirely beloved -and incomparable wife,” and every glimpse we get of their home life -confirms the estimate. After his marriage the most serious part of -his intellectual life begins; the commanding passion of his mind is -disclosed. He turns away from philosophical amusements to public -affairs. In 1757 appeared “An Account of the European Settlements in -America,” which William Burke had doubtless written, but which Edmund -had almost certainly radically revised; and Edmund himself published -the first part of “An Abridgment of the History of England” which -he never completed. In 1758, he proposed to Dodsley, the publisher, -a yearly volume, to be known as the “Annual Register,” which should -chronicle and discuss the affairs of England and the Continent. It was -the period of the Seven Years’ War, which meant for England a sharp and -glorious contest with France for the possession of America. Burke was -willing to write the annals of the critical year 1758 for a hundred -pounds; and so, in 1759, the first volume of the “Annual Register” -appeared; and the plan then so wisely conceived has yielded its annual -volume to the present day. Burke never acknowledged his connection -with this great work,--he never publicly recognized anything he had -done upon contract for the publishers,--but it is quite certain that -for very many years his was the presiding and planning mind in the -production of the “Register.” For the first few years of its life he -probably wrote the whole of the record of events with his own hand. -It was a more useful apprenticeship than that in philosophy. It gave -him an intimate acquaintance with affairs which must have served as a -direct preparation for the great contributions he was destined to make -to the mind and policy of the Whig party. - -But this, even in addition to other hack work for the booksellers, did -not keep Burke out of pecuniary straits. He sought, but failed to get, -an appointment as consul at Madrid, using the interest of Dr. Markham, -William’s master at Westminster School; and then he engaged himself as -a sort of private secretary or literary attendant to William Gerard -Hamilton, whom he served, apparently to the almost entire exclusion of -all other employments, for some four years, going with him for a season -to Ireland, where Hamilton for a time held the appointment of Secretary -to the Lord Lieutenant. Hamilton is described by one of Burke’s friends -as “a sullen, vain, proud, selfish, cankered-hearted, envious reptile,” -and Mr. Morley says that there is “not a word too many nor too strong -in the description.” At any rate, Burke’s proud spirit presently -revolted from further service, and he threw up a pension of three -hundred pounds which Hamilton had obtained for him rather than retain -any connection with the man, or remain under any sort of obligation to -him. In the mean time, however, his relations with Hamilton had put him -in the way of meeting many public men of weight and influence, and he -had gotten his first direct introduction to the world of affairs. - -It was 1764 when he shook himself free from this connection. 1764 is -a year to be marked in English literary annals. It was in the spring -of that year that that most celebrated of literary clubs was formed at -the Turk’s Head Tavern, Gerrard Street, Soho, by notable good company: -Dr. Johnson, Garrick, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Goldsmith, Sheridan, Gibbon, -Dr. Barnard, Beauclerk, Langton,--we know them all; for has not Boswell -given us the freedom of the Club and made us delighted participants in -its conversations and diversions? Into this company Burke was taken at -once. His writings had immediately attracted the attention of such men -as these, and had promptly procured him an introduction into literary -society. His powers told nowhere more brilliantly than in conversation. -“It is when you come close to a man in conversation,” said Dr. Johnson, -“that you discover what his real abilities are. To make a speech in -an assembly is a sort of knack. Now I honor Thurlow; Thurlow is a fine -fellow, he fairly puts his mind to yours.” There can be no disputing -the dictum of the greatest master of conversation: and the admirer of -Burke must be willing to accept it, at any rate for the nonce, for -Johnson admitted that Burke invariably put him on his mettle. “That -fellow,” he exclaimed, “calls forth all my powers!” “Burke’s talk,” he -said, “is the ebullition of his mind; he does not talk from a desire -of distinction, but because his mind is full; he is never humdrum, -never unwilling to talk, nor in haste to leave off.” The redoubtable -doctor loved a worthy antagonist in the great game of conversation, -and he always gave Burke his ungrudging admiration. When he lay dying, -Burke visited his bedside, and, finding Johnson very weak, anxiously -expressed the hope that his presence cost him no inconvenience. “I must -be in a wretched state indeed,” cried the great-hearted old man, “when -your company would not be a delight to me.” It was short work for Burke -to get the admiration of the company at the Turk’s Head. But he did -much more than that: he won their devoted affection. Goldsmith said -that Burke wound his way into a subject like a serpent; but he made his -way straight into the hearts of his friends. His powers are all of a -piece: his heart is inextricably mixed up with his mind: his opinions -are immediately transmuted into convictions: he does not talk for -distinction, because he does not use his mind for the mere intellectual -pleasure of it, but because he also deeply feels what he thinks. He -speaks without calculation, almost impulsively. - -That is the reason why we can be so sure of the essential purity of -his nature from the character of his writings. They are not purely -intellectual productions: there is no page of abstract reasoning to be -found in Burke. His mind works upon concrete objects, and he speaks -always with a certain passion, as if his affections were involved. He -is irritated by opposition, because opposition in the field of affairs, -in which his mind operates, touches some interest that is dear to him. -Noble generalizations, it is true, everywhere broaden his matter: there -is no more philosophical writer in English in the field of politics -than Burke. But look, and you shall see that his generalizations are -never derived from abstract premises. The reasoning is upon familiar -matter of to-day. He is simply taking questions of the moment to the -light, holding them up to be seen where great principles of conduct -may shine upon them from the general experience of the race. He is -not constructing systems of thought, but simply stripping thought of -its accidental features. He is even deeply impatient of abstractions -in political reasoning, so passionately is he devoted to what is -practicable, and fit for wise men to do. To know such a man is to -experience all the warmer forces of the mind, to feel the generous and -cheering heat of character; and all noble natures will love such a -man, because of kinship of quality. All noble natures that came close -to Burke did love him and cherish their knowledge of him. They loaned -him money without stint, and then forgave him the loans, as if it were -a privilege to help him, and no way unnatural that he should never -return what he received, finding his spirit made for fraternal, not for -commercial relations. - -It is pleasing, as it is also a little touching, to see how his -companions thus freely accorded to Burke the immunities and -prerogatives of a prince amongst them. No one failed to perceive how -large and imperial he was, alike in natural gifts and in the wonderful -range of his varied acquirements. Sir James Mackintosh, though he -very earnestly combated some of Burke’s views, intensely admired his -greatness. He declared that Gibbon “might have been taken from a -corner of Burke’s mind without ever being missed.” “A wit said, of -Gibbon’s ‘Autobiography’ that he did not know the difference between -himself and the Roman Empire. He has narrated his ‘progressions from -London to Buriton and from Buriton to London’ in the same monotonous, -majestic periods that he recorded the fall of states and empires.” -And we certainly feel a sense of incongruity: the two subjects, we -perceive, are hardly commensurable. Perhaps in Burke’s case we should -have felt differently,--we _do_ feel differently. In that extraordinary -“Letter to a Noble Lord,” in which he defends his pension so proudly -against the animadversions of the Duke of Bedford, how magnificently -he speaks of his services to the country; how proud and majestic a -piece of autobiography it is! How insignificant does the ancient house -of Bedford seem, with all its long generations, as compared with this -single and now lonely man, without distinguished ancestry or hope of -posterity! He speaks grandly about himself, as about everything; and -yet I see no disparity between the subject and the manner! - -Outside the small circle of those who knew and loved him, his -generation did not wholly perceive this. There seemed a touch of -pretension in this proud tone taken by a man who had never held high -office or exercised great power. He had made great speeches, indeed, -no one denied that; he had written great party pamphlets,--that -everybody knew; his had been the intellectual force within the group of -Whigs that followed Lord Rockingham,--that, too, the world in general -perceived and acknowledged; and when he died, England knew the man who -had gone to be a great man. But, for all that, his tone must, in his -generation, have seemed disproportioned to the part he had played. His -great authority is over us rather than over the men of his own day. - -Burke had the thoughts of a great statesman, and uttered them with -unapproachable nobility; but he never wielded the power of a great -statesman. He was kept always in the background in active politics, -in minor posts, and employed upon subordinate functions. This would -be a singular circumstance, if there were any novelty in it; but -the practice of keeping men of insignificant birth out of the great -offices was a practice which had “broadened down from precedent to -precedent” until it had become too strong for even Burke to breast or -stem. Perhaps, too, there were faults of temper which rendered Burke -unfit to exercise authority in directing the details, and determining -the practical measures, of public policy:--but we shall look into that -presently. - -In July, 1765, the Marquis of Rockingham became prime minister -of England, and Burke became his private secretary. He owed his -introduction to Lord Rockingham, as usual, to the good offices of -William Burke, who seems to have found means of knowing everybody -it was to the interest of “the Burkes” to know. A more fortunate -connection could hardly have been made. Lord Rockingham, though not -a man of original powers, was a man of the greatest simplicity and -nobleness of character, and, like most upright men, knew how to trust -other men. He gave Burke immediate proof of his manly qualities. The -scheming old Duke of Newcastle, who ought to have been a connoisseur -in low men, mistook Burke for one. Shocked that this obscurely born -and unknown fellow should be accorded confidential relations by Lord -Rockingham, he hurried to his lordship with an assortment of hastily -selected slanders against Burke. His real name, he reported, was -O’Bourke; he was an Irish adventurer without character, and a rank -Papist to boot; it would ruin the administration to have such a man -connected with the First Lord of the Treasury. Rockingham, with great -good sense and frankness, took the whole matter at once to Burke; was -entirely satisfied by Burke’s denials; and admitted him immediately to -intimate relations of warm personal friendship which only death broke -off. William Burke obtained for himself an Undersecretaryship of State -and arranged with Lord Verney, at that time his partner in East India -speculations, that two of his lordship’s parliamentary boroughs should -be put at his and Edmund’s disposal. Edmund Burke, accordingly, entered -Parliament for the borough of Wendover on the 14th of January, 1766, at -the age of thirty-seven, and in the first vigor of his powers. - -“Now we who know Burke,” announced Dr. Johnson, “know that he will -be one of the first men in the country.” Burke promptly fulfilled -the prediction. He made a speech before he had been in the House two -weeks; a speech that made him at once a marked man. His health was -now firmly established; he had a commanding physique; his figure was -tall and muscular, and his bearing full of a dignity which had a touch -almost of haughtiness in it. Although his action was angular and -awkward, his extraordinary richness and fluency of utterance drew the -attention away from what he was doing to what he was saying. His voice -was harsh, and did not harmonize with the melodious measures in which -his words poured forth; but it was of unusual compass, and carried -in it a sense of confidence and power. His utterance was too rapid, -his thought bore him too impulsively forward, but the pregnant matter -he spoke “filled the town with wonder.” The House was excited by new -sensations. Members were astonished to recognize a broad philosophy -of politics running through this ardent man’s speeches. They felt the -refreshment of the wide outlook he gave them, and were conscious of -catching glimpses of excellent matter for reflection at every turn of -his hurrying thought. They wearied of it, indeed, after a while: the -pace was too hard for most of his hearers, and they finally gave over -following him when the novelty and first excitement of the exercise had -worn off. He too easily lost sight of his audience in his search for -principles, and they resented his neglect of them, his indifference -to their tastes. They felt his lofty style of reasoning as a sort of -rebuke, and deemed his discursive wisdom out of place amidst their own -thoughts of imperative personal and party interest. He had, before -very long, to accustom himself, therefore, to speak to an empty House -and subsequent generations. His opponents never, indeed, managed to -feel quite easy under his attacks: his arrows sought out their weak -places to the quick, and they winced even when they coughed or seemed -indifferent; but they comforted themselves with the thought that the -orator was also tedious and irritating to his own friends, teasing them -too with keen rebukes and vexatious admonitions. The high and wise sort -of speaking must always cause uneasiness in a political assembly. The -more equal and balanced it is, the more must both parties be threatened -with reproof. - -I would not be understood as saying that Burke’s speeches were -impartial. They were not. He had preferences which amounted to -prejudices. He was always an intense party man. But then he was a -party man with a difference. He believed that the interests of England -were bound up with the fortunes of the Rockingham Wings; but he did -not separate the interests of his party and the interests of his -country. He cherished party connections because he conceived them to be -absolutely necessary for effective public service. “Where men are not -acquainted with each other’s principles,” he said, “nor experienced in -each other’s talents, nor at all practiced in their mutual habitudes -or dispositions by joint efforts in business; no personal confidence, -no friendship, no common interest, subsisting among them; it is -evidently impossible that they can act a public part with uniformity, -perseverance, or efficacy. In a connection, the most inconsiderable -man, by adding to the weight of the whole, has his value, and his -use; out of it, the greatest talents are wholly unserviceable to the -public.” “When bad men combine, the good must associate.” “It is not -enough in a situation of trust in the commonwealth, that a man means -well to his country; it is not enough that in his single person he -never did an evil act, but always voted according to his conscience, -and even harangued against every design which he apprehended to be -prejudicial to the interests of his country.... Duty demands and -requires, that what is right should not only be made known, but made -prevalent; that what is evil should not only be detected, but defeated. -When the public man omits to put himself in a situation of doing his -duty with effect, it is an omission that frustrates the purposes of -his trust almost as much as if he had formally betrayed it.” Burke -believed the Rockingham Whigs to be a combination of good men, and he -felt that he ought to sacrifice something to keep himself in their -connection. He regarded them as men who “believed private honor to -be the foundation of public trust; that friendship was no mean step -towards patriotism; that he who, in the common intercourse of life, -showed he regarded somebody besides himself, when he came to act in -a public situation, might probably consult some other interest than -his own.” He admitted that such confederacies had often “a narrow, -bigoted, and prescriptive spirit;” “but, where duty renders a critical -situation a necessary one,” he said, “it is our business to keep free -from the evils attendant upon it; and not to fly from the situation -itself. If a fortress is seated in an unwholesome air, an officer of -the garrison is obliged to be attentive to his health, but he must -not desert his station.” “A party,” he declared, “is a body of men -united for promoting by their joint endeavors the national interest -upon some particular principle in which they are all agreed.” “Men -thinking freely, will,” he very well knew, “in particular instances, -think differently. But still as the greater part of the measures which -arise in the course of public business are related to, or dependent on, -some great, _leading, general principles in government_, a man must be -peculiarly unfortunate in the choice of his political company, if he -does not agree with them at least nine times in ten. If he does not -concur in these general principles upon which the party is founded, -and which necessarily draw on a concurrence in their application, he -ought from the beginning to have chosen some other, more conformable to -his opinions. When the question is in its nature doubtful, or not very -material, the modesty which becomes an individual, and that partiality -which becomes a well-chosen friendship, will frequently bring on an -acquiescence in the general sentiment. Thus the disagreement will -naturally be rare; it will be only enough to indulge freedom, without -violating concord, or disturbing arrangement.” - -Certainly there were no party prizes for Burke. During much the greater -part of his career the party to which he adhered was in opposition; and -even when in office it had only small favors for him. Even his best -friends advised against his appointment to any of the great offices -of state, deeming him too intemperate and unpractical. And yet the -intensity of his devotion to his party never abated a jot. Assuredly -there was never a less selfish allegiance. His devotion was for the -principles of his party, as he conceived and constructed them. It was -a moral and intellectual devotion. He had embarked all his spirit’s -fortunes in the enterprise. Faults he unquestionably had, which seemed -very grave. He was passionate sometimes beyond all bounds: he seriously -frightened cautious and practical men by his haste and vehemence in -pressing his views for acceptance. He was capable of falling, upon -occasion, into a very frenzy of excitement in the midst of debate, when -he would often shock moderate men by the ungoverned license of his -language. But his friends were as much to blame for these outbreaks as -he was. They cut him to the quick by the way in which they criticised -and misunderstood him. His heart was maddened by the pain of their -neglect of his just claims to their confidence. They seemed often to -use him without trusting him, and their slights were intolerable to his -proud spirit. Practically, and upon a narrow scale of expediency, they -may have been right: perhaps he was _not_ circumspect enough to be made -a responsible head of administration. Unquestionably, too, they loved -him and meant him no unkindness. But it was none the less tragical to -treat such a man in such a fashion. They may possibly have temporarily -served their country by denying to Burke full public acknowledgment of -his great services; but they cruelly wounded a great spirit, and they -hardly served mankind. - -They did Burke an injustice, moreover. They greatly underrated his -practical powers. In such offices as he was permitted to hold he showed -in actual administration the same extraordinary mastery of masses -of detail which was the foundation of his unapproachable mastery of -general principles in his thinking. His thought was always immersed -in matter, and concrete detail did not confuse him when he touched -it any more than it did when he meditated upon it. Immediate contact -with affairs always steadied his judgment. He was habitually temperate -in the conduct of business. It was only in speech and when debating -matters that stirred the depths of his nature that he gave way to -uncalculating fervor. He was intemperate in his emotions, but seldom -in his actions. He could, and did, write calm state papers in the very -midst and heat of parliamentary affairs that subjected him to the -fiercest excitements. He was eminently capable of counsel as well as of -invective. - -He served his party in no servile fashion, for all he adhered to it -with such devotion. He sacrificed his intellectual independence as -little as his personality in taking intimate part in its counsels. He -gave it principles, indeed, quite as often as he accepted principles -from it. In the final efforts of his life, when he engaged every -faculty of his mind in the contest that he waged with such magnificent -wrath against the French revolutionary spirit, he gave tone to all -English thought, and direction to many of the graver issues of -international policy. Rejected oftentimes by his party, he has at -length been accepted by the world. - -His habitual identification with opposition rather than with the -government gave him a certain advantage. It relaxed party discipline -and indulged his independence. It gave leave, too, to the better -efforts of his genius: for in opposition it is principles that tell, -and Burke was first and last a master of principles. Government -is a matter of practical detail, as well as of general measures; -but the criticism of government very naturally becomes a matter of -the application of general principles, as standards rather than as -practical means of policy. - -Four questions absorbed the energies of Burke’s life and must always -be associated with his fame. These were, the American war for -independence; administrative reform in the English home government; -reform in the government of India; and the profound political -agitations which attended the French Revolution. Other questions he -studied, deeply pondered, and greatly illuminated, but upon these -four he expended the full strength of his magnificent powers. There -is in his treatment of these subjects a singular consistency, a very -admirable simplicity of standard. It has been said, and it is true, -that Burke had no system of political philosophy. He was afraid of -abstract system in political thought, for he perceived that questions -of government are moral questions, and that questions of morals cannot -always be squared with the rules of logic, but run through as many -ranges of variety as the circumstances of life itself. “Man acts -from adequate motives relative to his interest,” he said, “and not on -metaphysical speculations. Aristotle, the great master of reasoning, -cautions us, and with great weight and propriety, against this species -of delusive geometrical accuracy in moral arguments, as the most -fallacious of all sophistry.” And yet Burke unquestionably had a very -definite and determinable system of thought, which was none the less a -system for being based upon concrete, and not upon abstract premises. -It is said by some writers (even by so eminent a writer as Buckle) -that in his later years Burke’s mind lost its balance and that he -reasoned as if he were insane; and the proof assigned is, that he, a -man who loved liberty, violently condemned, not the terrors only,--that -of course,--but the very principles of the French Revolution. But to -reason thus is to convict one’s self of an utter lack of comprehension -of Burke’s mind and motives: as a very brief examination of his course -upon the four great questions I have mentioned will show. - -From first to last Burke’s thought is conservative. Let his attitude -with regard to America serve as an example. He took his stand, as -everybody knows, with the colonies, against the mother country; but -his object was not revolutionary. He did not deny the legal right -of England to tax the colonies (_we_ no longer deny it ourselves), -but he wished to preserve the empire, and he saw that to insist upon -the right of taxation would be irrevocably to break up the empire, -when dealing with such a people as the Americans. He pointed out the -strong and increasing numbers of the colonists, their high spirit in -enterprise, their jealous love of liberty, and the indulgence England -had hitherto accorded them in the matter of self-government, permitting -them in effect to become an independent people in respect of all their -internal affairs; and he declared the result matter for just pride. -“Whilst we follow them among the tumbling mountains of ice, and behold -them penetrating into the deepest frozen recesses of Hudson’s Bay and -Davis’s Straits,” he exclaimed, in a famous passage of his incomparable -speech on Conciliation with America, “whilst we are looking for them -beneath the arctic circle, we hear that they have pierced into the -opposite region of polar cold, that they are at the antipodes, and -engaged under the frozen serpent of the South. Falkland Island, which -seemed too remote and romantic an object for the grasp of national -ambition, is but a stage and resting place in the progress of their -victorious industry. Nor is the equinoctial heat more discouraging -to them than the accumulated winter of both the poles. We know that -whilst some of them draw the line and strike the harpoon on the coast -of Africa, others run the longitude, and pursue their gigantic game -along the coast of Brazil. No sea but what is vexed by their fisheries. -No climate that is not witness to their toils. Neither the perseverance -of Holland, nor the activity of France, nor the dexterous and firm -sagacity of English enterprise, ever carried this most perilous mode of -hardy industry to the extent to which it has been pushed by this recent -people,--a people who are still, as it were, but in the gristle, and -not yet hardened into the bone of manhood. When I contemplate these -things,--when I know that the colonies in general owe little or nothing -to any care of ours, and that they are not squeezed into this happy -form by the constraints of watchful and suspicious government, but -that, through a wise and salutary neglect, a generous nature has been -suffered to take her own way to perfection,--when I reflect upon these -effects, when I see how profitable they have been to us, I feel all the -pride of power sink, and all the presumption in the wisdom of human -contrivances melt and die away within me,--my rigor relents,--I pardon -something to the spirit of liberty.” - -“I think it necessary,” he insisted, “to consider distinctly the true -nature and the peculiar circumstances of the object we have before -us: because, after all our struggle, whether we will or not, we must -govern America according to that nature and those circumstances, and -not according to our own imaginations, not according to abstract ideas -of right, by no means according to mere general theories of government, -the resort to which appears to me, in our present situation, no -better than arrant trifling.” To attempt to force such a people would -be a course of idle folly. Force, he declared, would not only be an -odious “but a feeble instrument, for preserving a people so numerous, -so active, so growing, so spirited as this, in a profitable and -subordinate connection with” England. - -“First, Sir,” he cried, “permit me to observe, that the use of force -alone is but _temporary_. It may subdue for a moment; but it does not -remove the necessity of subduing again: and a nation is not governed -which is perpetually to be conquered. - -“My next objection is its _uncertainty_. Terror is not always the -effect of force, and an armament is not a victory. If you do not -succeed, you are without resource: for, conciliation failing, force -remains; but, force failing, no further hope of reconciliation is left. -Power and authority are sometimes bought by kindness; but they can -never be begged as alms by an impoverished and defeated violence. - -“A further objection to force is, that you _impair the object_ by your -very endeavors to preserve it. The thing you fought for is not the -thing you recover, but depreciated, sunk, wasted, and consumed in the -contest. Nothing less will content me than _whole America_. I do not -choose to consume its strength along with our own; for in all parts it -is the British strength I consume.... Let me add, that I do not choose -wholly to break the American spirit; because it is the spirit that has -made the country. - -“Lastly, we have no sort of _experience_ in favor of force as an -instrument in the rule of our colonies. Their growth and their utility -has been owing to methods altogether different. Our ancient indulgence -has been said to be pursued to a fault. It may be so; but we know, if -feeling is evidence, that our fault was more tolerable than our attempt -to mend it, and our sin far more salutary than our penitence.” - -“Obedience is what makes government,” “freedom, and not servitude, is -the cure of anarchy,” and you cannot insist upon one rule of obedience -for Englishmen in America while you jealously maintain another for -Englishmen in England. “For, in order to prove that the Americans have -no right to their liberties, we are every day endeavoring to subvert -the maxims which preserve the whole spirit of our own. To prove that -the Americans ought not to be free, we are obliged to depreciate the -value of freedom itself; and we never seem to gain a paltry advantage -over them in debate, without attacking some of those principles, or -deriding some of those feelings, for which our ancestors have shed -their blood.” “The question with me is, not whether you have a right -to render your people miserable, but whether it is not your interest -to make them happy. It is not what a lawyer tells me I _may_ do, but -what humanity, reason, and justice tell me I _ought_ to do.... Such -is steadfastly my opinion of the absolute necessity of keeping up the -concord of this empire by a unity of spirit, though in a diversity -of operations, that, if I were sure that the colonists had, at their -leaving this country, sealed a regular compact of servitude, that they -had solemnly abjured all the rights of citizens, that they had made a -vow to renounce all ideas of liberty for them and their posterity to -all generations, yet I should hold myself obliged to conform to the -temper I found universally prevalent in my own day, and to govern two -million of men, impatient of servitude, on the principles of freedom. -I am not determining a point of law; I am restoring tranquillity: and -the general character and situation of a people must determine what -sort of government is fitted for them. That point nothing else can or -ought to determine.” “All government, indeed every human benefit and -enjoyment, every virtue and every prudent act, is founded on compromise -and barter. We balance inconveniences; we give and take; we remit some -rights, that we may enjoy others; and we choose rather to be happy -citizens than subtle disputants.” “Magnanimity in politics is not -seldom the truest wisdom; and a great empire and little minds go ill -together.” - -Here you have the whole spirit of the man, and in part a view of his -eminently practical system of thought. The view is completed when you -advance with him to other subjects of policy. He pressed with all his -energy for radical reforms in administration, but he earnestly opposed -every change that might touch the structure of the constitution itself. -He sought to secure the integrity of Parliament, not by changing the -system of representation, but by cutting out all roots of corruption. -He pressed forward with the most ardent in all plans of just reform, -but he held back with the most conservative from all propositions of -radical change. “To innovate is not to reform,” he declared, and there -is “a marked distinction between change and reformation. The former -alters the substance of the objects themselves, and gets rid of all -their essential good as well as of all the accidental evil annexed to -them. Change is novelty; and whether it is to operate any one of the -effects of reformation at all, or whether it may not contradict the -very principle upon which reformation is desired, cannot certainly -be known beforehand. Reform is not a change in the substance or in -the primary modification of the object, but a direct application of a -remedy to the grievance complained of. So far as that is removed, all -is sure. It stops there; and if it fails, the substance which underwent -the operation, at the very worst, is but where it was.” This is the -governing motive of his immense labors to accomplish radical economical -reform in the administration of the government. He was not seeking -economy merely; to husband the resources of the country was no more -than a means to an end, and that end was, to preserve the constitution -in its purity. He believed that Parliament was not truly representative -of the people because so many place-men found seats in it, and because -so many members who might have been independent were bought by the too -abundant favors of the Court. Cleanse Parliament of this corruption, -and it would be restored to something like its pristine excellence as -an instrument of liberty. - -He dreaded to see the franchise extended and the House of Commons -radically made over in its constitution. It had never been intended -to be merely the people’s House. It had been intended to hold all -the elements of the state that were not to be found in the House of -Lords or the Court. He conceived it to be the essential object of the -constitution to establish a balanced and just intercourse between -the several forces of an ancient society, and it was well that that -balance should be preserved even in the House of Commons, rather than -give perilous sweep to a single set of interests. “These opposed -and conflicting interests,” he said to his French correspondent, -“which you considered as so great a blemish in your old and in our -present Constitution, interpose a salutary check to all precipitate -resolutions. They render deliberation a matter, not of choice, but -of necessity; they make all change a subject of _compromise_, which -naturally begets moderation; they produce _temperaments_, preventing -the sore evil of harsh, crude, unqualified reformations, and rendering -all the headlong exertions of arbitrary power, in the few or in the -many, forever impracticable. Through that diversity of members and -interests, general liberty had as many securities as there are separate -views in the several orders; whilst by pressing down the whole by -the weight of a real monarchy, the separate parts would have been -prevented from warping and starting from their allotted places.” “_We_ -wish,” he said, “to derive all we possess _as an inheritance from our -forefathers_. Upon that body and stock of experience we have taken -care not to inoculate any scion alien to the nature of the original -plant.” “This idea of a liberal descent inspires us with a sense of -habitual native dignity, which prevents that upstart insolence almost -inevitably adhering to and disgracing those who are the first acquirers -of any distinction. By this means our liberty becomes a noble freedom. -It carries an imposing and majestic aspect. It has a pedigree and -illustrating ancestors. It has its bearings and its ensigns armorial. -It has its gallery of portraits, its monumental inscriptions, its -records, evidences, and titles. We procure reverence to our civil -institutions on the principle upon which Nature teaches us to revere -individual men: on account of their age, and on account of those from -whom they are descended.” - -“When the useful parts of an old establishment are kept, and what -is superadded is to be fitted to what is retained, a vigorous mind, -steady, persevering attention, various powers of comparison and -combination, and the resources of an understanding fruitful in -expedients are to be exercised; they are to be exercised in a continued -conflict with the combined force of opposite vices, with the obstinacy -that rejects all improvement, and the levity that is fatigued and -disgusted with everything of which it is in possession.... Political -arrangement, as it is a work for social ends, is to be only wrought -by social means. There mind must conspire with mind. Time is required -to produce that union of minds which alone can produce all the good -we aim at. Our patience will achieve more than our force. If I might -venture to appeal to what is so much out of fashion in Paris,--I mean -to experience,--I should tell you that in my course I have known, and, -according to my measure, have coöperated with great men; and I have -never yet seen any plan which has not been mended by the observations -of those who were much inferior in understanding to the person who took -the lead in the business. By a slow, but well sustained progress, the -effect of each step is watched; the good or ill success of the first -gives light to us in the second; and so, from light to light, we are -conducted with safety, through the whole series.... We are enabled to -unite into a consistent whole the various anomalies and contending -principles that are found in the minds and affairs of men. From hence -arises, not an excellence in simplicity, but one far superior, an -excellence in composition. Where the great interests of mankind are -concerned through a long succession of generations, that succession -ought to be admitted into some share in the counsels which are so -deeply to affect them.” - -It is not possible to escape deep conviction of the wisdom of these -reflections. They penetrate to the heart of all practicable methods of -reform. Burke was doubtless too timid, and in practical judgment often -mistaken. Measures which in reality would operate only as salutary and -needed reformations he feared because of the element of change that -was in them. He erred when he supposed that progress can in all its -stages be made without changes which seem to go even to the substance. -But, right or wrong, his philosophy did not come to him of a sudden and -only at the end of his life, when he found France desolated and England -threatened with madness for love of revolutionary principles of change. -It is the key to his thought everywhere, and through all his life. - -It is the key (which many of his critics have never found) to his -position with regard to the revolution in France. He was roused to that -fierce energy of opposition in which so many have thought that they -detected madness, not so much because of his deep disgust to see brutal -and ignorant men madly despoil an ancient and honorable monarchy, as -because he saw the spirit of these men cross the Channel and find -lodgment in England, even among statesmen like Fox, who had been his -own close friends and companions in thought and policy; not so much -because he loved France as because he feared for England. For England -he had Shakespeare’s love: - - “That fortress built by nature for herself - _Against infection and the hand of war_; - That happy breed of men, that little world, - That precious stone set in the silver sea, - Which serves it in the office of a wall, - Or as a moat defensive to a house, - _Against the envy of less happier lands_; - That blessed plot, that earth, that realm, that England.” - -’T was to keep out infection and to preserve such precious stores -of manly tradition as had made that little world “the envy of less -happier lands” that Burke sounded so effectually that extraordinary -alarm against the revolutionary spirit that was racking France from -throne to cottage. Let us admit, if you will, that with reference -to France herself he was mistaken. Let us say that when he admired -the institutions which she was then sweeping away he was yielding to -sentiment, and imagining France as perfect as the beauty of the sweet -queen he had seen in her radiant youth. Let us concede that he did -not understand the condition of France, and therefore did not see how -inevitable that terrible revolution was: that in this case, too, the -wages of sin was death. He was not defending France, if you look to -the bottom of it; he was defending England:--and the things he hated -are truly hateful. He hated the French revolutionary philosophy and -deemed it unfit for free men. And that philosophy is in fact radically -evil and corrupting. No state can ever be conducted on its principles. -For it holds that government is a matter of contract and deliberate -arrangement, whereas in fact it is an institute of habit, bound -together by innumerable threads of association, scarcely one of which -has been deliberately placed. It holds that the object of government -is liberty, whereas the true object of government is justice; not -the advantage of one class, even though that class constitute the -majority, but right equity in the adjustment of the interests of all -classes. It assumes that government can be made over at will, but -assumes it without the slightest historical foundation. For governments -have never been successfully and permanently changed except by slow -modification operating from generation to generation. It contradicted -every principle that had been so laboriously brought to light in the -slow stages of the growth of liberty in the only land in which liberty -had then grown to great proportions. The history of England is a -continuous thesis against revolution; and Burke would have been no true -Englishman, had he not roused himself, even fanatically, if there were -need, to keep such puerile doctrine out. - -If you think his fierceness was madness, look how he conducted the -trial against Warren Hastings during those same years: with what -patience, with what steadiness in business, with what temper, with -what sane and balanced attention to detail, with what statesmanlike -purpose! Note, likewise, that his thesis is the same in the one -undertaking as in the other. He was applying the same principles to -the case of France and to the case of India that he had applied to the -case of the colonies. He meant to save the empire, not by changing -its constitution, as was the method in France, and so shaking every -foundation in order to dislodge an abuse, but by administering it -uprightly and in a liberal spirit. He was persuaded “that government -was a practical thing, made for the happiness of mankind, and not -to furnish out a spectacle of uniformity to gratify the schemes of -visionary politicians. Our business,” he said, “was to rule, not to -wrangle; and it would be a poor compensation that we had triumphed in a -dispute, whilst we had lost an empire.” The monarchy must be saved and -the constitution vindicated by keeping the empire pure in all parts, -even in the remotest provinces. Hastings must be crushed in order -that the world might know that no English governor could afford to be -unjust. Good government, like all virtue, he deemed to be a practical -habit of conduct, and not a matter of constitutional structure. It is a -great ideal, a thoroughly English ideal; and it constitutes the leading -thought of all Burke’s career. - -In short, as I began by saying, this man, an Irishman, speaks the -best English thought upon the essential questions of politics. He is -thoroughly, characteristically, and to the bottom English in all his -flunking. He is more liberal than Englishmen in his treatment of Irish -questions, of course; for he understands them, as no Englishman of his -generation did. But for all that he remains the chief spokesman for -England in the utterance of the fundamental ideals which have governed -the action of Englishmen in politics. “All the ancient, honest, -juridical principles and institutions of England,” such was his idea, -“are so many clogs to check and retard the headlong course of violence -and oppression. They were invented for this one good purpose, that what -was not _just_ should not be _convenient_.” This is fundamental English -doctrine. English liberty has consisted in making it unpleasant for -those who were unjust, and thus getting them in the habit of being just -for the sake of a _modus vivendi_. Burke is the apostle of the great -English gospel of Expediency. - -The politics of English-speaking peoples has never been speculative; -it has always been profoundly practical and utilitarian. Speculative -politics treats men and situations as they are supposed to be; -practical politics treats them (upon no general plan, but in detail) as -they are found to be at the moment of actual contact. With reference -to America Burke argues: No matter what your legal right in the case, -it is not _expedient_ to treat America as you propose: a numerous and -spirited people like the colonists will not submit; and your experiment -will cost you your colonies. In the case of administrative reform, -again, it is the higher sort of expediency he urges: If you wish to -keep your government from revolution, keep it from corruption, and by -making it pure render it permanent. To the French he says, It is not -_expedient_ to destroy thus recklessly these ancient parts of your -constitution. How will you replace them? How will you conduct affairs -at all after you shall have deprived yourselves of all balance and of -all old counsel? It is both better and easier to reform than to tear -down and reconstruct. - -This is unquestionably the message of Englishmen to the world, and -Burke utters it with incomparable eloquence. A man of sensitive -imagination and elevated moral sense, of a wide knowledge and capacity -for affairs, he stood in the midst of the English nation speaking -its moral judgments upon affairs, its character in political action, -its purposes of freedom, equity, wide and equal progress. It is the -immortal charm of his speech and manner that gives permanence to -his works. Though his life was devoted to affairs with a constant -and unalterable passion, the radical features of Burke’s mind were -literary. He was a man of books, without being under the dominance -of what others had written. He got knowledge out of books and the -abundance of matter his mind craved to work its constructive and -imaginative effects upon. It is singular how devoid of all direct -references to books his writings are. The materials of his thought -never reappear in the same form in which he obtained them. They -have been smelted and recoined. They have come under the drill and -inspiration of a great constructive mind, have caught life and taken -structure from it. Burke is not literary because he takes from books, -but because he makes books, transmuting what he writes upon into -literature. It is this inevitable literary quality, this sure mastery -of style, that mark the man, as much as his thought itself. He is a -master in the use of the great style. Every sentence, too, is steeped -in the colors of an extraordinary imagination. The movement takes your -breath and quickens your pulses. The glow and power of the matter -rejuvenate your faculties. - -And yet the thought, too, is quite as imperishable as its incomparable -vehicle. - - “The deepest, plainest, highest, clearest pen; - The voice most echoed by consenting men; - The soul which answered best to all well said - By others, and which most requital made; - Tuned to the highest key of ancient Rome, - Returning all her music with his own; - In whom, with nature, study claimed a part, - And yet who to himself owed all his art.” - - - - -VI. - -THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER. - - -“Give us the facts, and nothing but the facts,” is the sharp injunction -of our age to its historians. Upon the face of it, an eminently -reasonable requirement. To tell the truth simply, openly, without -reservation, is the unimpeachable first principle of all right dealing; -and historians have no license to be quit of it. Unquestionably they -must tell us the truth, or else get themselves enrolled among a very -undesirable class of persons, not often frankly named in polite -society. But the thing is by no means so easy as it looks. The truth -of history is a very complex and very occult matter. It consists of -things which are invisible as well as of things which are visible. It -is full of secret motives, and of a chance interplay of trivial and yet -determining circumstances; it is shot through with transient passions, -and broken athwart here and there by what seem cruel accidents; it -cannot all be reduced to statistics or newspaper items or official -recorded statements. And so it turns out, when the actual test of -experiment is made, that the historian must have something more than a -good conscience, must be something more than a good man. He must have -an eye to see the truth; and nothing but a very catholic imagination -will serve to illuminate his matter for him: nothing less than keen -and steady insight will make even illumination yield him the truth -of what he looks upon. Even when he has seen the truth, only half -his work is done, and that not the more difficult half. He must then -make others see it just as he does: only when he has done that has he -told the truth. What an art of penetrative phrase and just selection -must he have to take others into the light in which he stands! Their -dullness, their ignorance, their prepossessions, are to be overcome -and driven in, like a routed troop, upon the truth. The thing is -infinitely difficult. The skill and strategy of it cannot be taught. -And so historians take another way, which is easier: they tell part of -the truth,--the part most to their taste, or most suitable to their -talents,--and obtain readers to their liking among those of similar -tastes and talents to their own. - -We have our individual preferences in history, as in every other sort -of literature. And there are histories to every taste: histories full -of the piquant details of personal biography, histories that blaze -with the splendors of courts and resound with drum and trumpet, and -histories that run upon the humbler but greater levels of the life -of the people; colorless histories, so passionless and so lacking -in distinctive mark or motive that they might have been set up out -of a dictionary without the intervention of an author, and partisan -histories, so warped and violent in every judgment that no reader not -of the historian’s own party can stomach them; histories of economic -development, and histories that speak only of politics; those that tell -nothing but what it is pleasant and interesting to know, and those that -tell nothing at all that one cares to remember. One must be of a new -and unheard of taste not to be suited among them all. - -The trouble is, after all, that men do not invariably find the truth -to their taste, and will often deny it when they hear it; and the -historian has to do much more than keep his own eyes clear: he has -also to catch and hold the eye of his reader. ’Tis a nice art, as much -intellectual as moral. How shall he take the palate of his reader at -unawares, and get the unpalatable facts down his throat along with the -palatable? Is there no way in which all the truth may be made to hold -together in a narrative so strongly knit and so harmoniously colored -that no reader will have either the wish or the skill to tear its -patterns asunder, and men will take it all, unmarred and as it stands, -rather than miss the zest of it? - -It is evident the thing cannot be done by the “dispassionate” annalist. -The old chroniclers, whom we relish, were not dispassionate. We love -some of them for their sweet quaintness, some for their childlike -credulity, some for their delicious inconsequentiality. But our modern -chroniclers are not so. They are, above all things else, knowing, -thoroughly informed, subtly sophisticated. They would not for the world -contribute any spice of their own to the narrative; and they are much -too watchful, circumspect, and dutiful in their care to keep their -method pure and untouched by any thought of theirs to let us catch so -much as a glimpse of the chronicler underneath the chronicle. Their -purpose is to give simply the facts, eschewing art, and substituting a -sort of monumental index and table of the world’s events. - -The trouble is that men refuse to be made any wiser by such means. -Though they will readily enough let their eyes linger upon a monument -of art, they will heedlessly pass by a mere monument of industry. It -suggests nothing to them. The materials may be suitable enough, but -the handling of them leaves them dead and commonplace. An interesting -circumstance thus comes to light. It is nothing less than this, that -the facts do not of themselves constitute the truth. The truth is -abstract, not concrete. It is the just idea, the right revelation of -what things mean. It is evoked only by such arrangements and orderings -of facts as suggest interpretations. The chronological arrangement -of events, for example, may or may not be the arrangement which most -surely brings the truth of the narrative to light; and the best -arrangement is always that which displays, not the facts themselves, -but the subtle and else invisible forces that lurk in the events and -in the minds of men,--forces for which events serve only as lasting -and dramatic words of utterance. Take an instance. How are you to -enable men to know the truth with regard to a period of revolution? -Will you give them simply a calm statement of recorded events, simply -a quiet, unaccentuated narrative of what actually happened, written -in a monotone, and verified by quotations from authentic documents of -the time? You may save yourself the trouble. As well make a pencil -sketch in outline of a raging conflagration; write upon one portion -of it “flame,” upon another “smoke;” here “town hall, where the fire -started,” and there “spot where fireman was killed.” It is a chart, not -a picture. Even if you made a veritable picture of it, you could give -only part of the truth so long as you confined yourself to black and -white. Where would be all the wild and terrible colors of the scene: -the red and tawny flame; the masses of smoke, carrying the dull glare -of the fire to the very skies, like a great signal banner thrown to -the winds; the hot and frightened faces of the crowd; the crimsoned -gables down the street, with the faint light of a lamp here and there -gleaming white from some hastily opened casement? Without the colors -your picture is not true. No inventory of items will even represent -the truth: the fuller and more minute you make your inventory, the -more will the truth be obscured. The little details will take up as -much space in the statement as the great totals into which they are -summed up; and, the proportions being false, the whole is false. Truth, -fortunately, takes its own revenge. No one is deceived. The reader -of the chronicle lays it aside. It lacks verisimilitude. He cannot -realize how any of the things spoken of can have happened. He goes -elsewhere to find, if he may, a real picture of the time, and perhaps -finds one that is wholly fictitious. No wonder the grave and monk-like -chronicler sighs. He of course wrote to be read, and not merely for the -manual exercise of it; and when he sees readers turn away his heart -misgives him for his fellow-men. Is it as it always was, that they do -not wish to know the truth? Alas! good eremite, men do not seek the -truth as they should; but do you know what the truth is? It is a thing -ideal, displayed by the just proportion of events, revealed in form and -color, dumb till facts be set in syllables, articulated into words, -put together into sentences, swung with proper tone and cadence. It is -not revolutions only that have color. Nothing in human life is without -it. In a monochrome you can depict nothing but a single incident; in a -monotone you cannot often carry truth beyond a single sentence. Only by -art in all its variety can you depict as it is the various face of life. - -Yes; but what sort of art? There is here a wide field of choice. Shall -we go back to the art of which Macaulay was so great a master? We could -do worse. It must be a great art that can make men lay aside the novel -and take up the history, to find there, in very fact, the movement and -drama of life. What Macaulay does well he does incomparably. Who else -can mass the details as he does, and yet not mar or obscure, but only -heighten, the effect of the picture as a whole? Who else can bring -so amazing a profusion of knowledge within the strait limits of a -simple plan, nowhere encumbered, everywhere free and obvious in its -movement? How sure the strokes, and how bold and vivid the result! Yet -when we have laid the book aside, when the charm and the excitement -of the telling narrative have worn off, when we have lost step with -the swinging gait at which the style goes, when the details have faded -from our recollection, and we sit removed and thoughtful, with only the -greater outlines of the story sharp upon our minds, a deep misgiving -and dissatisfaction take possession of us. We are no longer young, and -we are chagrined that we should have been so pleased and taken with the -glitter and color and mere life of the picture. Let boys be cajoled by -rhetoric, we cry; men must look deeper. What of the judgment of this -facile and eloquent man? Can we agree with him, when he is not talking -and the charm is gone? What shall we say of his assessment of men and -measures? Is he just? Is he himself in possession of the whole truth? -Does he open the matter to us as it was? Does he not, rather, ride us -like an advocate, and make himself master of our judgments? - -Then it is that we become aware that there were two Macaulays: Macaulay -the artist, with an exquisite gift for telling a story, filling his -pages with little vignettes it is impossible to forget, fixing these -with an inimitable art upon the surface of a narrative that did not -need the ornament they gave it, so strong and large and adequate was -it; and Macaulay the Whig, subtly turning narrative into argument, and -making history the vindication of a party. The mighty narrative is a -great engine of proof. It is not told for its own sake. It is evidence -summed up in order to justify a judgment. We detect the tone of the -advocate, and though if we are just we must deem him honest, we cannot -deem him safe. The great story-teller is discredited; and, willingly or -unwillingly, we reject the guide who takes it upon himself to determine -for us what we shall see. That, we feel sure, cannot be true which -makes of so complex a history so simple a thesis for the judgment. -There is art here; but it is the art of special pleading, misleading -even to the pleader. - -If not Macaulay, what master shall we follow? Shall our historian not -have his convictions, and enforce them? Shall he not be our guide, and -speak, if he can, to our spirits as well as to our understandings? -Readers are a poor jury. They need enlightenment as well as -information; the matter must be interpreted to them as well as related. -There are moral facts as well as material, and the one sort must be as -plainly told as the other. Of what service is it that the historian -should have insight if we are not to know how the matter stands in his -view? If he refrain from judgment, he may deceive us as much as he -would were his judgment wrong; for we must have enlightenment,--that -is his function. We would not set him up merely to tell us tales, but -also to display to us characters, to open to us the moral and intent of -the matter. Were the men sincere? Was the policy righteous? We have but -just now seen that the “facts” lie deeper than the mere visible things -that took place, that they involve the moral and motive of the play. -Shall not these, too, be brought to light? - -Unquestionably every sentence of true history must hold a judgment -in solution. All cannot be told. If it were possible to tell all, it -would take as long to write history as to enact it, and we should have -to postpone the reading of it to the leisure of the next world. A few -facts must be selected for the narrative, the great majority left -unnoted. But the selection--for what purpose it is to be made? For the -purpose of conveying _an impression_ of the truth. Where shall you -find a more radical process of judgment? The “essential” facts taken, -the “unessential” left out! Why, you may make the picture what you -will, and in any case it must be the express image of the historian’s -fundamental judgments. It is his purpose, or should be, to give a -true impression of his theme as a whole,--to show it, not lying upon -his page in an open and dispersed analysis, but set close in intimate -synthesis, every line, every stroke, every bulk even, omitted which -does not enter of very necessity into a single and unified image of the -truth. - -It is in this that the writing of history differs, and differs very -radically, from the statement of the results of original research. The -writing of history must be based upon original research and authentic -record, but it can no more be directly constructed by the piecing -together of bits of original research than by the mere reprinting -together of state documents. Individual research furnishes us, as it -were, with the private documents and intimate records without which the -public archives are incomplete and unintelligible. But by themselves -these are wholly out of perspective. It is the consolation of those -who produce them to make them so. They would lose heart were they -forbidden to regard all facts as of equal importance. It is facts they -are after, and only facts,--facts for their own sake, and without -regard to their several importance. These are their ore,--very precious -ore,--which they are concerned to get out, not to refine. They have -no direct concern with what may afterwards be done at the mint or in -the goldsmith’s shop. They will even boast that they care not for the -beauty of the ore, and are indifferent how, or in what shape, it may -become an article of commerce. Much of it is thrown away in the nice -processes of manufacture, and you shall not distinguish the product of -the several mines in the coin, or the cup, or the salver. - -The historian must, indeed, himself be an investigator. He must know -good ore from bad; must distinguish fineness, quality, genuineness; -must stop to get out of the records for himself what he lacks for the -perfection of his work. But for all that, he must know and stand ready -to do every part of his task like a master workman, recognizing and -testing every bit of stuff he uses. Standing sure, a man of science as -well as an artist, he must take and use all of his equipment for the -sake of his art,--not to display his materials, but to subordinate and -transform them in his effort to make, by every touch and cunning of -hand and tool, the perfect image of what he sees, the very truth of his -seer’s vision of the world. The true historian works always for the -whole impression, the truth with unmarred proportions, unexaggerated -parts, undistorted visage. He has no favorite parts of the story which -he boasts are bits of his own, but loves only the whole of it, the full -and unspoiled image of the day of which he writes, the crowded and -yet consistent details which carry, without obtrusion of themselves, -the large features of the time. Any exaggeration of the parts makes -all the picture false, and the work is to do over. “Test every bit of -material,” runs the artist’s rule, “and then forget the material;” -forget its origin and the dross from which it has been freed, and think -only and always of the great thing you would make of it, the pattern -and form in which you would lose and merge it. That is its only high -use. - -’Tis a pity to see how even the greatest minds will often lack the -broad and catholic vision with which the just historian must look upon -men and affairs. There is Carlyle, with his shrewd and seeing eye, -his unmatched capacity to assess strong men and set the scenery for -tragedy or intrigue, his breathless ardor for great events, his amazing -flashes of insight, and his unlooked-for steady light of occasional -narrative. The whole matter of what he writes is too dramatic. Surely -history was not all enacted so hotly, or with so passionate a rush of -men upon the stage. Its quiet scenes must have been longer, not mere -pauses and interludes while the tragic parts were being made up. There -is not often ordinary sunlight upon the page. The lights burn now wan, -now lurid. Men are seen disquieted and turbulent, and may be heard in -husky cries or rude, untimely jests. We do not recognize our own world, -but seem to see another such as ours might become if peopled by like -uneasy Titans. Incomparable to tell of days of storm and revolution, -speaking like an oracle and familiar of destiny and fate, searching the -hearts of statesmen and conquerors with an easy insight in every day of -action, this peasant seer cannot give us the note of piping times of -peace, or catch the tone of slow industry; watches ships come and go at -the docks, hears freight-vans thunder along the iron highways of the -modern world, and loaded trucks lumber heavily through the crowded city -streets, with a hot disdain of commerce, prices current, the haggling -of the market, the smug ease of material comfort bred in a trading -age. There is here no broad and catholic vision, no wise tolerance, no -various power to know, to sympathize, to interpret. The great seeing -imagination of the man lacks that pure radiance in which things are -seen steadily and seen whole. - -It is not easy, to say truth, to find actual examples when you are -constructing the ideal historian, the man with the vision and the -faculty divine to see affairs justly and tell of them completely. If -you are not satisfied with this passionate and intolerant seer of -Chelsea, whom will you choose? Shall it be Gibbon, whom all praise, -but so few read? He, at any rate, is passionless, it would appear. But -who could write epochal history with passion? All hot humors of the -mind must, assuredly, cool when spread at large upon so vast a surface. -One must feel like a sort of minor providence in traversing that great -tract of world history, and catch in spite of one’s self the gait and -manner of a god. This stately procession of generations moves on remote -from the ordinary levels of our human sympathy. ’Tis a wide view of -nations and peoples and dynasties, and a world shaken by the travail of -new births. There is here no scale by which to measure the historian -of the sort we must look to see handle the ordinary matter of national -history. The “Decline and Fall” stands impersonal, like a monument. We -shall reverence it, but we shall not imitate it. - -If we look away from Gibbon, exclude Carlyle, and question Macaulay; -if we put the investigators on one side as not yet historians, and -the deliberately picturesque and entertaining _raconteurs_ as not yet -investigators, we naturally turn, I suppose, to such a man as John -Richard Green, at once the patient scholar,--who shall adequately say -how nobly patient?--and the rare artist, working so like a master in -the difficult stuffs of a long national history. The very life of the -man is as beautiful as the moving sentences he wrote with so subtle -a music in the cadence. We know whence the fine moral elevation of -tone came that sounds through all the text of his great narrative. -True, not everybody is satisfied with our _doctor angelicus_. Some -doubt he is too ornate. Others are troubled that he should sometimes -be inaccurate. Some are willing to use his history as a manual; while -others cannot deem him satisfactory for didactic uses, hesitate -how they shall characterize him, and quit the matter vaguely with -saying that what he wrote is “at any rate literature.” Can there be -something lacking in Green, too, notwithstanding he was impartial, and -looked with purged and open eyes upon the whole unbroken life of his -people,--notwithstanding he saw the truth and had the art and mastery -to make others see it as he did, in all its breadth and multiplicity? - -Perhaps even this great master of narrative lacks variety--as who does -not? His method, whatever the topic, is ever the same. His sentences, -his paragraphs, his chapters are pitched one and all in the same key. -It is a very fine and moving key. Many an elevated strain and rich -harmony commend it alike to the ear and to the imagination. It is -employed with an easy mastery, and is made to serve to admiration a -wide range of themes. But it is always the same key, and some themes it -will not serve. An infinite variety plays through all history. Every -scene has its own air and singularity. Incidents cannot all be rightly -set in the narrative if all be set alike. As the scene shifts, the tone -of the narrative must change: the narrator’s choice of incident and his -choice of words; the speed and method of his sentence; his own thought, -even, and point of view. Surely his battle pages must resound with the -tramp of armies and the fearful din and rush of war. In peace he must -catch by turns the hum of industry, the bustle of the street, the calm -of the country-side, the tone of parliamentary debate, the fancy, the -ardor, the argument of poets and seers and quiet students. Snatches of -song run along with sober purpose and strenuous endeavor through every -nation’s story. Coarse men and refined, mobs and ordered assemblies, -science and mad impulse, storm and calm, are all alike ingredients of -the various life. It is not all epic. There is rough comedy and brutal -violence. The drama can scarce be given any strict, unbroken harmony -of incident, any close logical sequence of act or nice unity of scene. -To pitch it all in one key, therefore, is to mistake the significance -of the infinite play of varied circumstance that makes up the yearly -movement of a people’s life. - -It would be less than just to say that Green’s pages do not reveal -the variety of English life the centuries through. It is his glory, -indeed, as all the world knows, to have broadened and diversified the -whole scale of English history. Nowhere else within the compass of -a single book can one find so many sides of the great English story -displayed with so deep and just an appreciation of them all, or of the -part of each in making up the whole. Green is the one man among English -historians who has restored the great fabric of the nation’s history -where its architecture was obscure, and its details were likely to be -lost or forgotten. Once more, because of him, the vast Gothic structure -stands complete, its majesty and firm grace enhanced at every point by -the fine tracery of its restored details. - -Where so much is done, it is no doubt unreasonable to ask for more. But -the very architectural symmetry of this great book imposes a limitation -upon it. It is full of a certain sort of variety; but it is only the -variety of a great plan’s detail, not the variety of English life. The -noble structure obeys its own laws rather than the laws of a people’s -fortunes. It is a monument conceived and reared by a consummate -artist, and it wears upon its every line some part of the image it was -meant to bear, of a great, complex, aspiring national existence. But, -though it symbolizes, it does not contain that life. It has none of -the irregularity of the actual experiences of men and communities. It -explains, but it does not contain, their variety. The history of every -nation has certainly a plan which the historian must see and reproduce; -but he must reconstruct the people’s life, not merely expound it. The -scope of his method must be as great as the variety of his subject; it -must change with each change of mood, respond to each varying impulse -in the great process of events. No rigor of a stately style must be -suffered to exclude the lively touches of humor or the rude sallies of -strength that mark it everywhere. The plan of the telling must answer -to the plan of the fact,--must be as elastic as the topics are mobile. -The matter should rule the plan, not the plan the matter. - -The ideal is infinitely difficult, if, indeed, it be possible to any -man not Shakespearean; but the difficulty of attaining it is often -unnecessarily enhanced. Ordinarily the historian’s preparation for -his task is such as to make it unlikely he will perform it naturally. -He goes first, with infinite and admirable labor, through all the -labyrinth of document and detail that lies up and down his subject; -collects masses of matter great and small, for substance, verification, -illustration; piles his notes volumes high; reads far and wide upon -the tracks of his matter, and makes page upon page of references; and -then, thoroughly stuffed and sophisticated, turns back and begins his -narrative. ’Tis impossible then that he should begin naturally. He sees -the end from the beginning, and all the intermediate way from beginning -to end; he has made up his mind about too many things; uses his details -with a too free and familiar mastery, not like one who tells a story -so much as like one who dissects a cadaver. Having swept his details -together beforehand, like so much scientific material, he discourses -upon them like a demonstrator,--thinks too little in subjection to -them. They no longer make a fresh impression upon him. They are his -tools, not his objects of vision. - -It is not by such a process that a narrative is made vital and true. -It does not do to lose the point of view of the first listener to -the tale, or to rearrange the matter too much out of the order of -nature. You must instruct your reader as the events themselves would -have instructed him, had he been able to note them as they passed. The -historian must not lose his own fresh view of the scene as it passed -and changed more and more from year to year and from age to age. He -must keep with the generation of which he writes, not be too quick to -be wiser than they were or look back upon them in his narrative with -head over shoulder. He must write of them always in the atmosphere they -themselves breathed, not hastening to judge them, but striving only to -realize them at every turn of the story, to make their thoughts his -own, and call their lives back again, rebuilding the very stage upon -which they played their parts. Bring the end of your story to mind -while you set about telling its beginning, and it seems to have no -parts: beginning, middle, end, are all as one,--are merely like parts -of a pattern which you see as a single thing stamped upon the stuff -under your hand. - -Try the method with the history of our own land and people. How -will you begin? Will you start with a modern map and a careful -topographical description of the continent? And then, having made -your nineteenth-century framework for the narrative, will you ask -your reader to turn back and see the seventeenth century, and those -lonely ships coming in at the capes of the Chesapeake? He will never -see them so long as you compel him to stand here at the end of the -nineteenth century and look at them as if through a long retrospect. -The attention both of the narrator and of the reader, if history is -to be seen aright, must look forward, not backward. It must see with -a contemporaneous eye. Let the historian, if he be wise, know no more -of the history as he writes than might have been known in the age and -day of which he is writing. A trifle too much knowledge will undo him. -It will break the spell for his imagination. It will spoil the magic -by which he may raise again the image of days that are gone. He must -of course know the large lines of his story; it must lie as a whole -in his mind. His very art demands that, in order that he may know and -keep its proportions. But the details, the passing incidents of day and -year, must come fresh into his mind, unreasoned upon as yet, untouched -by theory, with their first look upon them. It is here that original -documents and fresh research will serve him. He must look far and wide -upon every detail of the time, see it at first hand, and paint as he -looks; selecting, as the artist must, but selecting while the vision -is fresh, and not from old sketches laid away in his notes,--selecting -from the life itself. - -Let him remember that his task is radically different from the task of -the investigator. The investigator must display his materials, but the -historian must convey his impressions. He must stand in the presence -of life, and reproduce it in his narrative; must recover a past age; -make dead generations live again and breathe their own air; show them -native and at home upon his page. To do this, his own impressions must -be as fresh as those of an unlearned reader, his own curiosity as keen -and young at every stage. It may easily be so as his reading thickens, -and the atmosphere of the age comes stealthily into his thought, if -only he take care to push forward the actual writing of his narrative -at an equal pace with his reading, painting thus always direct from -the image itself. His knowledge of the great outlines and bulks of the -picture will be his sufficient guide and restraint the while, will give -proportion to the individual strokes of his work. But it will not check -his zest, or sophisticate his fresh recovery of the life that is in the -crowding colors of the canvas. - -A nineteenth-century plan laid like a standard and measure upon a -seventeenth-century narrative will infallibly twist it and make it -false. Lay a modern map before the first settlers at Jamestown and -Plymouth, and then bid them discover and occupy the continent. With how -superior a nineteenth-century wonder and pity will you see them grope, -and stumble, and falter! How like children they will seem to you, and -how simple their age, and ignorant! As stalwart men as you they were -in fact; mayhap wiser and braver too; as fit to occupy a continent as -you are to draw it upon paper. If you would know them, go back to their -age; breed yourself a pioneer and woodsman; look to find the South Sea -up the nearest northwest branch of the spreading river at your feet; -discover and occupy the wilderness with them; dream what may be beyond -the near hills, and long all day to see a sail upon the silent sea; go -back to them and see them in their habit as they lived. - -The picturesque writers of history have all along been right in -theory: they have been wrong only in practice. It is a picture of the -past we want--its express image and feature; but we want the true -picture and not simply the theatrical matter,--the manner of Rembrandt -rather than of Rubens. All life may be pictured, but not all of -life is picturesque. No great, no true historian would put false or -adventitious colors into his narrative, or let a glamour rest where in -fact it never was. The writers who select an incident merely because -it is striking or dramatic are shallow fellows. They see only with the -eye’s retina, not with that deep vision whose images lie where thought -and reason sit. The real drama of life is disclosed only with the whole -picture; and that only the deep and fervid student will see, whose mind -goes daily fresh to the details, whose narrative runs always in the -authentic colors of nature, whose art it is to see, and to paint what -he sees. - -It is thus and only thus we shall have the truth of the matter: by -art,--by the most difficult of all arts; by fresh study and first-hand -vision; at the mouths of men who stand in the midst of old letters and -dusty documents and neglected records, not like antiquarians, but like -those who see a distant country and a far-away people before their very -eyes, as real, as full of life and hope and incident, as the day in -which they themselves live. Let us have done with humbug and come to -plain speech. The historian needs an imagination quite as much as he -needs scholarship, and consummate literary art as much as candor and -common honesty. Histories are written in order that the bulk of men may -read and realize; and it is as bad to bungle the telling of the story -as to lie, as fatal to lack a vocabulary as to lack knowledge. In no -case can you do more than convey an impression, so various and complex -is the matter. If you convey a false impression, what difference -does it make how you convey it? In the whole process there is a nice -adjustment of means to ends which only the artist can manage. There -is an art of lying;--there is equally an art,--an infinitely more -difficult art,--of telling the truth. - - - - -VII. - -A CALENDAR OF GREAT AMERICANS. - - -Before a calendar of great Americans can be made out, a valid canon -of Americanism must first be established. Not every great man born -and bred in America was a great “American.” Some of the notable men -born among us were simply great Englishmen; others had in all the -habits of their thought and life the strong flavor of a peculiar -region, and were great New Englanders or great Southerners; others, -masters in the fields of science or of pure thought, showed nothing -either distinctively national or characteristically provincial, and -were simply great men; while a few displayed odd cross-strains of -blood or breeding. The great Englishmen bred in America, like Hamilton -and Madison; the great provincials, like John Adams and Calhoun; the -authors of such thought as might have been native to any clime, like -Asa Gray and Emerson; and the men of mixed breed, like Jefferson and -Benton,--must be excluded from our present list. We must pick out men -who have created or exemplified a distinctively American standard and -type of greatness. - -To make such a selection is not to create an artificial standard of -greatness, or to claim that greatness is in any case hallowed or -exalted merely because it is American. It is simply to recognize a -peculiar stamp of character, a special make-up of mind and faculties, -as the specific product of our national life, not displacing or -eclipsing talents of a different kind, but supplementing them, and -so adding to the world’s variety. There is an American type of man, -and those who have exhibited this type with a certain unmistakable -distinction and perfection have been great “Americans.” It has required -the utmost variety of character and energy to establish a great nation, -with a polity at once free and firm, upon this continent, and no sound -type of manliness could have been dispensed with in the effort. We -could no more have done without our great Englishmen, to keep the past -steadily in mind and make every change conservative of principle, than -we could have done without the men whose whole impulse was forward, -whose whole genius was for origination, natural masters of the art of -subduing a wilderness. - -Certainly one of the greatest figures in our history is the figure of -Alexander Hamilton. American historians, though compelled always to -admire him, often in spite of themselves, have been inclined, like the -mass of men in his own day, to look at him askance. They hint, when -they do not plainly say, that he was not “American.” He rejected, if -he did not despise, democratic principles; advocated a government as -strong, almost, as a monarchy; and defended the government which was -actually set up, like the skilled advocate he was, only because it was -the strongest that could be had under the circumstances. He believed -in authority, and he had no faith in the aggregate wisdom of masses of -men. He had, it is true, that deep and passionate love of liberty, and -that steadfast purpose in the maintenance of it, that mark the best -Englishmen everywhere; but his ideas of government stuck fast in the -old-world politics, and his statesmanship was of Europe rather than of -America. And yet the genius and the steadfast spirit of this man were -absolutely indispensable to us. No one less masterful, no one less -resolute than he to drill the minority, if necessary, to have their way -against the majority, could have done the great work of organization by -which he established the national credit, and with the national credit -the national government itself. A pliant, popular, optimistic man would -have failed utterly in the task. A great radical mind in his place -would have brought disaster upon us: only a great conservative genius -could have succeeded. It is safe to say that, without men of Hamilton’s -cast of mind, building the past into the future with a deep passion -for order and old wisdom, our national life would have miscarried at -the very first. This tried English talent for conservation gave to our -fibre at the very outset the stiffness of maturity. - -James Madison, too, we may be said to have inherited. His invaluable -gifts of counsel were of the sort so happily imparted to us with our -English blood at the first planting of the States which formed the -Union. A grave and prudent man, and yet brave withal when new counsel -was to be taken, he stands at the beginning of our national history, -even in his young manhood, as he faced and led the constitutional -convention, a type of the slow and thoughtful English genius for -affairs. He held old and tested convictions of the uses of liberty; -he was competently read in the history of government; processes of -revolution were in his thought no more than processes of adaptation: -exigencies were to be met by modification, not by experiment. His -reasonable spirit runs through all the proceedings of the great -convention that gave us the Constitution, and that noble instrument -seems the product of character like his. For all it is so American -in its content, it is in its method a thoroughly English production, -so full is it of old principles, so conservative of experience, so -carefully compounded of compromises, of concessions made and accepted. -Such men are of a stock so fine as to need no titles to make it noble, -and yet so old and so distinguished as actually to bear the chief -titles of English liberty. Madison came of the long line of English -constitutional statesmen. - -There is a type of genius which closely approaches this in character, -but which is, nevertheless, distinctively American. It is to be seen -in John Marshall and in Daniel Webster. In these men a new set of -ideas find expression, ideas which all the world has received as -American. Webster was not an English but an American constitutional -statesman. For the English statesman constitutional issues are issues -of policy rather than issues of law. He constantly handles questions -of change: his constitution is always a-making. He must at every -turn construct, and he is deemed conservative if only his rule be -consistency and continuity with the past. He will search diligently -for precedent, but he is content if the precedent contain only a germ -of the policy he proposes. His standards are set him, not by law, but -by opinion: his constitution is an ideal of cautious and orderly -change. Its fixed element is the conception of political liberty: a -conception which, though steeped in history, must ever be added to -and altered by social change. The American constitutional statesman, -on the contrary, constructs policies like a lawyer. The standard with -which he must square his conduct is set him by a document upon whose -definite sentences the whole structure of the government directly -rests. That document, moreover, is the concrete embodiment of a -peculiar theory of government. That theory is, that definitive laws, -selected by a power outside the government, are the structural iron -of the entire fabric of politics, and that nothing which cannot be -constructed upon this stiff framework is a safe or legitimate part of -policy. Law is, in his conception, creative of states, and they live -only by such permissions as they can extract from it. The functions -of the judge and the functions of the man of affairs have, therefore, -been very closely related in our history, and John Marshall, scarcely -less than Daniel Webster, was a constitutional statesman. With all -Madison’s conservative temper and wide-eyed prudence in counsel, the -subject-matter of thought for both of these men was not English liberty -or the experience of men everywhere in self-government, but the -meaning stored up in the explicit sentences of a written fundamental -law. They taught men the new--the American--art of extracting life -out of the letter, not of statutes merely (that art was not new), but -of statute-built institutions and documented governments: the art of -saturating politics with law without grossly discoloring law with -politics. Other nations have had written constitutions, but no other -nation has ever filled a written constitution with this singularly -compounded content, of a sound legal conscience and a strong national -purpose. It would have been easy to deal with our Constitution like -subtle dialecticians; but Webster and Marshall did much more and -much better than that. They viewed the fundamental law as a great -organic product, a vehicle of life as well as a charter of authority; -in disclosing its life they did not damage its tissue; and in thus -expanding the law without impairing its structure or authority they -made great contributions alike to statesmanship and to jurisprudence. -Our notable literature of decision and commentary in the field of -constitutional law is America’s distinctive gift to the history and -the science of law. John Marshall wrought out much of its substance; -Webster diffused its great body of principles throughout national -policy, mediating between the law and affairs. The figures of the two -men must hold the eye of the world as the figures of two great national -representatives, as the figures of two great Americans. - -The representative national greatness and function of these men appear -more clearly still when they are contrasted with men like John Adams -and John C. Calhoun, whose greatness was not national. John Adams -represented one element of our national character, and represented it -nobly, with a singular force and greatness. He was an eminent Puritan -statesman, and the Puritan ingredient has colored all our national -life. We have got strength and persistency and some part of our steady -moral purpose from it. But in the quick growth and exuberant expansion -of the nation it has been only one element among many. The Puritan -blood has mixed with many another strain. The stiff Puritan character -has been mellowed by many a transfusion of gentler and more hopeful -elements. So soon as the Adams fashion of man became more narrow, -intense, acidulous, intractable, according to the tendencies of its -nature, in the person of John Quincy Adams, it lost the sympathy, lost -even the tolerance, of the country, and the national choice took its -reckless leap from a Puritan President to Andrew Jackson, a man cast -in the rough original pattern of American life at the heart of the -continent. John Adams had not himself been a very acceptable President. -He had none of the national optimism, and could not understand those -who did have it. He had none of the characteristic adaptability of the -delocalized American, and was just a bit ridiculous in his stiffness at -the Court of St. James, for all he was so honorable and so imposing. -His type,--be it said without disrespect,--was provincial. Unmistakably -a great man, his greatness was of the commonwealth, not of the empire. - -Calhoun, too, was a great provincial. Although a giant, he had no heart -to use his great strength for national purposes. In his youth, it is -true, he did catch some of the generous ardor for national enterprise -which filled the air in his day; and all his life through, with a truly -pathetic earnestness, he retained his affection for his first ideal. -But when the rights and interests of his section were made to appear -incompatible with a liberal and boldly constructive interpretation of -the Constitution, he fell out of national counsels and devoted all the -strength of his extraordinary mind to holding the nation’s thought and -power back within the strait limits of a literal construction of the -law. In powers of reasoning his mind deserves to rank with Webster’s -and Marshall’s: he handled questions of law like a master, as they did. -He had, moreover, a keen insight into the essential principles and -character of liberty. His thought moved eloquently along some of the -oldest and safest lines of English thought in the field of government. -He made substantive contributions to the permanent philosophy of -politics. His reasoning has been discredited, not so much because it -was not theoretically sound within its limits, as because its practical -outcome was a negation which embarrassed the whole movement of national -affairs. He would have held the nation still, in an old equipoise, -at one time normal enough, but impossible to maintain. Webster and -Marshall gave leave to the energy of change inherent in all the -national life, making law a rule, but not an interdict; a living guide, -but not a blind and rigid discipline. Calhoun sought to fix law as a -barrier across the path of policy, commanding the life of the nation -to stand still. The strength displayed in the effort, the intellectual -power and address, abundantly entitle him to be called great; but his -purpose was not national. It regarded only a section of the country, -and marked him,--again be it said with all respect,--a great provincial. - -Jefferson was not a thorough American because of the strain of French -philosophy that permeated and weakened all his thought. Benton was -altogether American so far as the natural strain of his blood was -concerned, but he had encumbered his natural parts and inclinations -with a mass of undigested and shapeless learning. Bred in the West, -where everything was new, he had filled his head with the thought -of books (evidently very poor books) which exhibited the ideals of -communities in which everything was old. He thought of the Roman Senate -when he sat in the Senate of the United States. He paraded classical -figures whenever he spoke, upon a stage where both their costume and -their action seemed grotesque. A pedantic frontiersman, he was a living -and a pompous antinomy. Meant by nature to be an American, he spoiled -the plan by applying a most unsuitable gloss of shallow and irrelevant -learning. Jefferson was of course an almost immeasurably greater man -than Benton, but he was un-American in somewhat the same way. He -brought a foreign product of thought to a market where no natural or -wholesome demand for it could exist. There were not two incompatible -parts in him, as in Benton’s case: he was a philosophical radical by -nature as well as by acquirement; his reading and his temperament went -suitably together. The man is homogeneous throughout. The American -shows in him very plainly, too, notwithstanding the strong and inherent -dash of what was foreign in his make-up. He was a natural leader and -manager of men, not because he was imperative or masterful, but because -of a native shrewdness, tact, and sagacity, an inborn art and aptness -for combination, such as no Frenchman ever displayed in the management -of common men. Jefferson had just a touch of rusticity about him, -besides; and it was not pretense on his part or merely a love of power -that made him democratic. His indiscriminate hospitality, his almost -passionate love for the simple equality of country life, his steady -devotion to what he deemed to be the cause of the people, all mark him -a genuine democrat, a nature native to America. It is his speculative -philosophy that is exotic, and that runs like a false and artificial -note through all his thought. It was un-American in being abstract, -sentimental, rationalistic, rather than practical. That he held it -sincerely need not be doubted; but the more sincerely he accepted it so -much the more thoroughly was he un-American. His writings lack hard and -practical sense. Liberty, among us, is not a sentiment, but a product -of experience; its derivation is not rationalistic, but practical. -It is a hard-headed spirit of independence, not the conclusion of a -syllogism. The very aërated quality of Jefferson’s principles gives -them an air of insincerity, which attaches to them rather because they -do not suit the climate of the country and the practical aspect of -affairs than because they do not suit the character of Jefferson’s mind -and the atmosphere of abstract philosophy. It is because both they and -the philosophical system of which they form a part do seem suitable to -his mind and character, that we must pronounce him, though a great man, -not a great American. - -It is by the frank consideration of such concrete cases that we -may construct, both negatively and affirmatively, our canons of -Americanism. The American spirit is something more than the old, the -immemorial Saxon spirit of liberty from which it sprung. It has been -bred by the conditions attending the great task which we have all the -century been carrying forward: the task, at once material and ideal, -of subduing a wilderness and covering all the wide stretches of a vast -continent with a single free and stable polity. It is, accordingly, -above all things, a hopeful and confident spirit. It is progressive, -optimistically progressive, and ambitious of objects of national -scope and advantage. It is unpedantic, unprovincial, unspeculative, -unfastidious; regardful of law, but as using it, not as being used -by it or dominated by any formalism whatever; in a sense unrefined, -because full of rude force; but prompted by large and generous motives, -and often as tolerant as it is resolute. No one man, unless it be -Lincoln, has ever proved big or various enough to embody this active -and full-hearted spirit in all its qualities; and the men who have been -too narrow or too speculative or too pedantic to represent it have, -nevertheless, added to the strong and stirring variety of our national -life, making it fuller and richer in motive and energy; but its several -aspects are none the less noteworthy as they separately appear in -different men. - -One of the first men to exhibit this American spirit with an -unmistakable touch of greatness and distinction was Benjamin Franklin. -It was characteristic of America that this self-made man should become -a philosopher, a founder of philosophical societies, an authoritative -man of science; that his philosophy of life should be so homely and so -practical in its maxims, and uttered with so shrewd a wit; that one -region should be his birthplace and another his home; that he should -favor effective political union among the colonies from the first, and -should play a sage and active part in the establishment of national -independence and the planning of a national organization; and that -he should represent his countrymen in diplomacy abroad. They could -have had no spokesman who represented more sides of their character. -Franklin was a sort of multiple American. He was versatile without -lacking solidity; he was a practical statesman without ceasing to be a -sagacious philosopher. He came of the people, and was democratic; but -he had raised himself out of the general mass of unnamed men, and so -stood for the democratic law, not of equality, but of self-selection -in endeavor. One can feel sure that Franklin would have succeeded -in any part of the national life that it might have fallen to his -lot to take part in. He will stand the final and characteristic -test of Americanism: he would unquestionably have made a successful -frontiersman, capable at once of wielding the axe and of administering -justice from the fallen trunk. - -Washington hardly seems an American, as most of his biographers depict -him. He is too colorless, too cold, too prudent. He seems more like -a wise and dispassionate Mr. Alworthy, advising a nation as he would -a parish, than like a man building states and marshaling a nation in -a wilderness. But the real Washington was as thoroughly an American -as Jackson or Lincoln. What we take for lack of passion in him was -but the reserve and self-mastery natural to a man of his class and -breeding in Virginia. He was no parlor politician, either. He had seen -the frontier, and far beyond it where the French forts lay. He knew -the rough life of the country as few other men could. His thoughts -did not live at Mount Vernon. He knew difficulty as intimately and -faced it always with as quiet a mastery as William the Silent. This -calm, straightforward, high-spirited man, making charts of the western -country, noting the natural land and water routes into the heart of -the continent, marking how the French power lay, conceiving the policy -which should dispossess it, and the engineering achievements which -should make the utmost resources of the land our own; counseling -Braddock how to enter the forest, but not deserting him because he -would not take advice; planning step by step, by patient correspondence -with influential men everywhere, the meetings, conferences, common -resolves which were finally to bring the great constitutional -convention together; planning, too, always for the country as well -as for Virginia; and presiding at last over the establishment and -organization of the government of the Union: he certainly--the most -suitable instrument of the national life at every moment of crisis--is -a great American. Those noble words which he uttered amidst the first -doubtings of the constitutional convention might serve as a motto for -the best efforts of liberty wherever free men strive: “Let us raise a -standard to which the wise and honest can repair; the event is in the -hand of God.” - -In Henry Clay we have an American of a most authentic pattern. There -was no man of his generation who represented more of America than -he did. The singular, almost irresistible attraction he had for men -of every class and every temperament came, not from the arts of -the politician, but from the instant sympathy established between -him and every fellow-countryman of his. He does not seem to have -exercised the same fascination upon foreigners. They felt toward him -as some New Englanders did: he seemed to them plausible merely, too -indiscriminately open and cordial to be sincere,--a bit of a charlatan. -No man who really takes the trouble to understand Henry Clay, or who -has quick enough parts to sympathize with him, can deem him false. It -is the odd combination of two different elements in him that makes -him seem irregular and inconstant. His nature was of the West, blown -through with quick winds of ardor and aggression, a bit reckless and -defiant; but his art was of the East, ready with soft and placating -phrases, reminiscent of old and reverenced ideals, thoughtful of -compromise and accommodation. He had all the address of the trained -and sophisticated politician, bred in an old and sensitive society; -but his purposes ran free of cautious restraints, and his real ideals -were those of the somewhat bumptious Americanism which was pushing -the frontier forward in the West, which believed itself capable -of doing anything it might put its hand to, despised conventional -restraints, and followed a vague but resplendent “manifest destiny” -with lusty hurrahs. His purposes were sincere, even if often crude -and uninstructed; it was only because the subtle arts of politics -seemed inconsistent with the direct dash and bold spirit of the man -that they sat upon him like an insincerity. He thoroughly, and by mere -unconscious sympathy, represented the double America of his day, made -up of a West which hurried and gave bold strokes, and of an East which -held back, fearing the pace, thoughtful and mindful of the instructive -past. The one part had to be served without offending the other: and -that was Clay’s mediatorial function. - -Andrew Jackson was altogether of the West. Of his sincerity nobody -has ever had any real doubt; and his Americanism is now at any rate -equally unimpeachable. He was like Clay with the social imagination of -the orator and the art and sophistication of the Eastern politician -left out. He came into our national politics like a cyclone from off -the Western prairies. Americans of the present day perceptibly shudder -at the very recollection of Jackson. He seems to them a great Vandal, -playing fast and loose alike with institutions and with tested and -established policy, debauching politics like a modern spoilsman. -But whether we would accept him as a type of ourselves or not, the -men of his own day accepted him with enthusiasm. He did not need to -be explained to them. They crowded to his standard like men free at -last, after long and tedious restraint, to make their own choice, -follow their own man. There can be no mistaking the spontaneity of the -thoroughgoing support he received. His was the new type of energy and -self-confidence bred by life outside the States that had been colonies. -It was a terrible energy, threatening sheer destruction to many a -carefully wrought arrangement handed on to us from the past; it was -a perilous self-confidence, founded in sheer strength rather than in -wisdom. The government did not pass through the throes of that signal -awakening of the new national spirit without serious rack and damage. -But it was no disease. It was only an incautious, abounding, madcap -strength which proved so dangerous in its readiness for every rash -endeavor. It was necessary that the West should be let into the play: -it was even necessary that she should assert her right to the leading -rôle. It was done without good taste, but that does not condemn it. We -have no doubt refined and schooled the hoyden influences of that crude -time, and they are vastly safer now than then, when they first came -bounding in; but they mightily stirred and enriched our blood from the -first. Now that we have thoroughly suffered this Jackson change and it -is over, we are ready to recognize it as quite as radically American as -anything in all our history. - -Lincoln, nevertheless, rather than Jackson, was the supreme American -of our history. In Clay, East and West were mixed without being fused -or harmonized: he seems like two men. In Jackson there was not even -a mixture; he was all of a piece, and altogether unacceptable to -some parts of the country,--a frontier statesman. But in Lincoln the -elements were combined and harmonized. The most singular thing about -the wonderful career of the man is the way in which he steadily grew -into a national stature. He began an amorphous, unlicked cub, bred -in the rudest of human lairs; but, as he grew, everything formed, -informed, transformed him. The process was slow but unbroken. He was -not fit to be President until he actually became President. He was fit -then because, learning everything as he went, he had found out how much -there was to learn, and had still an infinite capacity for learning. -The quiet voices of sentiment and murmurs of resolution that went -whispering through the land, his ear always caught, when others could -hear nothing but their own words. He never ceased to be a common man: -that was his source of strength. But he was a common man with genius, -a genius for things American, for insight into the common thought, for -mastery of the fundamental things of politics that inhere in human -nature and cast hardly more than their shadows on constitutions; for -the practical niceties of affairs; for judging men and assessing -arguments. Jackson had no social imagination: no unfamiliar community -made any impression on him. His whole fibre stiffened young, and -nothing afterward could modify or even deeply affect it. But Lincoln -was always a-making; he would have died unfinished if the terrible -storms of the war had not stung him to learn in those four years -what no other twenty could have taught him. And, as he stands there -in his complete manhood, at the most perilous helm in Christendom, -what a marvelous composite figure he is! The whole country is summed -up in him: the rude Western strength, tempered with shrewdness and a -broad and humane wit; the Eastern conservatism, regardful of law and -devoted to fixed standards of duty. He even understood the South, as -no other Northern man of his generation did. He respected, because he -comprehended, though he could not hold, its view of the Constitution; -he appreciated the inexorable compulsions of its past in respect of -slavery; he would have secured it once more, and speedily if possible, -in its right to self-government, when the fight was fought out. To the -Eastern politicians he seemed like an accident; but to history he must -seem like a providence. - -Grant was Lincoln’s suitable instrument, a great American general, -the appropriate product of West Point. A Western man, he had no -thought of commonwealths politically separate, and was instinctively -for the Union; a man of the common people, he deemed himself always -an instrument, never a master, and did his work, though ruthlessly, -without malice; a sturdy, hard-willed, taciturn man, a sort of -Lincoln the Silent in thought and spirit. He does not appeal to the -imagination very deeply; there is a sort of common greatness about -him, great gifts combined singularly with a great mediocrity; but such -peculiarities seem to make him all the more American,--national in -spirit, thoroughgoing in method, masterful in purpose. - -And yet it is no contradiction to say that Robert E. Lee also was a -great American. He fought on the opposite side, but he fought in the -same spirit, and for a principle which is in a sense scarcely less -American than the principle of Union. He represented the idea of the -inherent--the essential--separateness of self-government. This was -not the principle of secession: that principle involved the separate -right of the several self-governing units of the federal system to -judge of national questions independently, and as a check upon the -federal government,--to adjudge the very objects of the Union. Lee did -not believe in secession, but he did believe in the local rootage of -all government. This is at the bottom, no doubt, an English idea; but -it has had a characteristic American development. It is the reverse -side of the shield which bears upon its obverse the devices of the -Union, a side too much overlooked and obscured since the war. It -conceives the individual State a community united by the most intimate -associations, the first home and foster-mother of every man born into -the citizenship of the nation. Lee considered himself a member of one -of these great families; he could not conceive of the nation apart from -the State: above all, he could not live in the nation divorced from his -neighbors. His own community should decide his political destiny and -duty. - -This was also the spirit of Patrick Henry and of Sam Houston,--men -much alike in the cardinal principle of their natures. Patrick Henry -resisted the formation of the Union only because he feared to disturb -the local rootage of self-government, to disperse power so widely -that neighbors could not control it. It was not a disloyal or a -separatist spirit, but only a jealous spirit of liberty. Sam Houston, -too, deemed the character a community should give itself so great a -matter that the community, once made, ought itself to judge of the -national associations most conducive to its liberty and progress. -Without liberty of this intensive character there could have been no -vital national liberty; and Sam Houston, Patrick Henry, and Robert E. -Lee are none the less great Americans because they represented only -one cardinal principle of the national life. Self-government has its -intrinsic antinomies as well as its harmonies. - -Among men of letters Lowell is doubtless most typically American, -though Curtis must find an eligible place in the list. Lowell was -self-conscious, though the truest greatness is not; he was a trifle too -“smart,” besides, and there is no “smartness” in great literature. But -both the self-consciousness and the smartness must be admitted to be -American; and Lowell was so versatile, so urbane, of so large a spirit, -and so admirable in the scope of his sympathies, that he must certainly -go on the calendar. - -There need be no fear that we shall be obliged to stop with Lowell in -literature, or with any of the men who have been named in the field -of achievement. We shall not in the future have to take one type -of Americanism at a time. The frontier is gone: it has reached the -Pacific. The country grows rapidly homogeneous. With the same pace it -grows various, and multiform in all its life. The man of the simple or -local type cannot any longer deal in the great manner with any national -problem. The great men of our future must be of the composite type -of greatness: sound-hearted, hopeful, confident of the validity of -liberty, tenacious of the deeper principles of American institutions, -but with the old rashness schooled and sobered, and instinct tempered -by instruction. They must be wise with an adult, not with an -adolescent wisdom. Some day we shall be of one mind, our ideals fixed, -our purposes harmonized, our nationality complete and consentaneous: -then will come our great literature and our greatest men. - - - - -VIII. - -THE COURSE OF AMERICAN HISTORY.[1] - - [1] An address delivered before the New Jersey Historical Society. - - -In the field of history, learning should be deemed to stand among the -people and in the midst of life. Its function there is not one of -pride merely: to make complaisant record of deeds honorably done and -plans nobly executed in the past. It has also a function of guidance: -to build high places whereon to plant the clear and flaming lights of -experience, that they may shine alike upon the roads already traveled -and upon the paths not yet attempted. The historian is also a sort -of prophet. Our memories direct us. They give us knowledge of our -character, alike in its strength and in its weakness: and it is so we -get our standards for endeavor,--our warnings and our gleams of hope. -It is thus we learn what manner of nation we are of, and divine what -manner of people we should be. - -And this is not in national records merely. Local history is the -ultimate substance of national history. There could be no epics were -pastorals not also true,--no patriotism, were there no homes, no -neighbors, no quiet round of civic duty; and I, for my part, do not -wonder that scholarly men have been found not a few who, though they -might have shone upon a larger field, where all eyes would have seen -them win their fame, yet chose to pore all their lives long upon the -blurred and scattered records of a country-side, where there was -nothing but an old church or an ancient village. The history of a -nation is only the history of its villages written large. I only marvel -that these local historians have not seen more in the stories they -have sought to tell. Surely here, in these old hamlets that antedate -the cities, in these little communities that stand apart and yet give -their young life to the nation, is to be found the very authentic stuff -of romance for the mere looking. There is love and courtship and eager -life and high devotion up and down all the lines of every genealogy. -What strength, too, and bold endeavor in the cutting down of forests -to make the clearings; what breath of hope and discovery in scaling -for the first time the nearest mountains; what longings ended or begun -upon the coming in of ships into the harbor; what pride of earth in the -rivalries of the village; what thoughts of heaven in the quiet of the -rural church! What forces of slow and steadfast endeavor there were -in the building of a great city upon the foundations of a hamlet: and -how the plot broadens and thickens and grows dramatic as communities -widen into states! Here, surely, sunk deep in the very fibre of the -stuff, are the colors of the great story of men,--the lively touches of -reality and the striking images of life. - -It must be admitted, I know, that local history can be made deadly dull -in the telling. The men who reconstruct it seem usually to build with -kiln-dried stuff,--as if with a purpose it should last. But that is -not the fault of the subject. National history may be written almost -as ill, if due pains be taken to dry it out. It is a trifle more -difficult: because merely to speak of national affairs is to give hint -of great forces and of movements blown upon by all the airs of the wide -continent. The mere largeness of the scale lends to the narrative a -certain dignity and spirit. But some men will manage to be dull though -they should speak of creation. In writing of local history the thing -is fatally easy. For there is some neighborhood history that lacks any -large significance, which is without horizon or outlook. There are -details in the history of every community which it concerns no man to -know again when once they are past and decently buried in the records: -and these are the very details, no doubt, which it is easiest to find -upon a casual search. It is easier to make out a list of county clerks -than to extract the social history of the county from the records -they have kept,--though it is not so important: and it is easier to -make a catalogue of anything than to say what of life and purpose the -catalogue stands for. This is called collecting facts “for the sake of -the facts themselves;” but if I wished to do aught for the sake of the -facts themselves I think I should serve them better by giving their -true biographies than by merely displaying their faces. - -The right and vital sort of local history is the sort which may be -written with lifted eyes,--the sort which has an horizon and an outlook -upon the world. Sometimes it may happen, indeed, that the annals of a -neighborhood disclose some singular adventure which had its beginning -and its ending there: some unwonted bit of fortune which stands unique -and lonely amidst the myriad transactions of the world of affairs, -and deserves to be told singly and for its own sake. But usually the -significance of local history is, that it is part of a greater whole. A -spot of local history is like an inn upon a highway: it is a stage upon -a far journey: it is a place the national history has passed through. -There mankind has stopped and lodged by the way. Local history is thus -less than national history only as the part is less than the whole. The -whole could not dispense with the part, would not exist without it, -could not be understood unless the part also were understood. Local -history is subordinate to national only in the sense in which each -leaf of a book is subordinate to the volume itself. Upon no single -page will the whole theme of the book be found; but each page holds -a part of the theme. Even were the history of each locality exactly -like the history of every other (which it cannot be), it would deserve -to be written,--if only to corroborate the history of the rest, and -verify it as an authentic part of the record of the race and nation. -The common elements of a nation’s life are the great elements of its -life, the warp and woof of the fabric. They cannot be too much or too -substantially verified and explicated. It is so that history is made -solid and fit for use and wear. - -Our national history, of course, has its own great and spreading -pattern, which can be seen in its full form and completeness only when -the stuff of our national life is laid before us in broad surfaces and -upon an ample scale. But the detail of the pattern, the individual -threads of the great fabric, are to be found only in local history. -There is all the intricate weaving, all the delicate shading, all -the nice refinement of the pattern,--gold thread mixed with fustian, -fine thread laid upon coarse, shade combined with shade. Assuredly -it is this that gives to local history its life and importance. The -idea, moreover, furnishes a nice criterion of interest. The life of -some localities is, obviously, more completely and intimately a part -of the national pattern than the life of other localities, which are -more separate and, as it were, put upon the border of the fabric. To -come at once and very candidly to examples, the local history of the -Middle States,--New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania,--is much more -structurally a part of the characteristic life of the nation as a whole -than is the history of the New England communities or of the several -States and regions of the South. I know that such a heresy will sound -very rank in the ears of some: for I am speaking against accepted -doctrine. But acceptance, be it never so general, does not make a -doctrine true. - -Our national history has been written for the most part by New England -men. All honor to them! Their scholarship and their characters alike -have given them an honorable enrollment amongst the great names of our -literary history; and no just man would say aught to detract, were it -never so little, from their well-earned fame. They have written our -history, nevertheless, from but a single point of view. From where they -sit, the whole of the great development looks like an Expansion of New -England. Other elements but play along the sides of the great process -by which the Puritan has worked out the development of nation and -polity. It is he who has gone out and possessed the land: the man of -destiny, the type and impersonation of a chosen people. To the Southern -writer, too, the story looks much the same, if it be but followed to -its culmination,--to its final storm and stress and tragedy in the -great war. It is the history of the Suppression of the South. Spite of -all her splendid contributions to the steadfast accomplishment of the -great task of building the nation; spite of the long leadership of her -statesmen in the national counsels; spite of her joint achievements in -the conquest and occupation of the West, the South was at last turned -upon on every hand, rebuked, proscribed, defeated. The history of the -United States, we have learned, was, from the settlement at Jamestown -to the surrender at Appomattox, a long-drawn contest for mastery -between New England and the South,--and the end of the contest we -know. All along the parallels of latitude ran the rivalry, in those -heroical days of toil and adventure during which population crossed -the continent, like an army advancing its encampments. Up and down the -great river of the continent, too, and beyond, up the slow incline of -the vast steppes that lift themselves toward the crowning towers of the -Rockies,--beyond that, again, in the gold-fields and upon the green -plains of California, the race for ascendency struggled on,--till at -length there was a final coming face to face, and the masterful folk -who had come from the loins of New England won their consummate victory. - -It is a very dramatic form for the story. One almost wishes it were -true. How fine a unity it would give our epic! But perhaps, after all, -the real truth is more interesting. The life of the nation cannot -be reduced to these so simple terms. These two great forces, of the -North and of the South, unquestionably existed,--were unquestionably -projected in their operation out upon the great plane of the continent, -there to combine or repel, as circumstances might determine. But -the people that went out from the North were not an unmixed people; -they came from the great Middle States as well as from New England. -Their transplantation into the West was no more a reproduction of New -England or New York or Pennsylvania or New Jersey than Massachusetts -was a reproduction of old England, or New Netherland a reproduction -of Holland. The Southern people, too, whom they met by the western -rivers and upon the open prairies, were transformed, as they themselves -were, by the rough fortunes of the frontier. A mixture of peoples, -a modification of mind and habit, a new round of experiment and -adjustment amidst the novel life of the baked and unfilled plain, and -the far valleys with the virgin forests still thick upon them: a new -temper, a new spirit of adventure, a new impatience of restraint, a new -license of life,--these are the characteristic notes and measures of -the time when the nation spread itself at large upon the continent, and -was transformed from a group of colonies into a family of States. - -The passes of these eastern mountains were the arteries of the -nation’s life. The real breath of our growth and manhood came into our -nostrils when first, like Governor Spotswood and that gallant company -of Virginian gentlemen that rode with him in the far year 1716, the -Knights of the Order of the Golden Horseshoe, our pioneers stood upon -the ridges of the eastern hills and looked down upon those reaches of -the continent where lay the untrodden paths of the westward migration. -There, upon the courses of the distant rivers that gleamed before them -in the sun, down the farther slopes of the hills beyond, out upon the -broad fields that lay upon the fertile banks of the “Father of Waters,” -up the long tilt of the continent to the vast hills that looked out -upon the Pacific--there were the regions in which, joining with people -from every race and clime under the sun, they were to make the great -compounded nation whose liberty and mighty works of peace were to -cause all the world to stand at gaze. Thither were to come Frenchmen, -Scandinavians, Celts, Dutch, Slavs,--men of the Latin races and of the -races of the Orient, as well as men, a great host, of the first stock -of the settlements: English, Scots, Scots-Irish,--like New England men, -but touched with the salt of humor, hard, and yet neighborly too. For -this great process of growth by grafting, of modification no less than -of expansion, the colonies,--the original thirteen States,--were only -preliminary studies and first experiments. But the experiments that -most resembled the great methods by which we peopled the continent -from side to side and knit a single polity across all its length and -breadth, were surely the experiments made from the very first in the -Middle States of our Atlantic seaboard. - -Here from the first were mixture of population, variety of element, -combination of type, as if of the nation itself in small. Here was -never a simple body, a people of but a single blood and extraction, a -polity and a practice brought straight from one motherland. The life of -these States was from the beginning like the life of the country: they -have always shown the national pattern. In New England and the South it -was very different. There some of the great elements of the national -life were long in preparation: but separately and with an individual -distinction; without mixture,--for long almost without movement. That -the elements thus separately prepared were of the greatest importance, -and run everywhere like chief threads of the pattern through all our -subsequent life, who can doubt? They give color and tone to every part -of the figure. The very fact that they are so distinct and separately -evident throughout, the very emphasis of individuality they carry with -them, but proves their distinct origin. The other elements of our life, -various though they be, and of the very fibre, giving toughness and -consistency to the fabric, are merged in its texture, united, confused, -almost indistinguishable, so thoroughly are they mixed, intertwined, -interwoven, like the essential strands of the stuff itself: but these -of the Puritan and the Southerner, though they run everywhere with the -rest and seem upon a superficial view themselves the body of the cloth, -in fact modify rather than make it. - -What in fact has been the course of American history? How is it to be -distinguished from European history? What features has it of its own, -which give it its distinctive plan and movement? We have suffered, it -is to be feared, a very serious limitation of view until recent years -by having all our history written in the East. It has smacked strongly -of a local flavor. It has concerned itself too exclusively with the -origins and Old-World derivations of our story. Our historians have -made their march from the sea with their heads over shoulder, their -gaze always backward upon the landing-places and homes of the first -settlers. In spite of the steady immigration, with its persistent tide -of foreign blood, they have chosen to speak often and to think always -of our people as sprung after all from a common stock, bearing a family -likeness in every branch, and following all the while old, familiar, -family ways. The view is the more misleading because it is so large a -part of the truth without being all of it. The common British stock -did first make the country, and has always set the pace. There were -common institutions up and down the coast; and these had formed and -hardened for a persistent growth before the great westward migration -began which was to re-shape and modify every element of our life. The -national government itself was set up and made strong by success while -yet we lingered for the most part upon the eastern coast and feared a -too distant frontier. - -But, the beginnings once safely made, change set in apace. Not only -so: there had been slow change from the first. We have no frontier -now, we are told,--except a broken fragment, it may be, here and there -in some barren corner of the western lands, where some inhospitable -mountain still shoulders us out, or where men are still lacking to -break the baked surface of the plains and occupy them in the very teeth -of hostile nature. But at first it was all frontier,--a mere strip of -settlements stretched precariously upon the sea-edge of the wilds: an -untouched continent in front of them, and behind them an unfrequented -sea that almost never showed so much as the momentary gleam of a sail. -Every step in the slow process of settlement was but a step of the -same kind as the first, an advance to a new frontier like the old. For -long we lacked, it is true, that new breed of frontiersmen born in -after years beyond the mountains. Those first frontiersmen had still -a touch of the timidity of the Old World in their blood: they lacked -the frontier heart. They were “Pilgrims” in very fact,--exiled, not at -home. Fine courage they had: and a steadfastness in their bold design -which it does a faint-hearted age good to look back upon. There was -no thought of drawing back. Steadily, almost calmly, they extended -their seats. They built homes, and deemed it certain their children -would live there after them. But they did not love the rough, uneasy -life for its own sake. How long did they keep, if they could, within -sight of the sea! The wilderness was their refuge; but how long before -it became their joy and hope! Here was their destiny cast; but their -hearts lingered and held back. It was only as generations passed and -the work widened about them that their thought also changed, and a new -thrill sped along their blood. Their life had been new and strange -from their first landing in the wilderness. Their houses, their food, -their clothing, their neighborhood dealings were all such as only the -frontier brings. Insensibly they were themselves changed. The strange -life became familiar; their adjustment to it was at length unconscious -and without effort; they had no plans which were not inseparably a part -and a product of it. But, until they had turned their backs once for -all upon the sea; until they saw their western borders cleared of the -French; until the mountain passes had grown familiar, and the lands -beyond the central and constant theme of their hope, the goal and dream -of their young men, they did not become an American people. - -When they did, the great determining movement of our history began. The -very visages of the people changed. That alert movement of the eye, -that openness to every thought of enterprise or adventure, that nomadic -habit which knows no fixed home and has plans ready to be carried any -whither,--all the marks of the authentic type of the “American” as we -know him came into our life. The crack of the whip and the song of the -teamster, the heaving chorus of boatmen poling their heavy rafts upon -the rivers, the laughter of the camp, the sound of bodies of men in the -still forests, became the characteristic notes in our air. A roughened -race, embrowned in the sun, hardened in manner by a coarse life of -change and danger, loving the rude woods and the crack of the rifle, -living to begin something new every day, striking with the broad and -open hand, delicate in nothing but the touch of the trigger, leaving -cities in its track as if by accident rather than design, settling -again to the steady ways of a fixed life only when it must: such was -the American people whose achievement it was to be to take possession -of their continent from end to end ere their national government was -a single century old. The picture is a very singular one! Settled -life and wild side by side: civilization frayed at the edges,--taken -forward in rough and ready fashion, with a song and a swagger,--not by -statesmen, but by woodsmen and drovers, with axes and whips and rifles -in their hands, clad in buckskin, like huntsmen. - -It has been said that we have here repeated some of the first processes -of history; that the life and methods of our frontiersmen take us -back to the fortunes and hopes of the men who crossed Europe when her -forests, too, were still thick upon her. But the difference is really -very fundamental, and much more worthy of remark than the likeness. -Those shadowy masses of men whom we see moving upon the face of the -earth in the far-away, questionable days when states were forming: even -those stalwart figures we see so well as they emerge from the deep -forests of Germany, to displace the Roman in all his western provinces -and set up the states we know and marvel upon at this day, show us -men working their new work at their own level. They do not turn back -a long cycle of years from the old and settled states, the ordered -cities, the tilled fields, and the elaborated governments of an ancient -civilization, to begin as it were once more at the beginning. They -carry alike their homes and their states with them in the camp and upon -the ordered march of the host. They are men of the forest, or else -men hardened always to take the sea in open boats. They live no more -roughly in the new lands than in the old. The world has been frontier -for them from the first. They may go forward with their life in these -new seats from where they left off in the old. How different the -circumstances of our first settlement and the building of new states on -this side the sea! Englishmen, bred in law and ordered government ever -since the Norman lawyers were followed a long five hundred years ago -across the narrow seas by those masterful administrators of the strong -Plantagenet race, leave an ancient realm and come into a wilderness -where states have never been; leave a land of art and letters, which -saw but yesterday “the spacious times of great Elizabeth,” where -Shakespeare still lives in the gracious leisure of his closing days at -Stratford, where cities teem with trade and men go bravely dight in -cloth of gold, and turn back six centuries,--nay, a thousand years and -more,--to the first work of building states in a wilderness! They bring -the steadied habits and sobered thoughts of an ancient realm into the -wild air of an untouched continent. The weary stretches of a vast sea -lie, like a full thousand years of time, between them and the life -in which till now all their thought was bred. Here they stand, as it -were, with all their tools left behind, centuries struck out of their -reckoning, driven back upon the long dormant instincts and forgotten -craft of their race, not used this long age. Look how singular a -thing: the work of a primitive race, the thought of a civilized! Hence -the strange, almost grotesque groupings of thought and affairs in -that first day of our history. Subtle politicians speak the phrases -and practice the arts of intricate diplomacy from council chambers -placed within log huts within a clearing. Men in ruffs and lace and -polished shoe-buckles thread the lonely glades of primeval forests. -The microscopical distinctions of the schools, the thin notes of a -metaphysical theology are woven in and out through the labyrinths of -grave sermons that run hours long upon the still air of the wilderness. -Belief in dim refinements of dogma is made the test for man or woman -who seeks admission to a company of pioneers. When went there by an -age since the great flood when so singular a thing was seen as this: -thousands of civilized men suddenly rusticated and bade do the work of -primitive peoples,--Europe _frontiered_! - -Of course there was a deep change wrought, if not in these men, at any -rate in their children; and every generation saw the change deepen. It -must seem to every thoughtful man a notable thing how, while the change -was wrought, the simplest of things complex were revealed in the clear -air of the New World: how all accidentals seemed to fall away from the -structure of government, and the simple first principles were laid bare -that abide always; how social distinctions were stripped off, shown -to be the mere cloaks and masks they were, and every man brought once -again to a clear realization of his actual relations to his fellows! -It was as if trained and sophisticated men had been rid of a sudden -of their sophistication and of all the theory of their life, and left -with nothing but their discipline of faculty, a schooled and sobered -instinct. And the fact that we kept always, for close upon three -hundred years, a like element in our life, a frontier people always in -our van, is, so far, the central and determining fact of our national -history. “East” and “West,” an ever-changing line, but an unvarying -experience and a constant leaven of change working always within -the body of our folk. Our political, our economic, our social life -has felt this potent influence from the wild border all our history -through. The “West” is the great word of our history. The “Westerner” -has been the type and master of our American life. Now at length, as I -have said, we have lost our frontier: our front lies almost unbroken -along all the great coast line of the western sea. The Westerner, in -some day soon to come, will pass out of our life, as he so long ago -passed out of the life of the Old World. Then a new epoch will open for -us. Perhaps it has opened already. Slowly we shall grow old, compact -our people, study the delicate adjustments of an intricate society, -and ponder the niceties, as we have hitherto pondered the bulks and -structural framework, of government. Have we not, indeed, already come -to these things? But the past we know. We can “see it steady and see it -whole;” and its central movement and motive are gross and obvious to -the eye. - -Till the first century of the Constitution is rounded out we stand all -the while in the presence of that stupendous westward movement which -has filled the continent: so vast, so various, at times so tragical, so -swept by passion. Through all the long time there has been a line of -rude settlements along our front wherein the same tests of power and -of institutions were still being made that were made first upon the -sloping banks of the rivers of old Virginia and within the long sweep -of the Bay of Massachusetts. The new life of the West has reacted all -the while--who shall say how powerfully?--upon the older life of the -East; and yet the East has moulded the West as if she sent forward to -it through every decade of the long process the chosen impulses and -suggestions of history. The West has taken strength, thought, training, -selected aptitudes out of the old treasures of the East,--as if out -of a new Orient; while the East has itself been kept fresh, vital, -alert, originative by the West, her blood quickened all the while, her -youth through every age renewed. Who can say in a word, in a sentence, -in a volume, what destinies have been variously wrought, with what -new examples of growth and energy, while, upon this unexampled scale, -community has passed beyond community across the vast reaches of this -great continent! - -The great process is the more significant because it has been -distinctively a national process. Until the Union was formed and we -had consciously set out upon a separate national career, we moved -but timidly across the nearer hills. Our most remote settlements lay -upon the rivers and in the open glades of Tennessee and Kentucky. It -was in the years that immediately succeeded the war of 1812 that -the movement into the West began to be a mighty migration. Till then -our eyes had been more often in the East than in the West. Not only -were foreign questions to be settled and our standing among the -nations to be made good, but we still remained acutely conscious -and deliberately conservative of our Old-World connections. For all -we were so new a people and lived so simple and separate a life, we -had still the sobriety and the circumspect fashions of action that -belong to an old society. We were, in government and manners, but a -disconnected part of the world beyond the seas. Its thought and habit -still set us our standards of speech and action. And this, not because -of imitation, but because of actual and long abiding political and -social connection with the mother country. Our statesmen,--strike but -the names of Samuel Adams and Patrick Henry from the list, together -with all like untutored spirits, who stood for the new, unreverencing -ardor of a young democracy,--our statesmen were such men as might -have taken their places in the House of Commons or in the Cabinet at -home as naturally and with as easy an adjustment to their place and -task as in the Continental Congress or in the immortal Constitutional -Convention. Think of the stately ways and the grand air and the -authoritative social understandings of the generation that set the new -government afoot,--the generation of Washington and John Adams. Think, -too, of the conservative tradition that guided all the early history -of that government: that early line of gentlemen Presidents: that -steady “cabinet succession to the Presidency” which came at length to -seem almost like an oligarchy to the impatient men who were shut out -from it. The line ended, with a sort of chill, in stiff John Quincy -Adams, too cold a man to be a people’s prince after the old order of -Presidents; and the year 1829, which saw Jackson come in, saw the old -order go out. - -The date is significant. Since the war of 1812, undertaken as if to -set us free to move westward, seven States had been admitted to the -Union: and the whole number of States was advanced to twenty-four. -Eleven new States had come into partnership with the old thirteen. The -voice of the West rang through all our counsels; and, in Jackson, the -new partners took possession of the Government. It is worth while to -remember how men stood amazed at the change: how startled, chagrined, -dismayed the conservative States of the East were at the revolution -they saw effected, the riot of change they saw set in; and no man who -has once read the singular story can forget how the eight years Jackson -reigned saw the Government, and politics themselves, transformed. For -long,--the story being written in the regions where the shock and -surprise of the change was greatest,--the period of this momentous -revolution was spoken of amongst us as a period of degeneration, the -birth-time of a deep and permanent demoralization in our politics. -But we see it differently now. Whether we have any taste or stomach -for that rough age or not, however much we may wish that the old -order might have stood, the generation of Madison and Adams have been -prolonged, and the good tradition of the early days handed on unbroken -and unsullied, we now know that what the nation underwent in that day -of change was not degeneration, great and perilous as were the errors -of the time, but regeneration. The old order was changed, once and for -all. A new nation stepped, with a touch of swagger, upon the stage,--a -nation which had broken alike with the traditions and with the wisely -wrought experience of the Old World, and which, with all the haste and -rashness of youth, was minded to work out a separate policy and destiny -of its own. It was a day of hazards, but there was nothing sinister -at the heart of the new plan. It was a wasteful experiment, to fling -out, without wise guides, upon untried ways; but an abounding continent -afforded enough and to spare even for the wasteful. It was sure to -be so with a nation that came out of the secluded vales of a virgin -continent. It was the bold frontier voice of the West sounding in -affairs. The timid shivered, but the robust waxed strong and rejoiced, -in the tonic air of the new day. - -It was then we swung out into the main paths of our history. The new -voices that called us were first silvery, like the voice of Henry -Clay, and spoke old familiar words of eloquence. The first spokesmen -of the West even tried to con the classics, and spoke incongruously -in the phrases of politics long dead and gone to dust, as Benton did. -But presently the tone changed, and it was the truculent and masterful -accents of the real frontiersman that rang dominant above the rest, -harsh, impatient, and with an evident dash of temper. The East slowly -accustomed itself to the change; caught the movement, though it -grumbled and even trembled at the pace; and managed most of the time -to keep in the running. But it was always henceforth to be the West -that set the pace. There is no mistaking the questions that have ruled -our spirits as a nation during the present century. The public land -question, the tariff question, and the question of slavery,--these -dominate from first to last. It was the West that made each one of -these the question that it was. Without the free lands to which every -man who chose might go, there would not have been that easy prosperity -of life and that high standard of abundance which seemed to render -it necessary that, if we were to have manufactures and a diversified -industry at all, we should foster new undertakings by a system of -protection which would make the profits of the factory as certain and -as abundant as the profits of the farm. It was the constant movement -of the population, the constant march of wagon trains into the West, -that made it so cardinal a matter of policy whether the great national -domain should _be_ free land or not: and that was the land question. -It was the settlement of the West that transformed slavery from an -accepted institution into passionate matter of controversy. - -Slavery within the States of the Union stood sufficiently protected -by every solemn sanction the Constitution could afford. No man could -touch it there, think, or hope, or purpose what he might. But where new -States were to be made it was not so. There at every step choice must -be made: slavery or no slavery?--a new choice for every new State: a -fresh act of origination to go with every fresh act of organization. -Had there been no Territories, there could have been no slavery -question, except by revolution and contempt of fundamental law. But -with a continent to be peopled, the choice thrust itself insistently -forward at every step and upon every hand. This was the slavery -question: not what should be done to reverse the past, but what should -be done to redeem the future. It was so men of that day saw it,--and -so also must historians see it. We must not mistake the programme of -the Anti-Slavery Society for the platform of the Republican party, or -forget that the very war itself was begun ere any purpose of abolition -took shape amongst those who were statesmen and in authority. It was -a question, not of freeing men, but of preserving a Free Soil. Kansas -showed us what the problem was, not South Carolina: and it was the -Supreme Court, not the slave-owners, who formulated the matter for our -thought and purpose. - -And so, upon every hand and throughout every national question, was -the commerce between East and West made up: that commerce and exchange -of ideas, inclinations, purposes, and principles which has constituted -the moving force of our life as a nation. Men illustrate the operation -of these singular forces better than questions can: and no man -illustrates it better than Abraham Lincoln. - - “Great captains with their guns and drums - Disturb our judgment for the hour; - But at last silence comes: - These all are gone, and, standing like a tower, - Our children shall behold his fame, - The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man, - Sagacious, patient, dreading praise not blame, - New birth of our new soil, the first American.” - -It is a poet’s verdict; but it rings in the authentic tone of the -seer. It must be also the verdict of history. He would be a rash man -who should say he understood Abraham Lincoln. No doubt natures deep -as his, and various almost to the point of self-contradiction, can -be sounded only by the judgment of men of a like sort,--if any such -there be. But some things we all may see and judge concerning him. -You have in him the type and flower of our growth. It is as if Nature -had made a typical American, and then had added with liberal hand the -royal quality of genius, to show us what the type could be. Lincoln -owed nothing to his birth, everything to his growth: had no training -save what he gave himself; no nurture, but only a wild and native -strength. His life was his schooling, and every day of it gave to his -character a new touch of development. His manhood not only, but his -perception also, expanded with his life. His eyes, as they looked more -and more abroad, beheld the national life, and comprehended it: and -the lad who had been so rough-cut a provincial became, when grown to -manhood, the one leader in all the nation who held the whole people -singly in his heart:--held even the Southern people there, and would -have won them back. And so we have in him what we must call the perfect -development of native strength, the rounding out and nationalization of -the provincial. Andrew Jackson was a type, not of the nation, but of -the West. For all the tenderness there was in the stormy heart of the -masterful man, and staunch and simple loyalty to all who loved him, he -learned nothing in the East; kept always the flavor of the rough school -in which he had been bred; was never more than a frontier soldier and -gentleman. Lincoln differed from Jackson by all the length of his -unmatched capacity to learn. Jackson could understand only men of his -own kind; Lincoln could understand men of all sorts and from every -region of the land: seemed himself, indeed, to be all men by turns, as -mood succeeded mood in his strange nature. He never ceased to stand, in -his bony angles, the express image of the ungainly frontiersman. His -mind never lost the vein of coarseness that had marked him grossly -when a youth. And yet how he grew and strengthened in the real stuff -of dignity and greatness: how nobly he could bear himself without the -aid of grace! He kept always the shrewd and seeing eye of the woodsman -and the hunter, and the flavor of wild life never left him: and yet -how easily his view widened to great affairs; how surely he perceived -the value and the significance of whatever touched him and made him -neighbor to itself! - -Lincoln’s marvelous capacity to extend his comprehension to the measure -of what he had in hand is the one distinguishing mark of the man: and -to study the development of that capacity in him is little less than to -study, where it is as it were perfectly registered, the national life -itself. This boy lived his youth in Illinois when it was a frontier -State. The youth of the State was coincident with his own: and man -and State kept equal pace in their striding advance to maturity. The -frontier population was an intensely political population. It felt -to the quick the throb of the nation’s life,--for the nation’s life -ran through it, going its eager way to the westward. The West was not -separate from the East. Its communities were every day receiving fresh -members from the East, and the fresh impulse of direct suggestion. -Their blood flowed to them straight from the warmest veins of the -older communities. More than that, elements which were separated in the -East were mingled in the West: which displayed to the eye as it were a -sort of epitome of the most active and permanent forces of the national -life. In such communities as these Lincoln mixed daily from the first -with men of every sort and from every quarter of the country. With them -he discussed neighborhood politics, the politics of the State, the -politics of the nation,--and his mind became traveled as he talked. -How plainly amongst such neighbors, there in Illinois, must it have -become evident that national questions were centring more and more in -the West as the years went by: coming as it were to meet them. Lincoln -went twice down the Mississippi, upon the slow rafts that carried wares -to its mouth, and saw with his own eyes, so used to look directly and -point-blank upon men and affairs, characteristic regions of the South. -He worked his way slowly and sagaciously, with that larger sort of -sagacity which so marked him all his life, into the active business -of state politics; sat twice in the state legislature, and then for a -term in Congress,--his sensitive and seeing mind open all the while to -every turn of fortune and every touch of nature in the moving affairs -he looked upon. All the while, too, he continued to canvass, piece -by piece, every item of politics, as of old, with his neighbors, -familiarly around the stove, or upon the corners of the street, or -more formally upon the stump; and kept always in direct contact with -the ordinary views of ordinary men. Meanwhile he read, as nobody else -around him read, and sought to gain a complete mastery over speech, -with the conscious purpose to prevail in its use; derived zest from the -curious study of mathematical proof, and amusement as well as strength -from the practice of clean and naked statements of truth. It was all -irregularly done, but strenuously, with the same instinct throughout, -and with a steady access of facility and power. There was no sudden -leap for this man, any more than for other men, from crudeness to -finished power, from an understanding of the people of Illinois to an -understanding of the people of the United States. And thus he came -at last, with infinite pains and a wonder of endurance, to his great -national task with a self-trained capacity which no man could match, -and made upon a scale as liberal as the life of the people. You could -not then set this athlete a pace in learning or in perceiving that was -too hard for him. He knew the people and their life as no other man did -or could: and now stands in his place singular in all the annals of -mankind, the “brave, sagacious, foreseeing, patient man” of the people, -“new birth of our new soil, the first American.” - -We have here a national man presiding over sectional men. Lincoln -understood the East better than the East understood him or the -people from whom he sprung: and this is every way a very noteworthy -circumstance. For my part, I read a lesson in the singular career of -this great man. Is it possible the East remains sectional while the -West broadens to a wider view? - - “Be strong-backed, brown-handed, upright as your pines; - By the scale of a hemisphere shape your designs,” - -is an inspiring programme for the woodsman and the pioneer; but how -are you to be brown-handed in a city office? What if you never see -the upright pines? How are you to have so big a purpose on so small a -part of the hemisphere? As it has grown old, unquestionably, the East -has grown sectional. There is no suggestion of the prairie in its city -streets, or of the embrowned ranchman and farmer in its well-dressed -men. Its ports teem with shipping from Europe and the Indies. Its -newspapers run upon the themes of an Old World. It hears of the great -plains of the continent as of foreign parts, which it may never think -to see except from a car window. Its life is self-centred and selfish. -The West, save where special interests centre (as in those pockets of -silver where men’s eyes catch as it were an eager gleam from the very -ore itself): the West is in less danger of sectionalization. Who shall -say in that wide country where one region ends and another begins, or, -in that free and changing society, where one class ends and another -begins? - -This, surely, is the moral of our history. The East has spent and been -spent for the West: has given forth her energy, her young men and -her substance, for the new regions that have been a-making all the -century through. But has she learned as much as she has taught, or -taken as much as she has given? Look what it is that has now at last -taken place. The westward march has stopped, upon the final slopes of -the Pacific; and now the plot thickens. Populations turn upon their -old paths; fill in the spaces they passed by neglected in their first -journey in search of a land of promise; settle to a life such as the -East knows as well as the West,--nay, much better. With the change, the -pause, the settlement, our people draw into closer groups, stand face -to face, to know each other and be known: and the time has come for the -East to learn in her turn; to broaden her understanding of political -and economic conditions to the scale of a hemisphere, as her own poet -bade. Let us be sure that we get the national temperament; send our -minds abroad upon the continent, become neighbors to all the people -that live upon it, and lovers of them all, as Lincoln was. - -Read but your history aright, and you shall not find the task too -hard. Your own local history, look but deep enough, tells the tale -you must take to heart. Here upon our own seaboard, as truly as ever -in the West, was once a national frontier, with an elder East beyond -the seas. Here, too, various peoples combined, and elements separated -elsewhere effected a tolerant and wholesome mixture. Here, too, the -national stream flowed full and strong, bearing a thousand things upon -its currents. Let us resume and keep the vision of that time; know -ourselves, our neighbors, our destiny, with lifted and open eyes; see -our history truly, in its great proportions; be ourselves liberal as -the great principles we profess; and so be the people who might have -again the heroic adventures and do again the heroic work of the past. -’Tis thus we shall renew our youth and secure our age against decay. - - - - -Transcriber’s Notes - - -Simple typographical errors were corrected. - -Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a -predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they -were not changed. - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MERE LITERATURE AND OTHER -ESSAYS *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Mere Literature and Other Essays</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Woodrow Wilson</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: August 17, 2021 [eBook #66074]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Charlene Taylor, Charlie Howard, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MERE LITERATURE AND OTHER ESSAYS ***</div> - -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="bold center">Books by Woodrow Wilson</p> - -<hr class="narrow" /> - -<div class="blockquot hang"> - -<p>CONGRESSIONAL GOVERNMENT. A Study in -American Politics. 16mo, $1.25.</p> - -<p>MERE LITERATURE, and Other Essays. 12mo, -$1.50.</p> -</div> - -<p class="p1 center"> -HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY<br /> -<span class="smcap">Boston and New York</span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="newpage p4 center wspace"> -<h1> -MERE LITERATURE</h1> - -<p class="p2 large"><i>AND OTHER ESSAYS</i></p> - -<p class="p2"><span class="smaller">BY</span><br /> - -WOODROW WILSON</p> - -<div id="if_logo" class="figcenter" style="max-width: 7em;"> - <img style="width: 7em;" src="images/logo.png" width="366" height="474" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p class="p2 smaller">BOSTON AND NEW YORK<br /> -HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY<br /> -<span class="bold">The Riverside Press, Cambridge</span> -</p> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="newpage p4 center small"> -Copyright, 1896,<br /> -<span class="smcap">By</span> WOODROW WILSON</p> - -<p class="p1 small center"><i>All rights reserved.</i></p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="newpage p4 center vspace"> -TO<br /> -<span class="larger">STOCKTON AXSON<br /></span></p> - -<p class="center smaller vspace">BY EVERY GIFT OF MIND A CRITIC<br /> -AND LOVER OF LETTERS<br /> -BY EVERY GIFT OF HEART A FRIEND<br /> -THIS LITTLE VOLUME<br /> -IS AFFECTIONATELY<br /> -DEDICATED -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS.</h2> -</div> - -<table id="toc" summary="Contents"> -<tr class="small"> - <td colspan="2"> </td> - <td class="tdr">PAGE</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">I.</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Mere Literature</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_1">1</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">II.</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Author Himself</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_28">28</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">III.</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">On an Author’s Choice of Company</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_50">50</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">IV.</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Literary Politician</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_69">69</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">V.</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Interpreter of English Liberty</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_104">104</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">VI.</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Truth of the Matter</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_161">161</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">VII.</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Calendar of Great Americans</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_187">187</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">VIII.</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Course of American History</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_213">213</a></td> -</tr> -</table> - -<p class="p2 narrow"><span class="small">⁂</span> All but one of the essays brought together in this volume -have already been printed, either in the <i>Atlantic Monthly</i>, the -<i>Century Magazine</i>, or the <i>Forum</i>. The essay on Burke appears -here for the first time in print.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_1" class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="MERE_LITERATURE"><span class="larger">MERE LITERATURE.</span></h2> -</div> - -<hr class="narrow" /> - -<h2 class="nobreak p1" id="I">I.<br /> - -<span class="subhead">“MERE LITERATURE.”</span></h2> - -<p><span class="firstword">A singular</span> phrase this, “mere literature,”—the -irreverent invention of a scientific age. Literature -we know, but “mere” literature? We are -not to read it as if it meant <em>sheer</em> literature, literature -in the essence, stripped of all accidental or -ephemeral elements, and left with nothing but its -immortal charm and power. “Mere literature” is -a serious sneer, conceived in all honesty by the -scientific mind, which despises things that do not -fall within the categories of demonstrable knowledge. -It means <em>nothing but literature</em>, as who -should say, “mere talk,” “mere fabrication,” -“mere pastime.” The scientist, with his head -comfortably and excusably full of knowable things, -takes nothing seriously and with his hat off, except -human knowledge. The creations of the human -spirit are, from his point of view, incalculable -vagaries, irresponsible phenomena, to be regarded<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">2</span> -only as play, and, for the mind’s good, only as -recreation,—to be used to while away the tedium -of a railway journey, or to amuse a period of rest -or convalescence; mere byplay, mere make-believe.</p> - -<p>And so very whimsical things sometimes happen, -because of this scientific and positivist spirit of the -age, when the study of the literature of any language -is made part of the curriculum of our colleges. -The more delicate and subtle purposes of -the study are put quite out of countenance, and -literature is commanded to assume the phrases and -the methods of science. It would be very painful -if it should turn out that schools and universities -were agencies of Philistinism; but there are some -things which should prepare us for such a discovery. -Our present plans for teaching everybody -involve certain unpleasant things quite inevitably. -It is obvious that you cannot have universal education -without restricting your teaching to such things -as can be universally understood. It is plain that -you cannot impart “university methods” to thousands, -or create “investigators” by the score, -unless you confine your university education to -matters which dull men can investigate, your laboratory -training to tasks which mere plodding diligence -and submissive patience can compass. Yet, -if you do so limit and constrain what you teach,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">3</span> -you thrust taste and insight and delicacy of perception -out of the schools, exalt the obvious and -the merely useful above the things which are only -imaginatively or spiritually conceived, make education -an affair of tasting and handling and smelling, -and so create Philistia, that country in which they -speak of “mere literature.” I suppose that in -Nirvana one would speak in like wise of “mere -life.”</p> - -<p>The fear, at any rate, that such things may happen -cannot fail to set us anxiously pondering certain -questions about the systematic teaching of -literature in our schools and colleges. How are we -to impart classical writings to the children of the -general public? “Beshrew the general public!” -cries Mr. Birrell. “What in the name of the -Bodleian has the general public got to do with -literature?” Unfortunately, it has a great deal to -do with it; for are we not complacently forcing the -general public into our universities, and are we not -arranging that all its sons shall be instructed how -they may themselves master and teach our literature? -You have nowadays, it is believed, only to -heed the suggestions of pedagogics in order to know -how to impart Burke or Browning, Dryden or Swift. -There are certain practical difficulties, indeed; but -there are ways of overcoming them. You must<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">4</span> -have strength if you would handle with real mastery -the firm fibre of these men; you must have a -heart, moreover, to feel their warmth, an eye to see -what they see, an imagination to keep them company, -a pulse to experience their delights. But if -you have none of these things, you may make shift -to do without them. You may count the words -they use, instead, note the changes of phrase they -make in successive revisions, put their rhythm into -a scale of feet, run their allusions—particularly -their female allusions—to cover, detect them in -their previous reading. Or, if none of these things -please you, or you find the big authors difficult -or dull, you may drag to light all the minor writers -of their time, who are easy to understand. By setting -an example in such methods you render great -services in certain directions. You make the higher -degrees of our universities available for the large -number of respectable men who can count, and -measure, and search diligently; and that may prove -no small matter. You divert attention from thought, -which is not always easy to get at, and fix attention -upon language, as upon a curious mechanism, which -can be perceived with the bodily eye, and which is -worthy to be studied for its own sake, quite apart -from anything it may mean. You encourage the -examination of forms, grammatical and metrical,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">5</span> -which can be quite accurately determined and quite -exhaustively catalogued. You bring all the visible -phenomena of writing to light and into ordered -system. You go further, and show how to make -careful literal identification of stories somewhere -told ill and without art with the same stories told -over again by the masters, well and with the transfiguring -effect of genius. You thus broaden the -area of science; for you rescue the concrete phenomena -of the expression of thought—the necessary -syllabification which accompanies it, the inevitable -juxtaposition of words, the constant use of -particles, the habitual display of roots, the inveterate -repetition of names, the recurrent employment -of meanings heard or read—from their confusion -with the otherwise unclassifiable manifestations of -what had hitherto been accepted, without critical -examination, under the lump term “literature,” -simply for the pleasure and spiritual edification to -be got from it.</p> - -<p>An instructive differentiation ensues. In contrast -with the orderly phenomena of speech and -writing, which are amenable to scientific processes -of examination and classification, and which take -rank with the orderly successions of change in -nature, we have what, for want of a more exact -term, we call “mere literature,”—the literature<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">6</span> -which is not an expression of form, but an expression -of spirit. This is a fugitive and troublesome -thing, and perhaps does not belong in well-conceived -plans of universal instruction; for it offers -many embarrassments to pedagogic method. It -escapes all scientific categories. It is not pervious -to research. It is too wayward to be brought under -the discipline of exposition. It is an attribute of -so many different substances at one and the same -time, that the consistent scientific man must needs -put it forth from his company, as without responsible -connections. By “mere literature” he means -mere evanescent color, wanton trick of phrase, perverse -departures from categorical statement,—something -<em>all</em> personal equation, such stuff as -dreams are made of.</p> - -<p>We must not all, however, be impatient of this -truant child of fancy. When the schools cast her -out, she will stand in need of friendly succor, and -we must train our spirits for the function. We -must be free-hearted in order to make her -happy, for she will accept entertainment from no -sober, prudent fellow who shall counsel her to mend -her ways. She has always made light of hardship, -and she has never loved or obeyed any, save those -who were of her own mind,—those who were indulgent -to her humors, responsive to her ways of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">7</span> -thought, attentive to her whims, content with her -“mere” charms. She already has her small following -of devotees, like all charming, capricious -mistresses. There are some still who think that -to know her is better than a liberal education.</p> - -<p>There is but one way in which you can take -mere literature as an education, and that is directly, -at first hand. Almost any media except her own -language and touch and tone are non-conducting. -A descriptive catalogue of a collection of paintings -is no substitute for the little areas of color and -form themselves. You do not want to hear about -a beautiful woman, simply,—how she was dressed, -how she bore herself, how the fine color flowed -sweetly here and there upon her cheeks, how her -eyes burned and melted, how her voice thrilled -through the ears of those about her. If you have -ever seen a woman, these things but tantalize and -hurt you, if you cannot see her. You want to be -in her presence. You know that only your own -eyes can give you direct knowledge of her. Nothing -but her presence contains her life. ’Tis -the same with the authentic products of literature. -You can never get their beauty at second hand, or -feel their power except by direct contact with them.</p> - -<p>It is a strange and occult thing how this quality -of “mere literature” enters into one book, and is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">8</span> -absent from another; but no man who has once -felt it can mistake it. I was reading the other -day a book about Canada. It is written in what -the reviewers have pronounced to be an “admirable, -spirited style.” By this I take them to mean -that it is grammatical, orderly, and full of strong -adjectives. But these reviewers would have known -more about the style in which it is written if they -had noted what happens on page 84. There a -quotation from Burke occurs. “There is,” says -Burke, “but one healing, catholic principle of -toleration which ought to find favor in this house. -It is wanted not only in our colonies, but here. The -thirsty earth of our own country is gasping and -gaping and crying out for that healing shower from -heaven. The noble lord has told you of the right -of those people by treaty; but I consider the right -of conquest so little, and the right of human nature -so much, that the former has very little consideration -with me. I look upon the people of Canada -as coming by the dispensation of God under the -British government. I would have us govern it in -the same manner as the all—wise disposition of -Providence would govern it. We know he suffers -the sun to shine upon the righteous and the -unrighteous; and we ought to suffer all classes to -enjoy equally the right of worshiping God according<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">9</span> -to the light he has been pleased to give them.” -The peculiarity of such a passage as that is, that it -needs no context. Its beauty seems almost independent -of its subject matter. It comes on that -eighty-fourth page like a burst of music in the -midst of small talk,—a tone of sweet harmony -heard amidst a rattle of phrases. The mild noise -was unobjectionable enough until the music came. -There is a breath and stir of life in those sentences -of Burke’s which is to be perceived in nothing else -in that volume. Your pulses catch a quicker -movement from them, and are stronger on their -account.</p> - -<p>It is so with all essential literature. It has a -quality to move you, and you can never mistake it, -if you have any blood in you. And it has also a -power to instruct you which is as effective as it is -subtle, and which no research or systematic method -can ever rival. ’Tis a sore pity if that power cannot -be made available in the classroom. It is not -merely that it quickens your thought and fills your -imagination with the images that have illuminated -the choicer minds of the race. It does indeed exercise -the faculties in this wise, bringing them into -the best atmosphere, and into the presence of the -men of greatest charm and force; but it does a -great deal more than that. It acquaints the mind,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">10</span> -by direct contact, with the forces which really govern -and modify the world from generation to generation. -There is more of a nation’s politics to be -got out of its poetry than out of all its systematic -writers upon public affairs and constitutions. Epics -are better mirrors of manners than chronicles; -dramas oftentimes let you into the secrets of statutes; -orations stirred by a deep energy of emotion -or resolution, passionate pamphlets that survive their -mission because of the direct action of their style -along permanent lines of thought, contain more -history than parliamentary journals. It is not -knowledge that moves the world, but ideals, convictions, -the opinions or fancies that have been held -or followed; and whoever studies humanity ought -to study it alive, practice the vivisection of reading -literature, and acquaint himself with something -more than anatomies which are no longer in use by -spirits.</p> - -<p>There are some words of Thibaut, the great -jurist, which have long seemed to me singularly -penetrative of one of the secrets of the intellectual -life. “I told him,” he says,—he is speaking of -an interview with Niebuhr,—“I told him that I -owed my gayety and vigor, in great part, to my -love for the classics of all ages, even those outside -the domain of jurisprudence.” Not only the gayety<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">11</span> -and vigor of his hale old age, surely, but also his -insight into the meaning and purpose of laws and -institutions. The jurist who does not love the -classics of all ages is like a post-mortem doctor presiding -at a birth, a maker of manikins prescribing -for a disease of the blood, a student of masks setting -up for a connoisseur in smiles and kisses. In -narrating history, you are speaking of what was -done by men; in discoursing of laws, you are seeking -to show what courses of action, and what manner -of dealing with one another, men have adopted. -You can neither tell the story nor conceive the law -till you know how the men you speak of regarded -themselves and one another; and I know of no way -of learning this but by reading the stories they have -told of themselves, the songs they have sung, the -heroic adventures they have applauded. I must -know what, if anything, they revered; I must hear -their sneers and gibes; must learn in what accents -they spoke love within the family circle; with what -grace they obeyed their superiors in station; how -they conceived it politic to live, and wise to die; -how they esteemed property, and what they deemed -privilege; when they kept holiday, and why; when -they were prone to resist oppression, and wherefore,—I -must see things with their eyes, before I -can comprehend their law books. Their jural relationships<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">12</span> -are not independent of their way of living, -and their way of thinking is the mirror of their -way of living.</p> - -<p>It is doubtless due to the scientific spirit of the -age that these plain, these immemorial truths are -in danger of becoming obscured. Science, under -the influence of the conception of evolution, devotes -itself to the study of forms, of specific differences, -of the manner in which the same principle of life -manifests itself variously under the compulsions of -changes of environment. It is thus that it has become -“scientific” to set forth the manner in which -man’s nature submits to man’s circumstances; -scientific to disclose morbid moods, and the conditions -which produce them; scientific to regard -man, not as the centre or source of power, but as -subject to power, a register of external forces instead -of an originative soul, and character as a -product of man’s circumstances rather than a sign -of man’s mastery over circumstance. It is thus -that it has become “scientific” to analyze language -as itself a commanding element in man’s life. -The history of word-roots, their modification under -the influences of changes wrought in the vocal -organs by habit or by climate, the laws of phonetic -change to which they are obedient, and their persistence -under all disguises of dialect, as if they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">13</span> -were full of a self-originated life, a self-directed -energy of influence, is united with the study of -grammatical forms in the construction of scientific -conceptions of the evolution and uses of human -speech. The impression is created that literature -is only the chosen vessel of these forms, disclosing -to us their modification in use and structure from -age to age. Such vitality as the masterpieces of -genius possess comes to seem only a dramatization -of the fortunes of words. Great writers construct -for the adventures of language their appropriate -epics. Or, if it be not the words themselves that -are scrutinized, but the style of their use, that style -becomes, instead of a fine essence of personality, a -matter of cadence merely, or of grammatical and -structural relationships. Science is the study of -the forces of the world of matter, the adjustments, -the apparatus, of the universe; and the scientific -study of literature has likewise become a study of -apparatus,—of the forms in which men utter -thought, and the forces by which those forms have -been and still are being modified, rather than of -thought itself.</p> - -<p>The essences of literature of course remain the -same under all forms, and the true study of literature -is the study of these essences,—a study, not -of forms or of differences, but of likenesses,—likenesses<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">14</span> -of spirit and intent under whatever varieties -of method, running through all forms of speech -like the same music along the chords of various instruments. -There is a sense in which literature is -independent of form, just as there is a sense in -which music is independent of its instrument. It -is my cherished belief that Apollo’s pipe contained -as much eloquent music as any modern orchestra. -Some books live; many die: wherein is the secret -of immortality? Not in beauty of form, nor even -in force of passion. We might say of literature -what Wordsworth said of poetry, the most easily -immortal part of literature: it is “the impassioned -expression which is in the countenance of all science; -it is the breath of the finer spirit of all knowledge.” -Poetry has the easier immortality because it has -the sweeter accent when it speaks, because its -phrases linger in our ears to delight them, because -its truths are also melodies. Prose has much to -overcome,—its plainness of visage, its less musical -accents, its homelier turns of phrase. But it also -may contain the immortal essence of truth and -seriousness and high thought. It too may clothe -conviction with the beauty that must make it shine -forever. Let a man but have beauty in his heart, -and, believing something with his might, put it -forth arrayed as he sees it, the lights and shadows<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">15</span> -falling upon it on his page as they fall upon it in -his heart, and he may die assured that that beauty -will not pass away out of the world.</p> - -<p>Biographers have often been puzzled by the contrast -between certain men as they lived and as they -wrote. Schopenhauer’s case is one of the most -singular. A man of turbulent life, suffering himself -to be cut to exasperation by the petty worries -of his lot, he was nevertheless calm and wise when -he wrote, as if the Muse had rebuked him. He -wrote at a still elevation, where small and temporary -things did not come to disturb him. ’Tis a -pity that for some men this elevation is so far to -seek. They lose permanency by not finding it. -Could there be a deliberate regimen of life for the -author, it is plain enough how he ought to live, not -as seeking fame, but as deserving it.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indentq">“Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy</div> - <div class="verse indent0">To those who woo her with too slavish knees;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And dotes the more upon a heart at ease.</div> - </div> - - <div class="tb">* * * * *</div> - - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indentq">“Ye love-sick bards, repay her scorn with scorn;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Ye love-sick artists, madmen that ye are,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Make your best bow to her and bid adieu;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Then, if she likes it, she will follow you.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>It behooves all minor authors to realize the possibility -of their being discovered some day, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">16</span> -exposed to the general scrutiny. They ought to -live as if conscious of the risk. They ought to -purge their hearts of everything that is not genuine -and capable of lasting the world a century, at least, -if need be. Mere literature is made of spirit. The -difficulties of style are the artist’s difficulties with -his tools. The spirit that is in the eye, in the pose, -in mien or gesture, the painter must find in his -color-box; as he must find also the spirit that -nature displays upon the face of the fields or in the -hidden places of the forest. The writer has less -obvious means. Word and spirit do not easily -consort. The language which the philologists set -out before us with such curious erudition is of very -little use as a vehicle for the essences of the human -spirit. It is too sophisticated and self-conscious. -What you need is, not a critical knowledge of -language, but a quick feeling for it. You must -recognize the affinities between your spirit and its -idioms. You must immerse your phrase in your -thought, your thought in your phrase, till each becomes -saturated with the other. Then what you -produce is as necessarily fit for permanency as if it -were incarnated spirit.</p> - -<p>And you must produce in color, with the touch -of imagination which lifts what you write away -from the dull levels of mere exposition. Black-and-white<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">17</span> -sketches may serve some purposes of the -artist, but very little of actual nature is in mere -black-and-white. The imagination never works -thus with satisfaction. Nothing is ever conceived -completely when conceived so grayly, without suffusion -of real light. The mind creates, as great -Nature does, in colors, with deep chiaroscuro and -burning lights. This is true not only of poetry -and essentially imaginative writing, but also of the -writing which seeks nothing more than to penetrate -the meaning of actual affairs,—the writing of -the greatest historians and philosophers, the utterances -of orators and of the great masters of political -exposition. Their narratives, their analyses, -their appeals, their conceptions of principle, are all -dipped deep in the colors of the life they expound. -Their minds respond only to realities, their eyes see -only actual circumstance. Their sentences quiver -and are quick with visions of human affairs,—how -minds are bent or governed, how action is shaped -or thwarted. The great “constructive” minds, as -we call them, are of this sort. They “construct” -by seeing what others have not imagination enough -to see. They do not always know more, but they -always realize more. Let the singular reconstruction -of Roman history and institutions by Theodor -Mommsen serve as an illustration. Safe men distrust<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">18</span> -this great master. They cannot find what he -finds in the documents. They will draw you -truncated figures of the antique Roman state, and -tell you the limbs cannot be found, the features of -the face have nowhere been unearthed. They will -cite you fragments such as remain, and show you -how far these can be pieced together toward the -making of a complete description of private life -and public function in those first times when the -Roman commonwealth was young; but what the -missing sentences were they can only weakly conjecture. -Their eyes cannot descry those distant -days with no other aids than these. Only the -greatest are dissatisfied, and go on to paint that -ancient life with the materials that will render it -lifelike,—the materials of the constructive imagination. -They have other sources of information. -They see living men in the old documents. Give -them but the torso, and they will supply head and -limbs, bright and animate as they must have been. -If Mommsen does not quite do that, another man, -with Mommsen’s eye and a touch more of color on -his brush, might have done it,—may yet do it.</p> - -<p>It is in this way that we get some glimpse of the -only relations that scholarship bears to literature. -Literature can do without exact scholarship, or -any scholarship at all, though it may impoverish<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">19</span> -itself thereby; but scholarship cannot do without -literature. It needs literature to float it, to -set it current, to authenticate it to the race, to get -it out of closets, and into the brains of men who -stir abroad. It will adorn literature, no doubt; -literature will be the richer for its presence; but -it will not, it cannot, of itself create literature. -Rich stuffs from the East do not create a king, nor -warlike trappings a conqueror. There is, indeed, -a natural antagonism, let it be frankly said, between -the standards of scholarship and the standards -of literature. Exact scholarship values -things in direct proportion as they are verifiable; -but literature knows nothing of such tests. The -truths which it seeks are the truths of self-expression. -It is a thing of convictions, of insights, of -what is felt and seen and heard and hoped for. Its -meanings lurk behind nature, not in the facts of -its phenomena. It speaks of things as the man -who utters it saw them, not necessarily as God -made them. The personality of the speaker runs -throughout all the sentences of real literature. That -personality may not be the personality of a poet: -it may be only the personality of the penetrative -seer. It may not have the atmosphere in which -visions are seen, but only that in which men and -affairs look keenly cut in outline, boldly massed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">20</span> -in bulk, consummately grouped in detail, to the -reader as to the writer. Sentences of perfectly -clarified wisdom may be literature no less than -stanzas of inspired song, or the intense utterances -of impassioned feeling. The personality of the -sunlight is in the keen lines of light that run -along the edges of a sword no less than in the burning -splendor of the rose or the radiant kindlings of -a woman’s eye. You may feel the power of one -master of thought playing upon your brain as you -may feel that of another playing upon your heart.</p> - -<p>Scholarship gets into literature by becoming -part of the originating individuality of a master of -thought. No man is a master of thought without -being also a master of its vehicle and instrument, -style, that subtle medium of all its evasive effects -of light and shade. Scholarship is material; it -is not life. It becomes immortal only when it is -worked upon by conviction, by schooled and chastened -imagination, by thought that runs alive out -of the inner fountains of individual insight and -purpose. Colorless, or without suffusion of light -from some source of light, it is dead, and will not -twice be looked at; but made part of the life of a -great mind, subordinated, absorbed, put forth with -authentic stamp of currency on it, minted at some -definite mint and bearing some sovereign image, it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">21</span> -will even outlast the time when it shall have ceased -to deserve the acceptance of scholars,—when it -shall, in fact, have become “mere literature.”</p> - -<p>Scholarship is the realm of nicely adjusted opinion. -It is the business of scholars to assess evidence -and test conclusions, to discriminate values -and reckon probabilities. Literature is the realm -of conviction and vision. Its points of view are as -various as they are oftentimes unverifiable. It -speaks individual faiths. Its groundwork is not -erudition, but reflection and fancy. Your thoroughgoing -scholar dare not reflect. To reflect is to let -himself in on his material; whereas what he wants -is to keep himself apart, and view his materials in -an air that does not color or refract. To reflect is -to throw an atmosphere about what is in your -mind,—an atmosphere which holds all the colors -of your life. Reflection summons all associations, -and they so throng and move that they dominate -the mind’s stage at once. The plot is in their -hands. Scholars, therefore, do not reflect; they -label, group kind with kind, set forth in schemes, -expound with dispassionate method. Their minds -are not stages, but museums; nothing is done -there, but very curious and valuable collections are -kept there. If literature use scholarship, it is only -to fill it with fancies or shape it to new standards, -of which of itself it can know nothing.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">22</span></p> - -<p>True, there are books reckoned primarily books -of science and of scholarship which have nevertheless -won standing as literature; books of science -such as Newton wrote, books of scholarship such -as Gibbon’s. But science was only the vestibule -by which such a man as Newton entered the temple -of nature, and the art he practiced was not the art -of exposition, but the art of divination. He was -not only a scientist, but also a seer; and we shall not -lose sight of Newton because we value what he was -more than what he knew. If we continue Gibbon -in his fame, it will be for love of his art, not for -worship of his scholarship. We some of us, nowadays, -know the period of which he wrote better -even than he did; but which one of us shall build -so admirable a monument to ourselves, as artists, -out of what we know? The scholar finds his immortality -in the form he gives to his work. It is -a hard saying, but the truth of it is inexorable: be -an artist, or prepare for oblivion. You may write -a chronicle, but you will not serve yourself thereby. -You will only serve some fellow who shall come -after you, possessing, what you did not have, an -ear for the words you could not hit upon; an eye -for the colors you could not see; a hand for the -strokes you missed.</p> - -<p>Real literature you can always distinguish by its<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">23</span> -form, and yet it is not possible to indicate the -form it should have. It is easy to say that it -should have a form suitable to its matter; but how -suitable? Suitable to set the matter off, adorn, -embellish it, or suitable simply to bring it directly, -quick and potent, to the apprehension of the reader? -This is the question of style, about which many -masters have had many opinions; upon which you -can make up no safe generalization from the practice -of those who have unquestionably given to the -matter of their thought immortal form, an accent -or a countenance never to be forgotten. Who shall -say how much of Burke’s splendid and impressive -imagery is part and stuff of his thought, or tell -why even that part of Newman’s prose which is devoid -of ornament, stripped to its shining skin, and -running bare and lithe and athletic to carry its -tidings to men, should promise to enjoy as certain -an immortality? Why should Lamb go so quaintly -and elaborately to work upon his critical essays, -taking care to perfume every sentence, if possible, -with the fine savor of an old phrase, if the same -business could be as effectively done in the plain -and even cadences of Mr. Matthew Arnold’s prose? -Why should Gibbon be so formal, so stately, so -elaborate, when he had before his eyes the example -of great Tacitus, whose direct, sententious style had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">24</span> -outlived by so many hundred years the very language -in which he wrote? In poetry, who shall -measure the varieties of style lavished upon similar -themes? The matter of vital thought is not separable -from the thinker; its forms must suit his -handling as well as fit his conception. Any style -is author’s stuff which is suitable to his purpose and -his fancy. He may use rich fabrics with which to -costume his thoughts, or he may use simple stone -from which to sculpture them, and leave them -bare. His only limits are those of art. He may -not indulge a taste for the merely curious or fantastic. -The quaint writers have quaint thoughts; -their material is suitable. They do not merely -satisfy themselves as virtuosi, with collections of -odd phrases and obsolete meanings. They needed -twisted words to fit the eccentric patterns of their -thought. The great writer has always dignity, restraint, -propriety, adequateness; what time he -loses these qualities he ceases to be great. His -style neither creaks nor breaks under his passion, -but carries the strain with unshaken strength. It -is not trivial or mean, but speaks what small meanings -fall in its way with simplicity, as conscious of -their smallness. Its playfulness is within bounds; -its laugh never bursts too boisterously into a -guffaw. A great style always knows what it would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">25</span> -be at, and does the thing appropriately, with the -larger sort of taste.</p> - -<p>This is the condemnation of tricks of phrase, devices -to catch the attention, exaggerations and loud -talk to hold it. No writer can afford to strive -after effect, if his striving is to be apparent. For -just and permanent effect is missed altogether -unless it be so completely attained as to seem like -some touch of sunlight, perfect, natural, inevitable, -wrought without effort and without deliberate purpose -to be effective. Mere audacity of attempt -can, of course, never win the wished for result; -and if the attempt be successful, it is not audacious. -What we call audacity in a great writer -has no touch of temerity, sauciness, or arrogance in -it. It is simply high spirit, a dashing and splendid -display of strength. Boldness is ridiculous -unless it be impressive, and it can be impressive -only when backed by solid forces of character and -attainment. Your plebeian hack cannot afford the -showy paces; only the full-blooded Arabian has -the sinew and proportion to lend them perfect -grace and propriety. The art of letters eschews -the bizarre as rigidly as does every other fine art. -It mixes its colors with brains, and is obedient to -great Nature’s sane standards of right adjustment -in all that it attempts.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">26</span></p> - -<p>You can make no catalogue of these features of -great writing; there is no science of literature. -Literature in its essence is mere spirit, and you -must experience it rather than analyze it too formally. -It is the door to nature and to ourselves. -It opens our hearts to receive the experiences of -great men and the conceptions of great races. It -awakens us to the significance of action and to the -singular power of mental habit. It airs our souls -in the wide atmosphere of contemplation. “In -these bad days, when it is thought more educationally -useful to know the principle of the common -pump than Keats’ Ode on a Grecian Urn,” as -Mr. Birrell says, we cannot afford to let one single -precious sentence of “mere literature” go by us -unread or unpraised. If this free people to which -we belong is to keep its fine spirit, its perfect temper -amidst affairs, its high courage in the face of -difficulties, its wise temperateness and wide-eyed -hope, it must continue to drink deep and often -from the old wells of English undefiled, quaff the -keen tonic of its best ideals, keep its blood warm -with all the great utterances of exalted purpose -and pure principle of which its matchless literature -is full. The great spirits of the past must -command us in the tasks of the future. Mere -literature will keep us pure and keep us strong.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">27</span> -Even though it puzzle or altogether escape scientific -method, it may keep our horizon clear for us, -and our eyes glad to look bravely forth upon the -world.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_28" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">28</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="II">II.<br /> - -<span class="subhead">THE AUTHOR HIMSELF.</span></h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">Who</span> can help wondering, concerning the modern -multitude of books, where all these companions of -his reading hours will be buried when they die; -which will have monuments erected to them; which -escape the envy of time and live? It is pathetic -to think of the number that must be forgotten, -after having been removed from the good places to -make room for their betters.</p> - -<p>Much the most pathetic thought about books, -however, is that excellence will not save them. -Their fates will be as whimsical as those of the -humankind which produces them. Knaves find it -as easy to get remembered as good men. It is not -right living or learning or kind offices, simply and -of themselves, but—something else that gives -immortality of fame. Be a book never so scholarly, -it may die; be it never so witty, or never so -full of good feeling and of an honest statement -of truth, it may not live.</p> - -<p>When once a book has become immortal, we -think that we can see why it became so. It contained,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">29</span> -we perceive, a casting of thought which could not -but arrest and retain men’s attention; it said some -things once and for all because it gave them their -best expression. Or else it spoke with a grace or -with a fire of imagination, with a sweet cadence -of phrase and a full harmony of tone, which have -made it equally dear to all generations of those -who love the free play of fancy or the incomparable -music of perfected human speech. Or perhaps it -uttered with candor and simplicity some universal -sentiment; perchance pictured something in the -tragedy or the comedy of man’s life as it was never -pictured before, and must on that account be read -and read again as not to be superseded. There -must be something special, we judge, either in its -form or in its substance, to account for its unwonted -fame and fortune.</p> - -<p>This upon first analysis, taking one book at a -time. A look deeper into the heart of the matter -enables us to catch at least a glimpse of a single -and common source of immortality. The world is -attracted by books as each man is attracted by his -several friends. You recommend that capital fellow -So-and-So to the acquaintance of others because -of his discriminating and diverting powers of observation: -the very tones and persons—it would -seem the very selves—of every type of man live<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">30</span> -again in his mimicries and descriptions. He is the -dramatist of your circle; you can never forget him, -nor can any one else; his circle of acquaintances can -never grow smaller. Could he live on and retain -perennially that wonderful freshness and vivacity -of his, he must become the most famous guest and -favorite of the world. Who that has known a man -quick and shrewd to see dispassionately the inner -history, the reason and the ends, of the combinations -of society, and at the same time eloquent to tell of -them, with a hold on the attention gained by a certain -quaint force and sagacity resident in no other -man, can find it difficult to understand why we -still resort to Montesquieu? Possibly there are -circles favored of the gods who have known some -fellow of infinite store of miscellaneous and curious -learning, who has greatly diverted both himself -and his friends by a way peculiar to himself of giving -it out upon any and all occasions, item by item, -as if it were all homogeneous and of a piece, and -by his odd skill in making unexpected application -of it to out-of-the-way, unpromising subjects, as if -there were in his view of things mental no such disintegrating -element as incongruity. Such a circle -would esteem it strange were Burton not beloved -of the world. And so of those, if any there be, -who have known men of simple, calm, transparent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">31</span> -natures, untouched by storm or perplexity, whose -talk was full of such serious, placid reflection as -seemed to mirror their own reverent hearts,—talk -often prosy, but more often touchingly beautiful, -because of its nearness to nature and the solemn -truth of life. There may be those, also, who have -felt the thrill of personal contact with some stormy -peasant nature full of strenuous, unsparing speech -concerning men and affairs. These have known -why a Wordsworth or a Carlyle must be read by -all generations of those who love words of first-hand -inspiration. In short, in every case of literary -immortality originative personality is present. -Not origination simply,—that may be mere invention, -which in literature has nothing immortal about -it; but origination which takes its stamp and character -from the originator, which is his spirit given -to the world, which is himself outspoken.</p> - -<p>Individuality does not consist in the use of the -very personal pronoun, <em>I</em>: it consists in tone, in -method, in attitude, in point of view; it consists in -saying things in such a way that you will yourself -be recognized as a force in saying them. Do we -not at once know Lamb when he speaks? And -even more formal Addison, does not his speech bewray -and endear him to us? His personal charm -is less distinct, much less fascinating, than that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">32</span> -which goes with what Lamb speaks, but a charm he -has sufficient for immortality. In Steele the matter -is more impersonal, more mortal. Some of Dr. -Johnson’s essays, you feel, might have been written -by a dictionary. It is impersonal matter that is -dead matter. Are you asked who fathered a certain -brilliant, poignant bit of political analysis? -You say, Why, only Bagehot could have written -that. Does a wittily turned verse make you hesitate -between laughter at its hit and grave thought -because of its deeper, covert meaning? Do you -not know that only Lowell could do that? Do -you catch a strain of pure Elizabethan music and -doubt whether to attribute it to Shakespeare or to -another? Do you not <em>know</em> the authors who still -live?</p> - -<p>Now, the noteworthy thing about such individuality -is that it will not develop under every star, or -in one place just as well as in another; there is an -atmosphere which kills it, and there is an atmosphere -which fosters it. The atmosphere which -kills it is the atmosphere of sophistication, where -cleverness and fashion and knowingness thrive: -cleverness, which is froth, not strong drink; fashion, -which is a thing assumed, not a thing of -nature; and knowingness, which is naught.</p> - -<p>Of course there are born, now and again, as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">33</span> -tokens of some rare mood of Nature, men of so -intense and individual a cast that circumstance and -surroundings affect them little more than friction -affects an express train. They command their own -development without even the consciousness that to -command costs strength. These cannot be sophisticated; -for sophistication is subordination to the -ways of your world. But these are the very greatest -and the very rarest; and it is not the greatest -and the rarest alone who shape the world and its -thought. That is done also by the great and the -merely extraordinary. There is a rank and file in -literature, even in the literature of immortality, and -these must go much to school to the people about -them.</p> - -<p>It is by the number and charm of the individualities -which it contains that the literature of any -country gains distinction. We turn anywhither to -know men. The best way to foster literature, if it -may be fostered, is to cultivate the author himself,—a -plant of such delicate and precarious growth -that special soils are needed to produce it in its full -perfection. The conditions which foster individuality -are those which foster simplicity, thought and -action which are direct, naturalness, spontaneity. -What are these conditions?</p> - -<p>In the first place, a certain helpful ignorance.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">34</span> -It is best for the author to be born away from literary -centres, or to be excluded from their ruling -set if he be born in them. It is best that he start -out with his thinking, not knowing how much has -been thought and said about everything. A certain -amount of ignorance will insure his sincerity, will -increase his boldness and shelter his genuineness, -which is his hope of power. Not ignorance of life, -but life may be learned in any neighborhood;—not -ignorance of the greater laws which govern -human affairs, but they may be learned without a -library of historians and commentators, by imaginative -sense, by seeing better than by reading;—not -ignorance of the infinitudes of human circumstance, -but these may be perceived without the intervention -of universities;—not ignorance of one’s self and -of one’s neighbor; but innocence of the sophistications -of learning, its research without love, its knowledge -without inspiration, its method without grace; -freedom from its shame at trying to know many -things as well as from its pride of trying to know -but one thing; ignorance of that faith in small confounding -facts which is contempt for large reassuring -principles.</p> - -<p>Our present problem is not how to clarify our -reasonings and perfect our analyses, but how to -reënrich and reënergize our literature. That literature<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">35</span> -is suffering, not from ignorance, but from -sophistication and self-consciousness; and it is suffering -hardly less from excess of logical method. -Ratiocination does not keep us pure, render us -earnest, or make us individual and specific forces -in the world. Those inestimable results are accomplished -by whatever implants principle and -conviction, whatever quickens with inspiration, -fills with purpose and courage, gives outlook, and -makes character. Reasoned thinking does indeed -clear the mind’s atmospheres and lay open to its -view fields of action; but it is loving and believing, -sometimes hating and distrusting, often -prejudice and passion, always the many things -which we call the one thing, character, which -create and shape our acting. Life quite overtowers -logic. Thinking and erudition alone will not equip -for the great tasks and triumphs of life and literature: -the persuading of other men’s purposes, the -entrance into other men’s minds to possess them -forever. Culture broadens and sweetens literature, -but native sentiment and unmarred individuality -create it. Not all of mental power lies in the processes -of thinking. There is power also in passion, -in personality, in simple, native, uncritical conviction, -in unschooled feeling. The power of -science, of system, is executive, not stimulative. I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">36</span> -do not find that I derive inspiration, but only information, -from the learned historians and analysts -of liberty; but from the sonneteers, the poets, who, -speak its spirit and its exalted purpose,—who, -recking nothing of the historical method, obey only -the high method of their own hearts,—what may -a man not gain of courage and confidence in the -right way of politics?</p> - -<p>It is your direct, unhesitating, intent, headlong -man, who has his sources in the mountains, who -digs deep channels for himself in the soil of his -times and expands into the mighty river, to become -a landmark forever; and not your “broad” man, -sprung from the schools, who spreads his shallow, -extended waters over the wide surfaces of learning, -to leave rich deposits, it may be, for other men’s -crops to grow in, but to be himself dried up by a -few score summer noons. The man thrown early -upon his own resources, and already become a conqueror -of success before being thrown with the -literary talkers; the man grown to giant’s stature -in some rural library, and become exercised there -in a giant’s prerogatives before ever he has been -laughingly told, to his heart’s confusion, of scores -of other giants dead and forgotten long ago; the -man grounded in hope and settled in conviction -ere he has discovered how many hopes time has<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">37</span> -seen buried, how many convictions cruelly given -the lie direct by fate; the man who has carried -his youth into middle age before going into the -chill atmosphere of <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">blasé</i> sentiment; the quiet, -stern man who has cultivated literature on a little -oatmeal before thrusting himself upon the great -world as a prophet and seer; the man who pronounces -new eloquence in the rich dialect in which -he was bred; the man come up to the capital -from the provinces,—these are the men who people -the world’s mind with new creations, and give -to the sophisticated learned of the next generation -new names to conjure with.</p> - -<p>If you have a candid and well-informed friend -among city lawyers, ask him where the best masters -of his profession are bred,—in the city or in -the country. He will reply without hesitation, -“In the country.” You will hardly need to have -him state the reason. The country lawyer has -been obliged to study all parts of the law alike, and -he has known no reason why he should not do so. -He has not had the chance to make himself a -specialist in any one branch of the law, as is the -fashion among city practitioners, and he has not -coveted the opportunity to do it. There would not -have been enough special cases to occupy or remunerate -him if he had coveted it. He has dared<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">38</span> -attempt the task of knowing the whole law, and -yet without any sense of daring, but as a matter of -course. In his own little town, in the midst of his -own small library of authorities, it has not seemed -to him an impossible task to explore all the topics -that engage his profession; the guiding principles, -at any rate, of all branches of the great subject -were open to him in a few books. And so it often -happens that when he has found his sea legs on -the sequestered inlets at home, and ventures, as -he sometimes will, upon the great, troublous, and -much-frequented waters of city practice in search -of more work and larger fees, the country lawyer -will once and again confound his city-bred brethren -by discovering to them the fact that the law is a -many-sided thing of principles, and not altogether -a one-sided thing of technical rule and arbitrary -precedent.</p> - -<p>It would seem to be necessary that the author -who is to stand as a distinct and imperative individual -among the company of those who express -the world’s thought should come to a hard crystallization -before subjecting himself to the tense strain -of cities, the corrosive acids of critical circles. -The ability to see for one’s self is attainable, not -by mixing with crowds and ascertaining how they -look at things, but by a certain aloofness and self-containment.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">39</span> -The solitariness of some genius is -not accidental; it is characteristic and essential. -To the constructive imagination there are some immortal -feats which are possible only in seclusion. -The man must heed first and most of all the suggestions -of his own spirit; and the world can be -seen from windows overlooking the street better -than from the street itself.</p> - -<p>Literature grows rich, various, full-voiced largely -through the re-discovery of truth, by thinking re-thought, -by stories re-told, by songs re-sung. The -song of human experience grows richer and richer -in its harmonies, and must grow until the full accord -and melody are come. If too soon subjected -to the tense strain of the city, a man cannot expand; -he is beaten out of his natural shape by the -incessant impact and press of men and affairs. It -will often turn out that the unsophisticated man -will display not only more force, but more literary -skill even, than the trained <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">littérateur</i>. For one -thing, he will probably have enjoyed a fresher contact -with old literature. He reads not for the sake -of a critical acquaintance with this or that author, -with no thought of going through all his writings -and “working him up,” but as he would ride a -spirited horse, for love of the life and motion of it.</p> - -<p>A general impression seems to have gained currency<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">40</span> -that the last of the bullying, omniscient -critics was buried in the grave of Francis Jeffrey; -and it is becoming important to correct the misapprehension. -There never was a time when there -was more superior knowledge, more specialist -omniscience, among reviewers than there is to-day; -not pretended superior knowledge, but real. Jeffrey’s -was very real of its kind. For those who -write books, one of the special, inestimable advantages -of lacking a too intimate knowledge of the -“world of letters” consists in not knowing all that -is known by those who review books, in ignorance -of the fashions among those who construct canons -of taste. The modern critic is a leader of fashion. -He carries with him the air of a literary worldliness. -If your book be a novel, your reviewer will -know all previous plots, all former, all possible, -motives and situations. You cannot write anything -absolutely new for him, and why should you -desire to do again what has been done already? -If it be a poem, the reviewer’s head already rings -with the whole gamut of the world’s metrical music; -he can recognize any simile, recall all turns of -phrase, match every sentiment; why seek to please -him anew with old things? If it concern itself -with the philosophy of politics, he can and will set -himself to test it by the whole history of its kind<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">41</span> -from Plato down to Benjamin Kidd. How can it -but spoil your sincerity to know that your critic -will know everything? Will you not be tempted -of the devil to anticipate his judgment or his pretensions -by pretending to know as much as he?</p> - -<p>The literature of creation naturally falls into two -kinds: that which interprets nature or human action, -and that which interprets self. Both of these -may have the flavor of immortality, but neither -unless it be free from self-consciousness. No man, -therefore, can create after the best manner in either -of these kinds who is an <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">habitué</i> of the circles -made so delightful by those interesting men, the -modern <em>literati</em>, sophisticated in all the fashions, -ready in all the catches of the knowing literary -world which centres in the city and the university. -He cannot always be simple and straightforward. -He cannot be always and without pretension himself, -bound by no other man’s canons of taste in -speech or conduct. In the judgment of such circles -there is but one thing for you to do if you -would gain distinction: you must “beat the record;” -you must do certain definite literary feats -better than they have yet been done. You are -pitted against the literary “field.” You are hastened -into the paralysis of comparing yourself with -others, and thus away from the health of unhesitating<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">42</span> -self-expression and directness of first-hand -vision.</p> - -<p>It would be not a little profitable if we could -make correct analysis of the proper relations of -learning—learning of the critical, accurate sort—to -origination, of learning’s place in literature. -Although learning is never the real parent of literature, -but only sometimes its foster-father, and although -the native promptings of soul and sense are -its best and freshest sources, there is always the -danger that learning will claim, in every court of -taste which pretends to jurisdiction, exclusive and -preëminent rights as the guardian and preceptor -of authors. An effort is constantly being made to -create and maintain standards of literary worldliness, -if I may coin such a phrase. The thorough -man of the world affects to despise natural feeling; -does at any rate actually despise all displays of -it. He has an eye always on his world’s best manners, -whether native or imported, and is at continual -pains to be master of the conventions of society; -he will mortify the natural man as much as need -be in order to be in good form. What learned -criticism essays to do is to create a similar literary -worldliness, to establish fashions and conventions in -letters.</p> - -<p>I have an odd friend in one of the northern counties<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">43</span> -of Georgia,—a county set off by itself among -the mountains, but early found out by refined people -in search of summer refuge from the unhealthful -air of the southern coast. He belongs to an excellent -family of no little culture, but he was surprised -in the midst of his early schooling by the -coming on of the war; and education given pause -in such wise seldom begins again in the schools. -He was left, therefore, to “finish” his mind as -best he might in the companionship of the books in -his uncle’s library. These books were of the old -sober sort: histories, volumes of travels, treatises -on laws and constitutions, theologies, philosophies -more fanciful than the romances encased in neighbor -volumes on another shelf. But they were books -which were used to being taken down and read; -they had been daily companions to the rest of the -family, and they became familiar companions to my -friend’s boyhood. He went to them day after day, -because theirs was the only society offered him in -the lonely days when uncle and brothers were at -the war, and the women were busy about the tasks -of the home. How literally did he make those -delightful old volumes his familiars, his cronies! -He never dreamed the while, however, that he was -becoming learned; it never seemed to occur to him -that everybody else did not read just as he did, in just<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">44</span> -such a library. He found out afterwards, of course, -that he had kept much more of such company than -had the men with whom he loved to chat at the -post-office or around the fire in the village shops, -the habitual resorts of all who were socially inclined; -but he attributed that to lack of time on -their part, or to accident, and has gone on thinking -until now that all the books that come within his -reach are the natural intimates of man. And so -you shall hear him, in his daily familiar talk with -his neighbors, draw upon his singular stores of wise, -quaint learning with the quiet colloquial assurance, -“They tell me,” as if books contained current -rumor; and quote the poets with the easy unaffectedness -with which others cite a common maxim of -the street! He has been heard to refer to Dr. -Arnold of Rugby as “that school teacher over there -in England.”</p> - -<p>Surely one may treasure the image of this -simple, genuine man of learning as the image of a -sort of masterpiece of Nature in her own type of -erudition, a perfect sample of the kind of learning -that might beget the very highest sort of literature; -the literature, namely, of authentic individuality. It -is only under one of two conditions that learning -will not dull the edge of individuality: first, if one -never suspect that it is creditable and a matter of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">45</span> -pride to be learned, and so never become learned -for the sake of becoming so; or, second, if it never -suggest to one that investigation is better than -reflection. Learned investigation leads to many -good things, but one of these is not great literature, -because learned investigation commands, as -the first condition of its success, the repression of -individuality.</p> - -<p>His mind is a great comfort to every man who -has one; but a heart is not often to be so conveniently -possessed. Hearts frequently give trouble; -they are straightforward and impulsive, and can -seldom be induced to be prudent. They must be -schooled before they will become insensible; they -must be coached before they can be made to care -first and most for themselves: and in all cases the -mind must be their schoolmaster and coach. They -are irregular forces; but the mind may be trained -to observe all points of circumstance and all motives -of occasion.</p> - -<p>No doubt it is considerations of this nature that -must be taken to explain the fact that our universities -are erected entirely for the service of the -tractable mind, while the heart’s only education -must be gotten from association with its neighbor -heart, and in the ordinary courses of the world. -Life is its only university. Mind is monarch,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">46</span> -whose laws claim supremacy in those lands which -boast the movements of civilization, and it must -command all the instrumentalities of education. -At least such is the theory of the constitution of -the modern world. It is to be suspected that, as a -matter of fact, mind is one of those modern monarchs -who reign, but do not govern. That old House of -Commons, that popular chamber in which the passions, -the prejudices, the inborn, unthinking affections -long ago repudiated by mind, have their full -representation, controls much the greater part of -the actual conduct of affairs. To come out of the -figure, reasoned thought is, though perhaps the presiding, -not yet the regnant force in the world. In -life and in literature it is subordinate. The future -may belong to it; but the present and past do not. -Faith and virtue do not wear its livery; friendship, -loyalty, patriotism, do not derive their motives from -it. It does not furnish the material for those masses -of habit, of unquestioned tradition, and of treasured -belief which are the ballast of every steady ship of -state, enabling it to spread its sails safely to the -breezes of progress, and even to stand before the -storms of revolution. And this is a fact which -has its reflection in literature. There is a literature -of reasoned thought; but by far the greater -part of those writings which we reckon worthy of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">47</span> -that great name is the product, not of reasoned -thought, but of the imagination and of the spiritual -vision of those who see,—writings winged, not -with knowledge, but with sympathy, with sentiment, -with heartiness. Even the literature of reasoned -thought gets its life, not from its logic, but from -the spirit, the insight, and the inspiration which -are the vehicle of its logic. Thought presides, but -sentiment has the executive powers; the motive -functions belong to feeling.</p> - -<p>“Many people give many theories of literary -composition,” says the most natural and stimulating -of English critics, “and Dr. Blair, whom we -will read, is sometimes said to have exhausted the -subject; but, unless he has proved the contrary, -we believe that the knack in style is to write like a -human being. Some think they must be wise, -some elaborate, some concise; Tacitus wrote like a -pair of stays; some startle us, as Thomas Carlyle, -or a comet, inscribing with his tail. But legibility -is given to those who neglect these notions, and are -willing to be themselves, to write their own thoughts -in their own words, in the simplest words, in the -words wherein they were thought.... Books are -for various purposes,—tracts to teach, almanacs to -sell, poetry to make pastry; but this is the rarest sort -of a book,—a book to read. As Dr. Johnson<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">48</span> -said, ‘Sir, a good book is one you can hold in your -hand, and take to the fire.’ Now there are extremely -few books which can, with any propriety, -be so treated. When a great author, as Grote or -Gibbon, has devoted a whole life of horrid industry -to the composition of a large history, one feels one -ought not to touch it with a mere hand,—it is not -respectful. The idea of slavery hovers over the -Decline and Fall. Fancy a stiffly dressed gentleman, -in a stiff chair, slowly writing that stiff compilation -in a stiff hand; it is enough to stiffen you for life.”</p> - -<p>It is devoutly to be wished that we might learn to -prepare the best soils for mind, the best associations -and companionships, the least possible sophistication. -We are busy enough nowadays finding -out the best ways of fertilizing and stimulating -mind; but that is not quite the same thing as discovering -the best soils for it, and the best atmospheres. -Our culture is, by erroneous preference, -of the reasoning faculty, as if that were all of us. -Is it not the instinctive discontent of readers seeking -stimulating contact with authors that has given -us the present almost passionately spoken dissent -from the standards set themselves by the realists in -fiction, dissatisfaction with mere recording or observation? -And is not realism working out upon -itself the revenge its enemies would fain compass?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">49</span> -Must not all April Hopes exclude from their number -the hope of immortality?</p> - -<p>The rule for every man is, not to depend on the -education which other men prepare for him,—not -even to consent to it; but to strive to see things as -they are, and to be himself as he is. Defeat lies -in self-surrender.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_50" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">50</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="III">III.<br /> - -<span class="subhead">ON AN AUTHOR’S CHOICE OF COMPANY.</span></h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">Once</span> and again, it would seem, a man is born into -the world belated. Strayed out of a past age, he -comes among us like an alien, lives removed and -singular, and dies a stranger. There was a touch -of this strangeness in Charles Lamb. Much as he -was loved and befriended, he was not much understood; -for he drew aloof in his studies, affected -a “self-pleasing quaintness” in his style, took no -pains to hit the taste of his day, wandered at sweet -liberty in an age which could scarcely have bred -such another. “Hang the age!” he cried. “I -will write for antiquity.” And he did. He wrote -as if it were still Shakespeare’s day; made the -authors of that spacious time his constant companions -and study; and deliberately became himself -“the last of the Elizabethans.” When a new book -came out, he said, he always read an old one.</p> - -<p>The case ought, surely, to put us occasionally -upon reflecting. May an author not, in some degree, -by choosing his literary company, choose also -his literary character, and so, when he comes to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">51</span> -write, write himself back to his masters? May he -not, by examining his own tastes and yielding himself -obedient to his natural affinities, join what congenial -group of writers he will? The question can -be argued very strongly in the affirmative, and -that not alone because of Charles Lamb’s case. It -might be said that Lamb was antique only in the -forms of his speech; that he managed very cleverly -to hit the taste of his age in the substance of -what he wrote, for all the phraseology had so strong -a flavor of quaintness and was not at all in the -mode of the day. It would not be easy to prove -that; but it really does not matter. In his tastes, -certainly, Lamb was an old author, not a new one; -a “modern antique,” as Hood called him. He -wrote for his own age, of course, because there was -no other age at hand to write for, and the age he -liked best was past and gone; but he wrote what -he fancied the great generations gone by would -have liked, and what, as it has turned out in the -generosity of fortune, subsequent ages have warmly -loved and reverently canonized him for writing; as -if there were a casual taste that belongs to a day and -generation, and also a permanent taste which is -without date, and he had hit the latter.</p> - -<p>Great authors are not often men of fashion. -Fashion is always a harness and restraint, whether<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">52</span> -it be fashion in dress or fashion in vice or fashion -in literary art; and a man who is bound by it is -caught and formed in a fleeting mode. The great -writers are always innovators; for they are always -frank, natural, and downright, and frankness and -naturalness always disturb, when they do not wholly -break down, the fixed and complacent order of -fashion. No genuine man can be deliberately in -the fashion, indeed, in what he says, if he have any -movement of thought or individuality in him. He -remembers what Aristotle says, or if he does not, -his own pride and manliness fill him with the -thought instead. The very same action that is -noble if done for the satisfaction of one’s own sense -of right or purpose of self-development, said the -Stagirite, may, if done to satisfy others, become -menial and slavish. “It is the object of any action -or study that is all-important,” and if the author’s -chief object be to please he is condemned already. -The true spirit of authorship is a spirit of liberty -which scorns the slave’s trick of imitation. It is a -masterful spirit of conquest within the sphere of -ideas and of artistic form,—an impulse of empire -and origination.</p> - -<p>Of course a man may choose, if he will, to be -less than a free author. He may become a reporter; -for there is such a thing as reporting for books as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">53</span> -well as reporting for newspapers, and there have -been reporters so amazingly clever that their very -aptness and wit constitute them a sort of immortals. -You have proof of this in Horace Walpole, -at whose hands gossip and compliment receive a -sort of apotheosis. Such men hold the secret of -a kind of alchemy by which things trivial and temporary -may be transmuted into literature. But -they are only inspired reporters, after all; and -while a man was wishing, he might wish to be more, -and climb to better company.</p> - -<p>Every man must, of course, whether he will or -not, feel the spirit of the age in which he lives and -thinks and does his work; and the mere contact -will direct and form him more or less. But to wish -to serve the spirit of the age at any sacrifice of individual -naturalness or conviction, however small, -is to harbor the germ of a destroying disease. -Every man who writes ought to write for immortality, -even though he be of the multitude that die -at their graves; and the standards of immortality -are of no single age. There are many qualities -and causes that give permanency to a book, but -universal vogue during the author’s lifetime is not -one of them. Many authors now immortal have -enjoyed the applause of their own generations; -many authors now universally admired will, let us<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">54</span> -hope, pass on to an easy immortality. The praise -of your own day is no absolute disqualification; -but it may be if it be given for qualities which -your friends are the first to admire, for ’tis likely -they will also be the last. There is a greater -thing than the spirit of the age, and that is the -spirit of the ages. It is present in your own day; -it is even dominant then, with a sort of accumulated -power and mastery. If you can strike it, -you will strike, as it were, into the upper air of -your own time, where the forces are which run -from age to age. Lower down, where you breathe, -is the more inconstant air of opinion, inhaled, exhaled, -from day to day,—the variant currents, the -forces that will carry you, not forward, but hither -and thither.</p> - -<p>We write nowadays a great deal with our eyes -circumspectly upon the tastes of our neighbors, but -very little with our attention bent upon our own -natural, self-speaking thoughts and the very truth -of the matter whereof we are discoursing. Now -and again, it is true, we are startled to find how -the age relishes still an old-fashioned romance, if -written with a new-fashioned vigor and directness; -how quaint and simple and lovely things, as well -as what is altogether modern and analytic and -painful, bring our most judicious friends crowding,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">55</span> -purses in hand, to the book-stalls; and for a while -we are puzzled to see worn-out styles and past -modes revived. But we do not let these things -seriously disturb our study of prevailing fashions. -These books of adventure are not at all, we assure -ourselves, in the true spirit of the age, with its -realistic knowledge of what men really do think -and purpose, and the taste for them must be only -for the moment or in jest. We need not let our -surprise at occasional flurries and variations in the -literary market cloud or discredit our analysis of -the real taste of the day, or suffer ourselves to be -betrayed into writing romances, however much we -might rejoice to be delivered from the drudgery of -sociological study, and made free to go afield with -our imaginations upon a joyous search for hidden -treasure or knightly adventure.</p> - -<p>And yet it is quite likely, after all, that the -present age is transient. Past ages have been. It -is probable that the objects and interests now so -near us, looming dominant in all the foreground -of our day, will sometime be shifted and lose their -place in the perspective. That has happened with -the near objects and exaggerated interests of other -days, so violently sometimes as to submerge and -thrust out of sight whole libraries of books. It -will not do to reckon upon the persistence of new<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">56</span> -things. ’Twere best to give them time to make -trial of the seasons. The old things of art and -taste and thought are the permanent things. We -know that they are because they have lasted long -enough to grow old; and we deem it safe to assess -the spirit of the age by the same test. No age -adds a great deal to what it received from the age -that went before it; no time gets an air all its -own. The same atmosphere holds from age to age; -it is only the little movements of the air that are -new. In the intervals when the trades do not -blow, fleeting cross-winds venture abroad, the which -if a man wait for he may lose his voyage.</p> - -<p>No man who has anything to say need stop and -bethink himself whom he may please or displease -in the saying of it. He has but one day to write -in, and that is his own. He need not fear that he -will too much ignore it. He will address the men -he knows when he writes, whether he be conscious -of it or not; he may dismiss all fear on that score -and use his liberty to the utmost. There are some -things that can have no antiquity and must ever be -without date, and genuineness and spirit are of -their number. A man who has these must ever -be “timely,” and at the same time fit to last, if he -can get his qualities into what he writes. He may -freely read, too, what he will that is congenial, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">57</span> -form himself by companionships that are chosen -simply because they are to his taste; that is, if he -be genuine and in very truth a man of independent -spirit. Lamb would have written “for antiquity” -with a vengeance had his taste for the quaint -writers of an elder day been an affectation, or -the authors he liked men themselves affected and -ephemeral. No age this side antiquity would ever -have vouchsafed him a glance or a thought. But -it was not an affectation, and the men he preferred -were as genuine and as spirited as he was. -He was simply obeying an affinity and taking -cheer after his own kind. A man born into the -real patriciate of letters may take his pleasure in -what company he will without taint or loss of -caste; may go confidently abroad in the free -world of books and choose his comradeships without -fear of offense.</p> - -<p>More than that, there is no other way in which -he can form himself, if he would have his power -transcend a single age. He belittles himself who -takes from the world no more than he can get -from the speech of his own generation. The only -advantage of books over speech is that they may -hold from generation to generation, and reach, not -a small group merely, but a multitude of men; -and a man who writes without being a man of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">58</span> -letters is curtailed of his heritage. It is in this -world of old and new that he must form himself if -he would in the end belong to it and increase its -bulk of treasure. If he has conned the new theories -of society, but knows nothing of Burke; the -new notions about fiction, and has not read his -Scott and his Richardson; the new criminology, -and wots nothing of the old human nature; the new -religions, and has never felt the power and sanctity -of the old, it is much the same as if he had -read Ibsen and Maeterlinck, and had never opened -Shakespeare. How is he to know wholesome air -from foul, good company from bad, visions from -nightmares? He has framed himself for the great -art and handicraft of letters only when he has -taken all the human parts of literature as if they -were without date, and schooled himself in a catholic -sanity of taste and judgment.</p> - -<p>Then he may very safely choose what company -his own work shall be done in,—in what manner, -and under what masters. He cannot choose amiss -for himself or for his generation if he choose like a -man, without light whim or weak affectation; not -like one who chooses a costume, but like one who -chooses a character. What is it, let him ask himself, -that renders a bit of writing a “piece of -literature”? It is reality. A “wood-note wild,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">59</span> -sung unpremeditated and out of the heart; a description -written as if with an undimmed and -seeing eye upon the very object described; an -exposition that lays bare the very soul of the -matter; a motive truly revealed; anger that is -righteous and justly spoken; mirth that has its -sources pure; phrases to find the heart of a thing, -and a heart seen in things for the phrases to find; -an unaffected meaning set out in language that is -its own,—such are the realities of literature. -Nothing else is of the kin. Phrases used for their -own sake; borrowed meanings which the borrower -does not truly care for; an affected manner; an -acquired style; a hollow reason; words that are -not fit; things which do not live when spoken,—these -are its falsities, which die in the handling.</p> - -<p>The very top breed of what is unreal is begotten -by imitation. Imitators succeed sometimes, -and flourish, even while a breath may last; but -“imitate and be damned” is the inexorable -threat and prophecy of fate with regard to the -permanent fortunes of literature. That has been -notorious this long time past. It is more worth -noting, lest some should not have observed it, that -there are other and subtler ways of producing -what is unreal. There are the mixed kinds of -writing, for example. Argument is real if it come<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">60</span> -vital from the mind; narrative is real if the thing -told have life and the narrator unaffectedly see it -while he speaks; but to narrate and argue in the -same breath is naught. Take, for instance, the -familiar example of the early history of Rome. -Make up your mind what was the truth of the -matter, and then, out of the facts as you have disentangled -them, construct a firmly touched narrative, -and the thing you create is real, has the confidence -and consistency of life. But mix the narrative -with critical comment upon other writers and their -variant versions of the tale, show by a nice elaboration -of argument the whole conjectural basis of -the story, set your reader the double task of doubting -and accepting, rejecting and constructing, and -at once you have touched the whole matter with -unreality. The narrative by itself might have had -an objective validity; the argument by itself an -intellectual firmness, sagacity, vigor, that would -have sufficed to make and keep it potent; but -together they confound each other, destroy each -other’s atmosphere, make a double miscarriage. -The story is rendered unlikely, and the argument -obscure. This is the taint which has touched all -our recent historical writing. The critical discussion -and assessment of the sources of information, -which used to be a thing for the private mind of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">61</span> -the writer, now so encroach upon the open text -that the story, for the sake of which we would believe -the whole thing was undertaken, is oftentimes -fain to sink away into the foot-notes. The -process has ceased to be either pure exegesis or -straightforward narrative, and history has ceased -to be literature.</p> - -<p>Nor is this our only sort of mixed writing. -Our novels have become sociological studies, our -poems vehicles of criticism, our sermons political -manifestos. We have confounded all processes in -a common use, and do not know what we would be -at. We can find no better use for Pegasus than -to carry our vulgar burdens, no higher key for -song than questionings and complainings. Fancy -pulls in harness with intellectual doubt; enthusiasm -walks apologetically alongside science. We -try to make our very dreams engines of social reform. -It is a parlous state of things for literature, -and it is high time authors should take heed what -company they keep. The trouble is, they all want -to be “in society,” overwhelmed with invitations -from the publishers, well known and talked about -at the clubs, named every day in the newspapers, -photographed for the news-stalls; and it is so hard -to distinguish between fashion and form, costume -and substance, convention and truth, the things<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">62</span> -that show well and the things that last well; so -hard to draw away from the writers that are new -and talked about and note those who are old and -walk apart, to distinguish the tones which are -merely loud from the tones that are genuine, to -get far enough away from the press and the hubbub -to see and judge the movements of the crowd!</p> - -<p>Some will do it. Choice spirits will arise and -make conquest of us, not “in society,” but with -what will seem a sort of outlawry. The great -growths of literature spring up in the open, where -the air is free and they can be a law unto themselves. -The law of life, here as elsewhere, is the -law of nourishment: with what was the earth -laden, and the atmosphere? Literatures are renewed, -as they are originated, by uncontrived impulses -of nature, as if the sap moved unbidden in -the mind. Once conceive the matter so, and -Lamb’s quaint saying assumes a sort of gentle -majesty. A man should “write for antiquity” as -a tree grows into the ancient air,—this old air -that has moved upon the face of the world ever -since the day of creation, which has set the law of -life to all things, which has nurtured the forests -and won the flowers to their perfection, which has -fed men’s lungs with life, sped their craft upon the -seas, borne abroad their songs and their cries,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">63</span> -blown their forges to flame, and buoyed up whatever -they have contrived. ’Tis a common medium, -though a various life; and the figure may serve -the author for instruction.</p> - -<p>The breeding of authors is no doubt a very -occult thing, and no man can set the rules of it; -but at least the sort of “ampler ether” in which -they are best brought to maturity is known. Writers -have liked to speak of the Republic of Letters, -as if to mark their freedom and equality; but -there is a better phrase, namely, the Community -of Letters; for that means intercourse and comradeship -and a life in common. Some take up -their abode in it as if they had made no search for -a place to dwell in, but had come into the freedom -of it by blood and birthright. Others buy the -freedom with a great price, and seek out all the -sights and privileges of the place with an eager -thoroughness and curiosity. Still others win their -way into it with a certain grace and aptitude, next -best to the ease and dignity of being born to the -right. But for all it is a bonny place to be. Its -comradeships are a liberal education. Some, indeed, -even there, live apart; but most run always -in the market-place to know what all the rest have -said. Some keep special company, while others -keep none at all. But all feel the atmosphere and -life of the place in their several degrees.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">64</span></p> - -<p>No doubt there are national groups, and Shakespeare -is king among the English, as Homer is -among the Greeks, and sober Dante among his -gay countrymen. But their thoughts all have in -common, though speech divide them; and sovereignty -does not exclude comradeship or embarrass -freedom. No doubt there is many a willful, ungoverned -fellow endured there without question, -and many a churlish cynic, because he possesses -that patent of genuineness or of a wit which -strikes for the heart of things, which, without -further test, secures citizenship in that free company. -What a gift of tongues is there, and of -prophecy! What strains of good talk, what counsel -of good judgment, what cheer of good tales, -what sanctity of silent thought! The sight-seers -who pass through from day to day, the press of -voluble men at the gates, the affectation of citizenship -by mere sojourners, the folly of those who -bring new styles or affect old ones, the procession -of the generations, disturb the calm of that serene -community not a whit. They will entertain a -man a whole decade, if he happen to stay so long, -though they know all the while he can have no -permanent place among them.</p> - -<p>’T would be a vast gain to have the laws of that -community better known than they are. Even the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">65</span> -first principles of its constitution are singularly -unfamiliar. It is not a community of writers, but -a community of letters. One gets admission, not -because he writes,—write he never so cleverly, like -a gentleman and a man of wit,—but because he is -literate, a true initiate into the secret craft and -mystery of letters. What that secret is a man -may know, even though he cannot practice or appropriate -it. If a man can see the permanent element -in things,—the true sources of laughter, the -real fountains of tears, the motives that strike -along the main lines of conduct, the acts which display -the veritable characters of men, the trifles that -are significant, the details that make the mass,—if -he know these things, and can also choose words -with a like knowledge of their power to illuminate -and reveal, give color to the eye and passion to the -thought, the secret is his, and an entrance to that -immortal communion.</p> - -<p>It may be that some learn the mystery of that -insight without tutors; but most must put themselves -under governors and earn their initiation. -While a man lives, at any rate, he can keep the -company of the masters whose words contain the -mystery and open it to those who can see, almost -with every accent; and in such company it may at -last be revealed to him,—so plainly that he may,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">66</span> -if he will, still linger in such comradeship when he -is dead.</p> - -<p>It would seem that there are two tests which -admit to that company, and that they are conclusive. -The one is, Are you individual? the other, -Are you conversable? “I beg pardon,” said a -grave wag, coming face to face with a small person -of most consequential air, and putting glass to -eye in calm scrutiny—“I beg pardon; but are you -anybody in particular?” Such is very much the -form of initiation into the permanent communion -of the realm of letters. Tell them, No, but that -you have done much better—you have caught the -tone of a great age, studied taste, divined opportunity, -courted and won a vast public, been most -timely and most famous; and you shall be pained -to find them laughing in your face. Tell them you -are earnest, sincere, consecrate to a cause, an -apostle and reformer, and they will still ask you, -“But are you anybody in particular?” They will -mean, “Were you your own man in what you -thought, and not a puppet? Did you speak with -an individual note and distinction that marked you -able to think as well as to speak,—to be yourself -in thoughts and in words also?” “Very well, -then; you are welcome enough.”</p> - -<p>“That is, if you be also conversable.” It is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">67</span> -plain enough what they mean by that, too. They -mean, if you have spoken in such speech and spirit -as can be understood from age to age, and not in -the pet terms and separate spirit of a single day -and generation. Can the old authors understand -you, that you would associate with them? Will -men be able to take your meaning in the differing -days to come? Or is it perishable matter of the -day that you deal in—little controversies that -carry no lasting principle at their heart; experimental -theories of life and science, put forth for -their novelty and with no test of their worth; pictures -in which fashion looms very large, but human -nature shows very small; things that please everybody, -but instruct no one; mere fancies that are -an end in themselves? Be you never so clever an -artist in words and in ideas, if they be not the -words that wear and mean the same thing, and -that a thing intelligible, from age to age, the ideas -that shall hold valid and luminous in whatever day -or company, you may clamor at the gate till your -lungs fail and get never an answer.</p> - -<p>For that to what you seek admission is a veritable -“community.” In it you must be able to be, -and to remain, conversable. How are you to test -your preparation meanwhile, unless you look to -your comradeships now while yet it is time to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">68</span> -learn? Frequent the company in which you may -learn the speech and the manner which are fit to -last. Take to heart the admirable example you -shall see set you there of using speech and manner -to speak your real thought and be genuinely and -simply yourself.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_69" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">69</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="IV">IV.<br /> - -<span class="subhead">A LITERARY POLITICIAN.</span></h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">“Literary</span> politician” is not a label much in -vogue, and may need first of all a justification, lest -even the man of whom I am about to speak should -decline it from his very urn. I do not mean a -politician who affects literature; who seems to appreciate -the solemn moral purpose of Wordsworth’s -Happy Warrior, and yet is opposed to ballot reform. -Neither do I mean a literary man who -affects politics; who earns his victories through -the publishers, and his defeats at the hands of the -men who control the primaries. I mean the man -who has the genius to see deep into affairs, and the -discretion to keep out of them,—the man to whom, -by reason of knowledge and imagination and sympathetic -insight, governments and policies are as -open books, but who, instead of trying to put haphazard -characters of his own into those books, -wisely prefers to read their pages aloud to others. -A man this who knows polities, and yet does not -handle policies.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">70</span></p> - -<p>There is, no doubt, a very widespread skepticism -as to the existence of such a man. Many people -would ask you to prove him as well as define him; -and that, as they assume, upon a very obvious -principle. It is a rule of universal acceptance in -theatrical circles that no one can write a good play -who has no practical acquaintance with the stage. -A knowledge of greenroom possibilities and of -stage machinery, it is held, must go before all successful -attempts to put either passion or humor -into action on the boards, if pit and gallery are to -get a sense of reality from the performance. No -wonder that Sheridan’s plays were effective, for -Sheridan was both author and actor; but abundant -wonder that simple Goldsmith succeeded with -his exquisite “She Stoops to Conquer,”—unless -we are to suppose that an Irishman of the last century, -like the Irishman of this, had some sixth -sense which enabled him to understand other people’s -business better than his own; for poor Goldsmith -could not act (even off the stage), and his -only connection with the theatre seems to have been -his acquaintance with Garrick. Lytton, we know, -had Macready constantly at his elbow, to give and -enforce suggestions calculated to render plays playable. -And in our own day, the authors of what -we indulgently call “dramatic literature” find<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">71</span> -themselves constantly obliged to turn tragedies into -comedies, comedies into farces, to satisfy the managers; -for managers know the stage, and pretend to -know all possible audiences also. The writer for -the stage must be playwright first, author second.</p> - -<p>Similar principles of criticism are not a little -affected by those who play the parts, great and small, -on the stage of politics. There is on that stage, -too, it is said, a complex machinery of action and -scene-shifting, a greenroom tradition and practice -as to costume and make-up, as to entry and exit, -necessities of concession to footlights and of appeal -to the pit, quite as rigorous and quite as proper for -study as are the concomitants of that other art -which we frankly call acting. This is an idea, -indeed, accepted in some quarters outside the political -playhouse as well as within it. Mr. Sydney -Colvin, for example, declares very rightly <span class="locked">that:—</span></p> - -<p>“Men of letters and of thought are habitually -too much given to declaiming at their ease against -the delinquencies of men of action and affairs. The -inevitable friction of practical politics,” he argues, -“generates heat enough already, and the office of -the thinker and critic should be to supply not heat, -but light. The difficulties which attend his own -unmolested task—the task of seeking after and -proclaiming salutary truths—should teach him to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">72</span> -make allowance for the far more urgent difficulties -which beset the politician; the man obliged, amidst -the clash of interests and temptations, to practice -from hand to mouth, and at his peril, the most uncertain -and at the same time the most indispensable -of the experimental arts.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Colvin is himself of the class of men of letters -and of thought; he accordingly puts the case -against his class much more mildly than the practical -politician would desire to see it put. Practical -politicians are wont to regard closeted writers upon -politics with a certain condescension, dashed with -slight traces of uneasy concern. “Literary men -can say strong things of their age,” observes Mr. -Bagehot, “for no one expects that they will go out -and act on them. They are a kind of ticket-of-leave -lunatics, from whom no harm is for the moment -expected; who seem quiet, but on whose -vagaries a practical public must have its eye.” -I suppose that the really serious, practical man -in politics would see nothing of satirical humor in -such a description. He would have you note that, -although traced with a sharp point of wit, the picture -is nevertheless true. He can cite you a score -of instances illustrative of the danger of putting -faith in the political judgments of those who are -not politicians bred in the shrewd and moving -world of political management.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">73</span></p> - -<p>The genuine practical politician, such as (even -our enemies being the witnesses) we must be acknowledged -to produce in great numbers and perfection -in this country, reserves his acidest contempt -for the literary man who assumes to utter -judgments touching public affairs and political institutions. -If he be a reading man, as will sometimes -happen, he is able to point you, in illustration -of what you are to expect in such cases, to the very -remarkable essays of the late Mr. Matthew Arnold -on parliamentary policy and the Irish question. If -he be not a reading man, as sometimes happens, he -is able to ask, much to your confusion, “What -does a fellow who lives inside a library know about -politics, anyhow?” You have to admit, if you are -candid, that most fellows who live in libraries know -little enough. You remember Macaulay, and -acknowledge that, although he made admirable -speeches in Parliament, held high political office, -and knew all the considerable public men of his -time, he did imagine the creation to have been made -in accordance with Whig notions; did hope to find -the judgments of Lord Somers some day answering -mankind as standards for all possible times and -circumstances. You recall Gibbon, and allow, to -your own thought at least, that, had he not remained -silent in his seat, a very few of his sentences would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">74</span> -probably have sufficed to freeze the House of Commons -stiff. The ordinary literary man, even though -he be an eminent historian, is ill enough fitted to be -a mentor in affairs of government. For, it must -be admitted, things are for the most part very simple -in books, and in practical life very complex. -Not all the bindings of a library inclose the various -world of circumstance.</p> - -<p>But the practical politician should discriminate. -Let him find a man with an imagination -which, though it stands aloof, is yet quick to conceive -the very things in the thick of which the politician -struggles. To that man he should resort for -instruction. And that there is occasionally such -a man we have proof in Bagehot, the man who -first clearly distinguished the facts of the English -constitution from its theory.</p> - -<p>Walter Bagehot is a name known to not a few -of those who have a zest for the juiciest things of -literature, for the wit that illuminates and the -knowledge that refreshes. But his fame is still -singularly disproportioned to his charm; and one -feels once and again like publishing him, at least -to all spirits of his own kind. It would be a most -agreeable good fortune to introduce Bagehot to men -who have not read him! To ask your friend to -know Bagehot is like inviting him to seek pleasure.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">75</span> -Occasionally, a man is born into the world whose -mission it evidently is to clarify the thought of -his generation, and to vivify it; to give it speed -where it is slow, vision where it is blind, balance -where it is out of poise, saving humor where it is -dry,—and such a man was Walter Bagehot. -When he wrote of history, he made it seem human -and probable; when he wrote of political economy, -he made it seem credible, entertaining,—nay, engaging -even; when he wrote criticism, he wrote -sense. You have in him a man who can jest to -your instruction, who will beguile you into being -informed beyond your wont and wise beyond your -birthright. Full of manly, straightforward meaning, -earnest to find the facts that guide and -strengthen conduct, a lover of good men and seers, -full of knowledge and a consuming desire for it, -he is yet genial withal, with the geniality of a man -of wit, and alive in every fibre of him, with a life -he can communicate to you. One is constrained to -agree, almost, with the verdict of a witty countryman -of his, who happily still lives to cheer us, that -when Bagehot died he “carried away into the next -world more originality of thought than is now to -be found in the three Estates of the Realm.”</p> - -<p>An epitome of Bagehot’s life can be given very -briefly. He was born in February, 1826, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">76</span> -died in March, 1877,—the month in which one -would prefer to die. Between those two dates he had -much quaint experience as a boy, and much sober -business experience as a man. He wrote essays -on poets, prose writers, statesmen, whom he would, -with abundant insight, but without too much respect -of persons; also books on banking, on the -early development of society, and on English politics, -kindling a flame of interest with these dry -materials such as made men stare who had often described -the facts of society themselves, but who had -never dreamed of applying fire to them, as Bagehot -did, to make them give forth light and wholesome -heat. He set the minds of a few fortunate friends -aglow with the delights of the very wonderful tongue -which nature had given him through his mother. -And then he died, while his power was yet young. -Not a life of event or adventure, but a life of deep -interest, none the less, because a life in which those -two things of our modern life, commonly deemed -incompatible, business and literature, namely, were -combined without detriment to either; and from -which, more interesting still, politics gained a profound -expounder in one who was no politician and -no party man, but, as he himself said, “between -sizes in politics.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Bagehot was born in the centre of Somersetshire,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">77</span> -that southwestern county of old England -whose coast towns look across Bristol Channel to -the highlands of Wales: a county of small farms, -and pastures that keep their promise of fatness to -many generous milkers; a county broken into abrupt -hills, and sodden moors hardly kept from the -inroads of the sea, as well as rural valleys open to -the sun; a county visited by mists from the sea, -and bathed in a fine soft atmosphere all its own; -visited also by people of fashion, for it contains -Bath; visited now also by those who have read -Lorna Doone, for within it lies part of that Exmoor -Forest in which stalwart John Ridd lived -and wrought his mighty deeds of strength and -love: a land which the Celts kept for long against -both Saxon and Roman, but which Christianity -easily conquered, building Wells Cathedral and -the monastery at Glastonbury. Nowhere else, in -days of travel, could Bagehot find a land of so -great delight save in the northwest corner of Spain, -where a golden light lay upon everything, where -the sea shone with a rare, soft lustre, and where -there was a like varied coast-line to that he knew -and loved at home. He called it “a sort of better -Devonshire:” and Devonshire is Somersetshire,—only -more so! The atmospheric effects of his -county certainly entered the boy Bagehot, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">78</span> -colored the nature of the man. He had its -glow, its variety, its richness, and its imaginative -depth.</p> - -<p>But better than a fair county is a good parentage, -and that, too, Bagehot had; just the parentage -one would wish to have who desired to be a force -in the world’s thought. His father, Thomas Watson -Bagehot, was for thirty years managing director -and vice-president of Stuckey’s Banking Company, -one of the oldest and best of those sturdy joint-stock -companies which have for so many years stood -stoutly up alongside the Bank of England as -managers of the vast English fortune. But he -was something more than a banker. He was a man -of mind, of strong liberal convictions in politics, -and of an abundant knowledge of English history -wherewith to back up his opinions. He was one -of the men who think, and who think in straight -lines; who see, and see things. His mother -was a Miss Stuckey, a niece of the founder of -the banking company. But it was not her connection -with bankers that made her an invaluable -mother. She had, besides beauty, a most lively -and stimulating wit; such a mind as we most desire -to see in a woman,—a mind that stirs without -irritating you, that rouses but does not belabor, -amuses and yet subtly instructs. She could<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">79</span> -preside over the young life of her son in such a way -as at once to awaken his curiosity and set him in -the way of satisfying it. She was brilliant company -for a boy, and rewarding for a man. She -had suggestive people, besides, among her kinsmen, -into whose companionship she could bring her son. -Bagehot had that for which no university can ever -offer an equivalent,—the constant and intelligent -sympathy of both his parents in his studies, and -their companionship in his tastes. To his father’s -strength his mother added vivacity. He would -have been wise, perhaps, without her; but he would -not have been wise so delightfully.</p> - -<p>Bagehot got his schooling in Bristol, his university -training in London. In Bristol lived Dr. -Prichard, his mother’s brother-in-law, and author -of a notable book on the Physical History of Men. -From him Bagehot unquestionably got his bent towards -the study of race origins and development. -In London, Cobden and Bright were carrying on -an important part of their great agitation for the -repeal of the corn laws, and were making such -speeches as it stirred and bettered young men to -hear. Bagehot had gone to University Hall, London, -rather than to Oxford or Cambridge, because -his father was a Unitarian, and would not have his -son submit to the religious tests then required at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">80</span> -the great universities. But there can be no doubt -that there was more to be had at University Hall -in that day than at either Oxford or Cambridge. -Oxford and Cambridge were still dragging the very -heavy chains of a hindering tradition; the faculty -of University Hall contained many thorough and -some eminent scholars; what was more, University -Hall was in London, and London itself was a -quickening and inspiring teacher for a lad in love -with both books and affairs, as Bagehot was. He -could ask penetrating questions of his professors, -and he could also ask questions of London, seek -out her secrets of history, and so experience to the -full the charm of her abounding life. In after -years, though he loved Somersetshire and clung to -it with a strong home-keeping affection, he could -never stay away from London for more than six -weeks at a time. Eventually he made it his place -of permanent residence.</p> - -<p>His university career over, Bagehot did what so -many thousands of young graduates before him -had done,—he studied for the bar; and then, -having prepared himself to practice law, followed -another large body of young men in deciding to -abandon it. He joined his father in his business -as ship-owner and banker in Somersetshire, and -in due time took his place among the directors of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">81</span> -Stuckey’s Company. For the rest of his life, this -man, whom the world knows as a man of letters, -was first of all a man of business. In his later -years, however, he identified himself with what may -be called the literary side of business by becoming -editor of that great financial authority, the -“London Economist.” He had, so to say, married -into this position. His wife was the daughter of -the Rt. Hon. James Wilson, who was the mind -and manager, as well as the founder of the “Economist.” -Wilson’s death seemed to leave the great -financial weekly by natural succession to Bagehot; -and certainly natural selection never made a better -choice. It was under Bagehot that the “Economist” -became a sort of financial providence for -business men on both sides of the Atlantic. Its -sagacious prescience constituted Bagehot himself a -sort of supplementary chancellor of the exchequer, -the chancellors of both parties resorting to him -with equal confidence and solicitude. His constant -contact with London, and with the leaders of politics -and opinion there, of course materially assisted -him also to those penetrating judgments touching -the structure and working of English institutions -which have made his volume on the English -Constitution and his essays on Bolingbroke and -Brougham and Peel, on Mr. Gladstone and Sir<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">82</span> -George Cornewall Lewis, the admiration and despair -of all who read them.</p> - -<p>Those who know Bagehot only as the writer of -some of the most delightful and suggestive literary -criticisms in the language wonder that he should -have been an authority on practical politics; those -who used to regard the “London Economist” as -omniscient, and who knew him only as the editor -of it, marvel that he dabbled in literary criticism, -and incline to ask themselves, when they learn of -his vagaries in that direction, whether he can have -been so safe a guide as they deemed him, after all; -those who know him through his political writings -alone venture upon the perusal of his miscellaneous -essays with not a little surprise and misgiving that -their master should wander so far afield. And yet -the whole Bagehot is the only Bagehot. Each -part of the man is incomplete, not only, but a trifle -incomprehensible, also, without the other parts. -What delights us most in his literary essays is -their broad practical sagacity, so uniquely married -as it is with pure taste and the style of a rapid -artist in words. What makes his financial and -political writings whole and sound is the scope of -his mind outside finance and politics, the validity -of his observation all around the circle of thought -and affairs. He was the better critic for being a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">83</span> -competent man of business and a trusted financial -authority. He was the more sure-footed in his -political judgments because of his play of mind in -other and supplementary spheres of human activity.</p> - -<p>The very appearance of the man was a sort of -outer index to the singular variety of capacity that -has made him so notable a figure in the literary -annals of England. A mass of black, wavy hair; -a dark eye, with depths full of slumberous, playful -fire; a ruddy skin that bespoke active blood, quick -in its rounds; the lithe figure of an excellent horseman; -a nostril full, delicate, quivering, like that of -a blooded racer,—such were the fitting outward -marks of a man in whom life and thought and -fancy abounded; the aspect of a man of unflagging -vivacity, of wholesome, hearty humor, of a ready -intellectual sympathy, of wide and penetrative observation. -It is no narrow, logical shrewdness or -cold penetration that looks forth at you through -that face, even if a bit of mockery does lurk in the -privatest corner of the eye. Among the qualities -which he seeks out for special praise in Shakespeare -is a broad tolerance and sympathy for illogical -and common minds. It seems to him an evidence -of size in Shakespeare that he was not vexed -with smallness, but was patient, nay, sympathetic -even, in his portrayal of it. “If every one were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">84</span> -logical and literary,” he exclaims, “how would there -be scavengers, or watchmen, or caulkers, or coopers? -A patient sympathy, a kindly fellow-feeling for the -narrow intelligence necessarily induced by narrow -circumstances,—a narrowness which, in some degrees, -seems to be inevitable, and is perhaps more -serviceable than most things to the wise conduct of -life,—this, though quick and half-bred minds may -despise it, seems to be a necessary constituent in -the composition of manifold genius. ‘How shall -the world be served?’ asks the host in Chaucer. -We must have cart-horses as well as race-horses, -draymen as well as poets. It is no bad thing, after -all, to be a slow man and to have one idea a year. -You don’t make a figure, perhaps, in argumentative -society, which requires a quicker species of thought, -but is that the worse?”</p> - -<p>One of the things which strike us most in Bagehot -himself is his capacity to understand inferior -minds; and there can be no better test of sound -genius. He stood in the midst of affairs, and knew -the dull duty and humdrum fidelity which make up -the equipment of the ordinary mind for business, -for the business which keeps the world steady in -its grooves and makes it fit for habitation. He -perceived quite calmly, though with an odd, sober -amusement, that the world is under the dominion,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">85</span> -in most things, of the average man, and the average -man he knows. He is, he explains, with his -characteristic covert humor, “a cool, common person, -with a considerate air, with figures in his -mind, with his own business to attend to, with a -set of ordinary opinions arising from and suited to -ordinary life. He can’t bear novelty or originalities. -He says, ‘Sir, I never heard such a thing -before in my life;’ and he thinks this a <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">reductio -ad absurdum</i>. You may see his taste by the reading -of which he approves. Is there a more splendid -monument of talent and industry than the -‘Times’? No wonder that the average man—that -any one—believes in it.... But did you ever -see anything there you had never seen before?... -Where are the deep theories, and the wise axioms, -and the everlasting sentiments which the writers of -the most influential publication in the world have -been the first to communicate to an ignorant species? -Such writers are far too shrewd.... The -purchaser desires an article which he can appreciate -at sight, which he can lay down and say, ‘An -excellent article, very excellent; exactly my own -sentiments.’ Original theories give trouble; besides, -a grave man on the Coal Exchange does -not desire to be an apostle of novelties among the -contemporaneous dealers in fuel; he wants to be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">86</span> -provided with remarks he can make on the topics -of the day which will not be known not to be his, -that are not too profound, which he can fancy the -paper only reminded him of. And just in the -same way,”—thus he proceeds with the sagacious -moral,—“precisely as the most popular political -paper is not that which is abstractedly the best or -most instructive, but that which most exactly takes -up the minds of men where it finds them, catches -the floating sentiment of society, puts it in such a -form as society can fancy would convince another -society which did not believe, so the most influential -of constitutional statesmen is the one who most -felicitously expresses the creed of the moment, who -administers it, who embodies it in laws and institutions, -who gives it the highest life it is capable -of, who induces the average man to think, ‘I could -not have done it any better if I had had time myself.’”</p> - -<p>See how his knowledge of politics proceeds out -of his knowledge of men. “You may talk of the -tyranny of Nero and Tiberius,” he exclaims, “but -the real tyranny is the tyranny of your next-door -neighbor. What law is so cruel as the law of doing -what he does? What yoke is so galling as the -necessity of being like him? What espionage of -despotism comes to your door so effectually as the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">87</span> -eye of the man who lives at your door? Public -opinion is a permeating influence, and it exacts -obedience to itself; it requires us to think other -men’s thoughts, to speak other men’s words, to follow -other men’s habits. Of course, if we do not, -no formal ban issues, no corporeal pain, the coarse -penalty of a barbarous society, is inflicted on the -offender, but we are called ‘eccentric;’ there is a -gentle murmur of ‘most unfortunate ideas,’ ‘singular -young man,’ ‘well intentioned, I dare say, but -unsafe, sir, quite unsafe.’ The prudent, of course, -conform.”</p> - -<p>There is, no doubt, a touch of mockery in all -this, but there is unquestionable insight in it, too, -and a sane knowledge also of the fact that dull, -common judgments are, after all, the cement of -society. It is Bagehot who says somewhere that it -is only dull nations, like the Romans and the -English, who can become or remain for any length -of time self-governing nations, because it is only -among them that duty is done through lack of -knowledge sufficient or imagination enough to suggest -anything else to do: only among them that -the stability of slow habit can be had.</p> - -<p>It would be superficial criticism to put forward -Bagehot’s political opinions as themselves the proof -of his extraordinary power as a student and analyst<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">88</span> -of institutions. His life, his broad range of study, -his quick versatility, his shrewd appreciation of -common men, his excursions through all the fields -that men traverse in their thought of one another -and in their contact with the world’s business,—these -are the soil out of which his political judgments -spring, from which they get their sap and -bloom. In order to know institutions, you must -know men; you must be able to imagine histories, -to appreciate characters radically unlike your own, -to see into the heart of society and assess its -notions, great and small. Your average critic, it -must be acknowledged, would be the worst possible -commentator on affairs. He has all the movements -of intelligence without any of its reality. But a -man who sees authors with a Chaucerian insight -into them as men, who knows literature as a realm -of vital thought conceived by real men, of actual -motive felt by concrete persons, this is a man whose -opinions you may confidently ask, if not on current -politics, at any rate on all that concerns the permanent -relations of men in society.</p> - -<p>It is for such reasons that one must first make -known the most masterly of the critics of English -political institutions as a man of catholic tastes and -attainments, shrewdly observant of many kinds of -men and affairs. Know him once in this way, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">89</span> -his mastery in political thought is explained. If I -were to make choice, therefore, of extracts from -his works with a view to recommend him as a -politician, I should choose those passages which -show him a man of infinite capacity to see and understand -men of all kinds, past and present. By -showing in his case the equipment of a mind open -on all sides to the life and thought of society, and -penetrative of human secrets of many sorts, I -should authenticate his credentials as a writer upon -politics, which is nothing else than the public and -organic life of society.</p> - -<p>Examples may be taken almost at random. -There is the passage on Sydney Smith, in the essay -on the First Edinburgh Reviewers. We have all -laughed with that great-hearted clerical wit; but -it is questionable whether we have all appreciated -him as a man who wrote and wrought wisdom. -Indeed, Sydney Smith may be made a very delicate -test of sound judgment, the which to apply to -friends of whom you are suspicious. There was -a man beneath those excellent witticisms, a big, -wholesome, thinking man; but none save men of -like wholesome natures can see and value his manhood -and his mind at their real worth.</p> - -<p>“Sydney Smith was an after-dinner writer. -His words have a flow, a vigor, an expression,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">90</span> -which is not given to hungry mortals.... There -is little trace of labor in his composition; it is -poured forth like an unceasing torrent, rejoicing -daily to run its course. And what courage there -is in it! There is as much variety of pluck in -writing across a sheet as in riding across a country. -Cautious men ... go tremulously, like a timid -rider; they turn hither and thither; they do not -go straight across a subject, like a masterly mind. -A few sentences are enough for a master of sentences. -The writing of Sydney Smith is suited to -the broader kind of important questions. For anything -requiring fine nicety of speculation, long elaborateness -of deduction, evanescent sharpness of -distinction, neither his style nor his mind was fit. -He had no patience for long argument, no acuteness -for delicate precision, no fangs for recondite -research. Writers, like teeth, are divided into incisors -and grinders. Sydney Smith was a molar. -He did not run a long, sharp argument into the -interior of a question; he did not, in the common -phrase, go deeply into it; but he kept it steadily -under the contract of a strong, capable, jawlike -understanding,—pressing its surface, effacing its -intricacies, grinding it down. Yet this is done -without toil. The play of the molar is instinctive -and placid; he could not help it; it would seem -that he had an enjoyment in it.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">91</span></p> - -<p>One reads this with a feeling that Bagehot both -knows and likes Sydney Smith, and heartily appreciates -him as an engine of Whig thought; and -with the conviction that Bagehot himself, knowing -thus and enjoying Smith’s freehand method of -writing, could have done the like himself,—could -himself have made English ring to all the old Whig -tunes, like an anvil under the hammer. And yet -you have only to turn back a page in the same -essay to find quite another Bagehot,—a Bagehot -such as Sydney Smith could not have been. He -is speaking of that other militant Edinburgh reviewer, -Lord Jeffrey, and is recalling, as every one -recalls, Jeffrey’s review of Wordsworth’s “Excursion.” -The first words of that review, as everybody -remembers, were, “This will never do;” and -there followed upon those words, though not a -little praise of the poetical beauties of the poem, a -thoroughly meant condemnation of the school of -poets of which Wordsworth was the greatest representative. -Very celebrated in the world of literature -is the leading case of Jeffrey <i>v.</i> Wordsworth. -It is in summing up this case that Bagehot gives -us a very different taste of his <span class="locked">quality:—</span></p> - -<p>“The world has given judgment. Both Mr. -Wordsworth and Lord Jeffrey have received their -reward. The one had his own generation, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">92</span> -laughter of men, the applause of drawing-rooms, -the concurrence of the crowd; the other a succeeding -age, the fond enthusiasm of secret students, the -lonely rapture of lonely minds. And each has received -according to his kind. If all cultivated men -speak differently because of the existence of Wordsworth -and Coleridge; if not a thoughtful English -book has appeared for forty years without some -trace for good or evil of their influence; if sermon-writers -subsist upon their thoughts; if ‘sacred -poets’ thrive by translating their weaker portions -into the speech of women; if, when all this is over, -some sufficient part of their writing will ever be -found fitting food for wild musing and solitary meditation, -surely this is because they possessed the -inner nature,—‘an intense and glowing mind,’ -‘the vision and the faculty divine.’ But if, perchance, -in their weaker moments, the great authors -of the ‘Lyrical Ballads’ did ever imagine that the -world was to pause because of their verses, that -‘Peter Bell’ would be popular in drawing-rooms, -that ‘Christabel’ would be perused in the city, that -people of fashion would make a handbook of ‘The -Excursion,’ it was well for them to be told at -once that this was not so. Nature ingeniously -prepared a shrill artificial voice, which spoke in -season and out of season, enough and more than<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">93</span> -enough, what will ever be the idea of the cities of -the plain concerning those who live alone among the -mountains, of the frivolous concerning the grave, of -the gregarious concerning the recluse, of those who -laugh concerning those who laugh not, of the common -concerning the uncommon, of those who lend -on usury concerning those who lend not; the notion -of the world of those whom it will not reckon -among the righteous,—it said, ‘This won’t do!’ -And so in all time will the lovers of polished Liberalism -speak concerning the intense and lonely -prophet.”</p> - -<p>This is no longer the Bagehot who could “write -across a sheet” with Sydney Smith. It is now -a Bagehot whose heart is turned away from the -cudgeling Whigs to see such things as are hidden -from the bearers of cudgels, and revealed only to -those who can await in the sanctuary of a quiet -mind the coming of the vision.</p> - -<p>Single specimens of such a man’s writing do not -suffice, of course, even as specimens. They need -their context to show their appositeness, the full -body of the writing from which they are taken to -show the mass and system of the thought. Even -separated pieces of his matter prepare us, nevertheless, -for finding in Bagehot keener, juster estimates -of difficult historical and political characters<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">94</span> -than it is given the merely exact historian, with -his head full of facts and his heart purged of all -imagination, to speak. There is his estimate of -the cavalier, for example: “A cavalier is always -young. The buoyant life arises before us, rich in -hope, strong in vigor, irregular in action: men -young and ardent, ‘framed in the prodigality of -nature;’ open to every enjoyment, alive to every -passion, eager, impulsive; brave without discipline, -noble without principle; prizing luxury, despising -danger; capable of high sentiment, but in each -of whom the</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent6">‘addiction was to courses vain;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">His companies unlettered, rude, and shallow;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">His hours filled up with riots, banquets, sports,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And never noted in him any study,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Any retirement, any sequestration</div> - <div class="verse indent0">From open haunts and popularity.’</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">The political sentiment is part of the character; -the essence of Toryism is enjoyment.... The way -to keep up old customs is to enjoy old customs; -the way to be satisfied with the present state of -things is to enjoy the present state of things. Over -the cavalier mind this world passes with a thrill of -delight; there is an exultation in a daily event, -zest in the ‘regular thing,’ joy at an old feast.”</p> - -<p>Is it not most natural that the writer of a passage<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">95</span> -like that should have been a consummate -critic of politics, seeing institutions through men, -the only natural way? It was as necessary that -he should be able to enjoy Sydney Smith and recognize -the seer in Wordsworth as that he should -be able to conceive the cavalier life and point of -view; and in each perception there is the same -power. He is as little at fault in understanding -men of his own day. What would you wish better -than his celebrated character of a “constitutional -statesman,” for example? “A constitutional -statesman is a man of common opinions and uncommon -abilities.” Peel is his example. “His -opinions resembled the daily accumulating insensible -deposits of a rich alluvial soil. The great -stream of time flows on with all things on its surface; -and slowly, grain by grain, a mould of wise -experience is unconsciously left on the still, extended -intellect.... The stealthy accumulating -words of Peel seem like the quiet leavings of some -outward tendency, which brought these, but might -as well have brought others. There is no peculiar -stamp, either, on the ideas. They might have -been any one’s ideas. They belong to the general -diffused stock of observations which are to be -found in the civilized world.... He insensibly -takes in and imbibes the ideas of those around him.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">96</span> -If he were left in a vacuum, he would have no -ideas.”</p> - -<p>What strikes one most, perhaps, in all these -passages, is the realizing imagination which illuminates -them. And it is an imagination with a -practical character all its own. It is not a creating, -but a conceiving imagination; not the imagination -of the fancy, but the imagination of the understanding. -Conceiving imaginations, however, are -of two kinds. For the one kind the understanding -serves as a lamp of guidance; upon the other the -understanding acts as an electric excitant, a keen -irritant. Bagehot’s was evidently of the first kind; -Carlyle’s, conspicuously of the second. There is -something in common between the minds of these -two men as they conceive society. Both have a -capital grip upon the actual; both can conceive -without confusion the complex phenomena of society; -both send humorous glances of searching insight -into the hearts of men. But it is the difference -between them that most arrests our attention. -Bagehot has the scientific imagination, Carlyle the -passionate. Bagehot is the embodiment of witty -common sense; all the movements of his mind -illustrate that vivacious sanity which he has himself -called “animated moderation.” Carlyle, on the -other hand, conceives men and their motives too<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">97</span> -often with a hot intolerance; there is heat in his -imagination,—a heat that sometimes scorches and -consumes. Life is for him dramatic, full of fierce, -imperative forces. Even when the world rings -with laughter, it is laughter which, in his ears, is -succeeded by an echo of mockery; laughter which -is but a defiance of tears. The actual which you -touch in Bagehot is the practical, operative actual -of a world of workshops and parliaments,—a -world of which workshops and parliaments are the -natural and desirable products. Carlyle flouts at -modern legislative assemblies as “talking shops,” -and yearns for action such as is commanded by -masters of action; preaches the doctrine of work -and silence in some thirty volumes octavo. Bagehot -points out that prompt, crude action is the -instinct and practice of the savage; that talk, the -deliberation of assemblies, the slow concert of -masses of men, is the cultivated fruit of civilization, -nourishing to all the powers of right action -in a society which is not simple and primitive, but -advanced and complex. He is no more imposed -upon by parliamentary debates than Carlyle is. -He knows that they are stupid, and, so far as wise -utterance goes, in large part futile, too. But he is -not irritated, as Carlyle is, for, to say the fact, he -sees more than Carlyle sees. He sees the force<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">98</span> -and value of the stupidity. He is wise, along with -Burke, in regarding prejudice as the cement of -society. He knows that slow thought is the ballast -of a self-governing state. Stanch, knitted timbers -are as necessary to the ship as sails. Unless the -hull is conservative in holding stubbornly together -in the face of every argument of sea weather, -there’ll be lives and fortunes lost. Bagehot can -laugh at unreasoning bias. It brings a merry -twinkle into his eye to undertake the good sport -of dissecting stolid stupidity. But he would not -for the world abolish bias and stupidity. He would -much rather have society hold together; much -rather see it grow than undertake to reconstruct it. -“You remember my joke against you about the -moon,” writes Sydney Smith to Jeffrey; “d—n -the solar system—bad light—planets too distant—pestered -with comets—feeble contrivance; -could make a better with great ease.” There was -nothing of this in Bagehot. He was inclined to be -quite tolerant of the solar system. He understood -that society was more quickly bettered by sympathy -than by antagonism.</p> - -<p>Bagehot’s limitations, though they do not obtrude -themselves upon your attention as his excellencies -do, are in truth as sharp-cut and clear -as his thought itself. It would not be just the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">99</span> -truth to say that his power is that of critical analysis -only, for he can and does construct thought -concerning antique and obscure systems of political -life and social action. But it is true that he does -not construct for the future. You receive stimulation -from him and a certain feeling of elation. -There is a fresh air stirring in all his utterances -that is unspeakably refreshing. You open your -mind to the fine influence, and feel younger for having -been in such an atmosphere. It is an atmosphere -clarified and bracing almost beyond example elsewhere. -But you know what you lack in Bagehot if -you have read Burke. You miss the deep eloquence -which awakens purpose. You are not in contact -with systems of thought or with principles that -dictate action, but only with a perfect explanation.</p> - -<p>You would go to Burke, not to Bagehot, for -inspiration in the infinite tasks of self-government; -though you would, if you were wise, go to Bagehot -rather than to Burke if you wished to realize just -what were the practical daily conditions under -which those tasks were to be worked out.</p> - -<p>Moreover, there is a deeper lack in Bagehot. -He has no sympathy with the voiceless body of the -people, with the “mass of unknown men.” He -conceives the work of government to be a work -which is possible only to the instructed few. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">100</span> -would have the mass served, and served with devotion, -but he would trouble to see them attempt -to serve themselves. He has not the stout fibre -and the unquestioning faith in the right and capacity -of inorganic majorities which make the democrat. -He has none of the heroic boldness necessary -for faith in wholesale political aptitude and capacity. -He takes democracy in detail in his thought, and -to take it in detail makes it look very awkward -indeed.</p> - -<p>And yet surely it would not occur to the veriest -democrat that ever vociferated the “sovereignty of -the people” to take umbrage at anything Bagehot -might chance to say in dissection of democracy. -What he says is seldom provokingly true. There -is something in it all that is better than a “saving -clause,” and that is a saving humor. Humor ever -keeps the whole of his matter sound; it is an excellent -salt that keeps sweet the sharpest of his sayings. -Indeed, Bagehot’s wit is so prominent among -his gifts that I am tempted here to enter a general -plea for wit as fit company for high thoughts and -weighty subjects. Wit does not make a subject -light; it simply beats it into shape to be handled -readily. For my part, I make free acknowledgment -that no man seems to me master of his subject -who cannot take liberties with it; who cannot<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">101</span> -slap his propositions on the back and be hail-fellow -well met with them. Suspect a man of shallowness -who always takes himself and all that he thinks -seriously. For light on a dark subject commend -me to a ray of wit. Most of your solemn explanations -are mere farthing candles in the great expanse -of a difficult question. Wit is not, I admit, -a steady light, but ah! its flashes give you sudden -glimpses of unsuspected things such as you will -never see without it. It is the summer lightning, -which will bring more to your startled eye in an -instant, out of the hiding of the night, than you -will ever be at the pains to observe in the full blaze -of noon.</p> - -<p>Wit is movement, is play of mind; and the -mind cannot get play without a sufficient playground. -Without movement outside the world of -books, it is impossible a man should see aught but -the very neatly arranged phenomena of that world. -But it is possible for a man’s thought to be instructed -by the world of affairs without the man -himself becoming a part of it. Indeed, it is exceedingly -hard for one who is in and of it to hold -the world of affairs off at arm’s length and observe -it. He has no vantage-ground. He had better for -a while seek the distance of books, and get his perspective. -The literary politician, let it be distinctly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">102</span> -said, is a very fine, a very superior species of the -man thoughtful. He reads books as he would listen -to men talk. He stands apart, and looks on, -with humorous, sympathetic smile, at the play of -policies. He will tell you for the asking what the -players are thinking about. He divines at once -how the parts are cast. He knows beforehand -what each act is to discover. He might readily -guess what the dialogue is to contain. Were you -short of scene-shifters, he could serve you admirably -in an emergency. And he is a better critic of -the play than the players.</p> - -<p>Had I command of the culture of men, I should -wish to raise up for the instruction and stimulation -of my nation more than one sane, sagacious, penetrative -critic of men and affairs like Walter Bagehot. -But that, of course. The proper thesis to -draw from his singular genius is this: It is not the -constitutional lawyer, nor the student of the mere -machinery and legal structure of institutions, nor -the politician, a mere handler of that machinery, -who is competent to understand and expound government; -but the man who finds the materials for -his thought far and wide, in everything that reveals -character and circumstance and motive. It is -necessary to stand with the poets as well as with -lawgivers; with the fathers of the race as well as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">103</span> -with your neighbor of to-day; with those who toil -and are sick at heart as well as with those who -prosper and laugh and take their pleasure; with -the merchant and the manufacturer as well as with -the closeted student; with the schoolmaster and -with those whose only school is life; with the -orator and with the men who have wrought always -in silence; in the midst of thought and also in the -midst of affairs, if you would really comprehend -those great wholes of history and of character -which are the vital substance of politics.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_104" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">104</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="V">V.<br /> - -<span class="subhead">THE INTERPRETER OF ENGLISH LIBERTY.</span></h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">In</span> the middle of the last century two Irish -adventurers crossed over into England in search of -their fortunes. Rare fellows they were, bringing -treasure with them; but finding it somehow hard -to get upon the market: traders with a curious -cargo, offering edification in exchange for a living, -and concealing the best of English under a rich -brogue. They were Edmund Burke and Oliver -Goldsmith.</p> - -<p>They did not cross over together: ’twas no joint -venture. They had been fellow students at Trinity -College, Dublin; but they had not, so far as we -can learn, known each other there. Each went -his own way till they became comrades in the reign -of Samuel Johnson at the Turk’s Head Tavern. -Burke stepped very boldly forth into the exposed -paths of public life; Goldsmith plunged into the -secret ways about Grub Street. The one gave us -essays upon public questions incomparable for their -reach of view and their splendid power of expression;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">105</span> -the other gave us writings so exquisite for -their delicacy, purity, and finish as to incline us to -love him almost as much as those who knew him -loved him. We could not easily have forgiven -Ireland if she had <em>not</em> given us these men. The -one had grave faults of temper; the other was a -reckless, roystering fellow, with a most irrepressible -Irish disposition; but how much less we should have -known without Burke, how much less we should -have enjoyed without Goldsmith! They have conquered -places for themselves in English literature -from which we neither can nor would dislodge -them. For their sakes alone we can afford to forgive -Ireland all the trouble she has caused us.</p> - -<p>There is no man anywhere to be found in the -annals of Parliament who seems more thoroughly -to belong to England than does Edmund Burke, -indubitable Irishman though he was. His words, -now that they have cast off their brogue, ring out -the authentic voice of the best political thought of -the English race. “If any man ask me,” he cries, -“what a free government is, I answer, that, for any -practical purpose, it is what the people think so,—and -that they, and not I, are the natural, lawful, -and competent judges of the matter.” “Abstract -liberty, like other mere abstractions, is not to be -found. Liberty adheres in some sensible object;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">106</span> -and every nation has formed to itself some favorite -point, which by way of eminence becomes the criterion -of their happiness.” These sentences, taken -from his writings on American affairs, might serve -as a sort of motto of the practical spirit of our race -in affairs of government. Look further, and you -shall see how his imagination presently illuminates -and suffuses his maxims of practical sagacity with -a fine blaze of insight, a keen glow of feeling, in -which you recognize that other masterful quality of -the race, its intense and elevated conviction. “My -hold on the colonies,” he declares, “is in the close -affection which grows from common names, from -kindred blood, from similar privileges, and equal -protection. These are the ties which, though light -as air, are as strong as links of iron. Let the -colonies always keep the idea of their civil rights -associated with your government,—they will cling -and grapple to you, and no force under heaven will -be of power to tear them from their allegiance. -But let it once be understood that your government -may be one thing and their privileges another, that -these two things may exist without any mutual -relation,—and the cement is gone, the cohesion is -loosened, and everything hastens to decay and dissolution. -So long as you have the wisdom to keep -the sovereign power of this country as the sanctuary<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">107</span> -of liberty, the sacred temple consecrated to our -common faith, wherever the chosen race and sons -of England worship freedom, they will turn their -faces towards you.” “We cannot, I fear,” he says -proudly of the colonies, “we cannot falsify the -pedigree of this fierce people, and persuade them -that they are not sprung from a nation in whose -veins the blood of freedom circulates. The language -in which they would hear you tell them this -tale would detect the imposition; your speech -would betray you. An Englishman is the unfittest -person on earth to argue another Englishman into -slavery.” Does not your blood stir at these passages? -And is it not because, besides loving what -is nobly written, you feel that every word strikes -towards the heart of the things that have made -your blood what it has proved to be in the history -of our race?</p> - -<p>These passages, it should be remembered, are -taken from a speech in Parliament and from a -letter written by Burke to his constituents in -Bristol. He had no thought to make them permanent -sentences of political philosophy. They were -meant only to serve an immediate purpose in the -advancement of contemporaneous policy. They -were framed for the circumstances of the time. -They speak out spontaneously amidst matter of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">108</span> -moment: and they could be matched everywhere -throughout his pamphlets and public utterances. -No other similar productions that I know of have -this singular, and as it were inevitable, quality of -permanency. They have emerged from the mass -of political writings put forth in their time with -their freshness untouched, their significance unobscured, -their splendid vigor unabated. It is this -that we marvel at, that they should remain modern -and timely, purged of every element and seed of -decay. The man who could do this must needs -arrest our attention and challenge our inquiry. -We wish to account for him as we should wish to -penetrate the secrets of the human spirit and know -the springs of genius.</p> - -<p>Of the public life of Burke we know all that we -could wish. He became so prominent a figure in -the great affairs of his day that even the casual -observer cannot fail to discern the main facts of -his career; while the close student can follow him -year by year through every step of his service. -But his private life was withdrawn from general -scrutiny in an unusual degree. He manifested -always a marked reserve about his individual and -domestic affairs, deliberately, it would seem, shielding -them from impertinent inquiry. He loved the -privacy of life in a great city, where one may escape<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">109</span> -notice in the crowd and enjoy a grateful “freedom -from remark and petty censure.” “Though I -have the honor to represent Bristol,” he said to -Boswell, “I should not like to live there; I should -be obliged to be <em>so much upon my good behavior</em>. -In London a man may live in splendid society at -one time, and in frugal retirement at another, -without animadversion. There, and there alone, a -man’s house is truly his <em>castle</em>, in which he can -be in perfect safety from intrusion whenever he -pleases. I never shall forget how well this was -expressed to me one day by Mr. Meynell: ‘The -chief advantage of London,’ he said, ‘is, that a -man is always <em>so near his burrow</em>.’” Burke took -to his burrow often enough to pique our curiosity -sorely. This singular, high-minded adventurer had -some queer companions, we know: questionable -fellows, whose life he shared, perhaps with a certain -Bohemian relish, without sharing their morals or -their works. It seems as incongruous that such -wisdom and public spirit as breathe through his -writings should have come to his thought in such -company as that an exquisite idyll like Goldsmith’s -“Vicar of Wakefield” should have been conceived -and written in squalid garrets. But neither Burke -nor Goldsmith had been born into such comradeships -or such surroundings. Doubtless, as sometimes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">110</span> -happens, their minds kept their first freshness, -taking no taint from the world that touched them -on every hand in their manhood, after their minds -had been formed. Goldsmith, as everybody knows, -remained an innocent all his life, a naïf and pettish -boy amidst sophisticated men; and Burke too, notwithstanding -his dignity and commanding intellectual -habit, shows sometimes a touch of the same -simplicity, a like habit of unguarded self-revelation. -’Twas their form, no doubt, of that impulsive and -ingenuous quality which we observe in all Irishmen, -and which we often mistake for simplicity. ’Twas -a flavor of their native soil. It was also something -more and better than that, however. Not every -Irishman displays such hospitality for direct and -simple images of truth as these men showed, for -that is characteristic only of the open and unsophisticated -mind,—the mind that has kept pure -and open eyes. Not that Burke always sees the -truth; he is even deeply prejudiced often, and -there are some things that he cannot see. But the -passion that dominates him when he is wrong, as -when he is right, is a natural passion, born with -him, not acquired from a disingenuous world that -mistakes interest for justice. His nature tells in -everything. It is stock of his character which he -contributes to the subjects his mind handles. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">111</span> -is trading always with the original treasure he -brought over with him at the first. He has never -impaired his genuineness, or damaged his principles.</p> - -<p>Just where Burke got his generous constitution -and predisposition to enlightened ways of thinking -it is not easy to see. Certainly Richard Burke, -his brother, the only other member of the family -whose character we discern distinctly, had a quite -opposite bent. The father was a steady Dublin -attorney, a Protestant, and a man, so far as we -know, of solid but not brilliant parts. The mother -had been a Miss Nagle, of a Roman Catholic -family, which had multiplied exceedingly in County -Cork. Of the home and its life we know singularly -little. We are told that many children were -born to the good attorney, but we hear of only four -of them that grew to maturity, Garret, Edmund, -Richard, and a sister best known to Edmund’s biographers -as Mrs. French. Edmund, the second -son, was born on the twelfth of January, 1729, in -the second year of the reign of George II., Robert -Walpole being chief minister of the Crown. How -he fared or what sort of lad he was for the first -twelve years of his life we have no idea. We only -know that in the year 1741, being then twelve -years old, he was sent with his brothers Garret and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">112</span> -Richard to the school of one Abraham Shackleton, -a most capable and exemplary Quaker, at Ballytore, -County Kildare, to get, in some two years’ time, -what he himself always accounted the best part of -his education. The character of the good master -at Ballytore told upon the sensitive boy, who all -his life through had an eye for such elevation and -calm force of quiet rectitude as are to be seen in -the best Quakers; and with Richard Shackleton, -the master’s son, he formed a friendship from which -no vicissitude of his subsequent career ever loosened -his heart a whit. All his life long the ardent, -imaginative statesman, deeply stirred as he was by -the momentous agitation of affairs,—swept away -as he was from other friends,—retained his love -for the grave, retired, almost austere, but generous -and constant man who had been his favorite -schoolfellow. It is but another evidence of his unfailing -regard for whatever was steady, genuine, -and open to the day in character and conduct.</p> - -<p>At fourteen he left Ballytore and was entered at -Trinity College, Dublin. Those were days when -youths went to college tender, before they had become -too tough to take impressions readily. But -Burke, even at that callow age, cannot be said to -have been teachable. He learned a vast deal, indeed, -but he did not learn much of it from his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">113</span> -nominal masters at Trinity. Apparently Master -Shackleton, at Ballytore, had enabled him to find -his own mind. His four years at college were -years of wide and eager reading, but not years of -systematic and disciplinary study. With singular, -if not exemplary, self-confidence, he took his -education into his own hands. He got at the -heart of books through their spirit, it would seem, -rather than through their grammar. He sought -them out for what they could yield him in thought, -rather than for what they could yield him in the -way of exact scholarship. That this boy should -have had such an appetite for the world’s literature, -old and new, need not surprise us. Other lads before -and since have found big libraries all too small -for them. What should arrest our attention is, -the law of mind disclosed in the habits of such lads: -the quick and various curiosity of original minds, -and particularly of imaginative minds. They long -for matter to expand themselves upon: they will -climb any dizzy height from which an exciting -prospect is promised: it is their joy by some means -to see the world of men and affairs. Burke set -out as a boy to see the world that is contained in -books; and in his journeyings he met a man after -his own heart in Cicero, the copious orator and -versatile man of affairs,—the only man at all like<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">114</span> -Burke for richness, expansiveness, and variety of -mind in all the ancient world. Cicero he conned -as his master and model. And then, having had -his fill for the time of discursive study and having -completed also his four years of routine, he was -graduated, taking his degree in the spring of 1748.</p> - -<p>His father had entered him as a student at the -Middle Temple in 1747, meaning that he should -seek the prizes of his profession in England rather -than in the little world at home; but he did not take -up his residence in London until 1750, by which -time he had attained his majority. What he did -with the intervening two years, his biographers do -not at all know, and it is idle to speculate, being -confident, as we must, that he quite certainly did -whatever he pleased. He did the same when he -went up to London to live his terms at the Temple. -“The law,” he declared to Parliament more than -twenty years afterwards, “is, in my opinion, one -of the first and noblest of human sciences,—a -science which does more to quicken and invigorate -the understanding than all other kinds of learning -put together; but it is not apt, except in persons -very happily born, to open and to liberalize the -mind exactly in the same proportion;” and, although -himself a person “very happily born” in -respect of all natural powers, he felt that the life<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">115</span> -of a lawyer would inevitably confine his roving -mind within intolerably narrow limits. He learned -the law, as he learned everything else, with an eye -to discovering its points of contact with affairs, -its intimate connections with the structure and -functions of human society; and, studying it thus, -he made his way to so many of its secrets, won so -firm a mastery of its central principles, as always -to command the respect and even the admiration -of lawyers. But the good attorney in Dublin -was sorely disappointed. This was not what he -had wanted. The son in whom he had centred -his hopes preferred the life of the town to systematic -study in his chambers; wrote for the papers -instead of devoting himself to the special profession -he had been sent to master. “Of his leisure -time,” said the “Annual Register” just after his -death, “of his leisure time much was spent in the -company of Mrs. Woffington, a celebrated actress, -whose conversation was not less sought by men of -wit and genius than by men of pleasure.”</p> - -<p>We know very little about the life of Burke for -the ten years, 1750–60, his first ten years in England,—except -that he did <em>not</em> diligently apply -himself to his nominal business, the study of the -law; and between the years 1752 and 1757 his -biographers can show hardly one authentic trace of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">116</span> -his real life. They know neither his whereabouts -nor his employments. Only one scrap of his correspondence -remains from those years to give us any -hint of the time. Even Richard Shackleton, his -invariable confidant and bosom friend, hears never -a word from him during that period, and is told -afterwards only that his correspondent has been -“sometimes in London, sometimes in remote parts -of the country, sometimes in France,” and will -“shortly, please God, be in America.” He disappears -a poor law student, under suspicion of his -father for systematic neglect of duty; when he reappears -he is married to the daughter of a worthy -physician and is author of two philosophical works -which are attracting a great deal of attention. We -have reason to believe that, in the mean time, he -did as much writing as they would take for the -booksellers; we know that he frequented the London -theatres and several of the innumerable debating -clubs with which nether London abounded, -whetting his faculties, it is said, upon those of a certain -redoubtable baker. He haunted the galleries -and lobbies of the House of Commons. His health -showed signs of breaking, and Dr. Nugent took him -from his lodgings in the Temple to his own house -and allowed him to fall in love with his daughter. -Partly for the sake of his health, perhaps, but more<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">117</span> -particularly, no doubt, for the sake of satisfying an -eager mind and a restless habit, he wandered off to -“remote parts of the country” and to France, -with one William Burke for company, a man either -related to him or not related to him, he did not -himself know which. In 1755, a long-suffering -patience at length exhausted, his father shut the -home treasury against him; and then,—’twas the -next year,—he published two philosophical works -and married Miss Nugent.</p> - -<p>One might say, no doubt, that this is an intelligible -enough account of a young fellow’s life between -twenty and thirty: and that we can fill in -the particulars for ourselves. We have known -other young Irishmen of restless and volatile natures, -and need make no mystery of this one. -Goldsmith, too, disappeared, we remember, in that -same decade, making show of studying medicine in -Edinburgh, but not really studying it, and then -wandering off to the Continent, and going it afoot -in light-hearted, happy-go-lucky fashion through -the haunts both of the gay Latin races and the -sad Teutonic, greatly to the delectation, no doubt, -of the natives,—for all the world loves an innocent -Irishman, with his heart upon his sleeve. -’Twould all be very plain indeed if we found in -Burke that light-hearted vein. But we do not.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">118</span> -The fellow is sober and strenuous from the first, -studying the things he was not sent to study -with even too intent application, to the damage of -his health, and looking through the pleasures of -the town to the heart of the nation’s affairs. He -was a grave youth, evidently, gratifying his mind -rather than his senses in the pleasures he sought; -and when he emerges from obscurity it is first to -give us a touch of his quality in the matter of intellectual -amusement, and then to turn at once to -the serious business of the discussion of affairs to -which the rest of his life was to be devoted.</p> - -<p>The two books which he gave the world in 1756 -were “A Vindication of Natural Society,” a satirical -piece in the manner of Bolingbroke, and “A Philosophical -Inquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of -the Sublime and Beautiful,” which he had begun -when he was nineteen and had since reconsidered -and revised. Bolingbroke, not finding revealed religion -to his taste, had written a “Vindication of -Natural Religion” which his vigorous and elevated -style and skillful dialectic had done much to -make plausible. Burke put forth his “Vindication -of Natural Society” as a posthumous work of -the late noble lord, and so skillfully veiled the -satirical character of the imitation as wholly to -deceive some very grave critics, who thought they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">119</span> -could discern Bolingbroke’s flavor upon the tasting. -For the style, too, they took to be unmistakably -Bolingbroke’s own. It had all his grandeur and -air of distinction: it had his vocabulary and formal -outline of phrase. The imitation was perfect. -And yet if you will scrutinize it, the style is -not Bolingbroke’s, except in a trick or two, but -Burke’s. It seems Bolingbroke’s rather because -it is cold and without Burke’s usual moral fervor -than because it is rich and majestic and various. -There is no great formal difference between -Burke’s style and Bolingbroke’s: but there -is a great moral and intellectual difference. When -Burke is not in earnest there is perhaps no important -difference at all. And in the “Vindication -of Natural Society” Burke is not in earnest. The -book is not, indeed, a parody, and its satirical -quality is much too covert to make it a successful -satire. Much that Burke urges against civil -society he could urge in good faith, and his mind -works soberly upon it. It is only the main thesis -that he does not seriously mean. The rest he might -have meant as Bolingbroke would have meant it.</p> - -<p>The essay on The Sublime and Beautiful, though -much admired by so great a master as Lessing, has -not worn very well as philosophy. It is full, however, -of acute and interesting observations, and is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">120</span> -adorned in parts with touches of rich color put on -with the authentic strokes of a master. We preserve -it, perhaps, only because Burke wrote it; -and yet when we read it we feel inclined to pronounce -it worth keeping for its own sake.</p> - -<p>Both these essays were apprentice work. Burke -was trying his hand. They make us the more -curious about the conditions of what must have -been a notable apprenticeship. Young Burke -must have gone to school to the world in a way -worth knowing. But we cannot know, and that’s -the end on ’t. Probably even William Burke, -Edmund’s companion, could give us no very satisfactory -account of the matter. The explanation -lay in what he thought and not in what he did as -he knocked about the world.</p> - -<p>The company Burke kept was as singular as his -talents, though scarcely so eminent. <em>We</em> speak of -“Burke,” but the London of his day spoke of “the -Burkes,” meaning William, who may or may not -have been Edmund’s kinsman, Edmund himself, -and Richard, Edmund’s younger brother, who had -followed him to London to become, to say truth, an -adventurer emphatically not of the elevated sort. -Edmund was destined to become the leader of England’s -thought in more than one great matter of -policy, and has remained a master among all who<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">121</span> -think profoundly upon public affairs; but William -was for long the leader and master of “the Burkes.” -He was English born; had been in Westminster -School; and had probably just come out from -Christ Church, Oxford, when he became the companion -of Edmund’s wanderings. He was a man -of intellect and literary power enough to be deemed -the possible author of the “Letters of Junius;” he -was born moreover with an eye for the ways of -the world, and could push his own fortunes with an -unhesitating hand. It was he who first got public -office, and it was he who formed the influential -connections which got Edmund into Parliament. -He himself entered the House at the same time, -and remained there, a useful party member, for -some eight years. He made those from whom he -sought favors dislike him for his audacity in demanding -the utmost, and more than the utmost, that he -could possibly hope to get; but he seems to have -made those whom he served love him with a very -earnest attachment. He was self-seeking; but he -was capable of generosity, to the point of self-sacrifice -even, when he wished to help his friend. He -early formed a partnership with Richard Burke in -immense stock-jobbing speculations in the securities -of the East India Company; but he also formed a -literary partnership with Edmund in the preparation<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">122</span> -of a sketch of the European settlements in -America, and made himself respected as a strong -party writer in various pamphlets on questions of -the day. He could unite the two brothers by speculating -with the one and thinking with the other.</p> - -<p>Such were “the Burkes.” Edmund’s home was -always the home also of the other two, whenever -they wished to make it so; the strongest personal -affection, avowed always by Edmund with his characteristic -generous warmth, bound the three men -together; their purses they had in common. Edmund -was not expected, apparently, to take part -in the speculations which held William and Richard -together; something held him aloof to which -they consented,—some natural separateness of -mind and character which they evidently accepted -and respected. There can hardly be said to have -been any aloofness of <em>disposition</em> on Edmund’s -part. There is something in an Irishman,—even -in an Irishman who holds himself to the strictest -code of upright conduct,—which forbids his acting -as moral censor upon others. He can love a -man none the less for generous and manly qualities -because that man does what he himself would not -do. Burke, moreover, had an easy standard all -his life about accepting money favors. He seems -to have felt somehow that his intense and whole-hearted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">123</span> -devotion to his friends justified gifts and -forgiven loans of money from them. He shared -the prosperity of his kinsmen without compunction, -using what he got most liberally for the assistance -of others; and when their fortunes came to a sudden -ruin, he helped them with what he had. We -ought long ago to have learned that the purest motives -and the most elevated standards of conduct -may go along with a singular laxness of moral detail -in some men; and that such characters will -often constrain us to love them to the point of justifying -everything that they ever did. Edmund -Burke’s close union with William and Richard -does not present the least obstacle to our admiration -for the noble qualities of mind and heart -which he so conspicuously possessed, or make us -for a moment doubt the thorough disinterestedness -of his great career.</p> - -<p>Burke’s marriage was a very happy one. Mrs. -Burke’s thoroughly sweet temperament acted as a -very grateful and potent charm to soothe her husband’s -mind when shaken by the agitations of public -affairs; her quiet capacity for domestic management -relieved him of many small cares which might -have added to his burdens. Her affection satisfied -his ardent nature. He speaks of her in his will as -“my entirely beloved and incomparable wife,” and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">124</span> -every glimpse we get of their home life confirms the -estimate. After his marriage the most serious part -of his intellectual life begins; the commanding passion -of his mind is disclosed. He turns away from -philosophical amusements to public affairs. In -1757 appeared “An Account of the European Settlements -in America,” which William Burke had -doubtless written, but which Edmund had almost -certainly radically revised; and Edmund himself -published the first part of “An Abridgment of the -History of England” which he never completed. In -1758, he proposed to Dodsley, the publisher, a yearly -volume, to be known as the “Annual Register,” -which should chronicle and discuss the affairs of -England and the Continent. It was the period of -the Seven Years’ War, which meant for England a -sharp and glorious contest with France for the possession -of America. Burke was willing to write -the annals of the critical year 1758 for a hundred -pounds; and so, in 1759, the first volume of the -“Annual Register” appeared; and the plan then -so wisely conceived has yielded its annual volume -to the present day. Burke never acknowledged his -connection with this great work,—he never publicly -recognized anything he had done upon contract -for the publishers,—but it is quite certain that for -very many years his was the presiding and planning<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">125</span> -mind in the production of the “Register.” For -the first few years of its life he probably wrote the -whole of the record of events with his own hand. -It was a more useful apprenticeship than that in -philosophy. It gave him an intimate acquaintance -with affairs which must have served as a direct -preparation for the great contributions he was destined -to make to the mind and policy of the Whig -party.</p> - -<p>But this, even in addition to other hack work -for the booksellers, did not keep Burke out of pecuniary -straits. He sought, but failed to get, an -appointment as consul at Madrid, using the interest -of Dr. Markham, William’s master at Westminster -School; and then he engaged himself as a sort of -private secretary or literary attendant to William -Gerard Hamilton, whom he served, apparently to -the almost entire exclusion of all other employments, -for some four years, going with him for a -season to Ireland, where Hamilton for a time held -the appointment of Secretary to the Lord Lieutenant. -Hamilton is described by one of Burke’s -friends as “a sullen, vain, proud, selfish, cankered-hearted, -envious reptile,” and Mr. Morley says that -there is “not a word too many nor too strong in -the description.” At any rate, Burke’s proud -spirit presently revolted from further service, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">126</span> -he threw up a pension of three hundred pounds -which Hamilton had obtained for him rather than -retain any connection with the man, or remain -under any sort of obligation to him. In the mean -time, however, his relations with Hamilton had put -him in the way of meeting many public men of -weight and influence, and he had gotten his first -direct introduction to the world of affairs.</p> - -<p>It was 1764 when he shook himself free from -this connection. 1764 is a year to be marked in -English literary annals. It was in the spring of -that year that that most celebrated of literary clubs -was formed at the Turk’s Head Tavern, Gerrard -Street, Soho, by notable good company: Dr. Johnson, -Garrick, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Goldsmith, -Sheridan, Gibbon, Dr. Barnard, Beauclerk, Langton,—we -know them all; for has not Boswell -given us the freedom of the Club and made us delighted -participants in its conversations and diversions? -Into this company Burke was taken at -once. His writings had immediately attracted the -attention of such men as these, and had promptly -procured him an introduction into literary society. -His powers told nowhere more brilliantly than in -conversation. “It is when you come close to a -man in conversation,” said Dr. Johnson, “that you -discover what his real abilities are. To make a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">127</span> -speech in an assembly is a sort of knack. Now -I honor Thurlow; Thurlow is a fine fellow, he -fairly puts his mind to yours.” There can be no -disputing the dictum of the greatest master of conversation: -and the admirer of Burke must be willing -to accept it, at any rate for the nonce, for -Johnson admitted that Burke invariably put him -on his mettle. “That fellow,” he exclaimed, “calls -forth all my powers!” “Burke’s talk,” he said, -“is the ebullition of his mind; he does not talk -from a desire of distinction, but because his mind -is full; he is never humdrum, never unwilling to -talk, nor in haste to leave off.” The redoubtable -doctor loved a worthy antagonist in the great game -of conversation, and he always gave Burke his ungrudging -admiration. When he lay dying, Burke -visited his bedside, and, finding Johnson very -weak, anxiously expressed the hope that his presence -cost him no inconvenience. “I must be in a -wretched state indeed,” cried the great-hearted old -man, “when your company would not be a delight -to me.” It was short work for Burke to get the -admiration of the company at the Turk’s Head. -But he did much more than that: he won their devoted -affection. Goldsmith said that Burke wound -his way into a subject like a serpent; but he made -his way straight into the hearts of his friends.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">128</span> -His powers are all of a piece: his heart is inextricably -mixed up with his mind: his opinions are -immediately transmuted into convictions: he does -not talk for distinction, because he does not use his -mind for the mere intellectual pleasure of it, but -because he also deeply feels what he thinks. He -speaks without calculation, almost impulsively.</p> - -<p>That is the reason why we can be so sure of the -essential purity of his nature from the character of -his writings. They are not purely intellectual productions: -there is no page of abstract reasoning -to be found in Burke. His mind works upon concrete -objects, and he speaks always with a certain -passion, as if his affections were involved. He is -irritated by opposition, because opposition in the -field of affairs, in which his mind operates, touches -some interest that is dear to him. Noble generalizations, -it is true, everywhere broaden his matter: -there is no more philosophical writer in English -in the field of politics than Burke. But look, and -you shall see that his generalizations are never derived -from abstract premises. The reasoning is -upon familiar matter of to-day. He is simply taking -questions of the moment to the light, holding -them up to be seen where great principles of conduct -may shine upon them from the general experience -of the race. He is not constructing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">129</span> -systems of thought, but simply stripping thought -of its accidental features. He is even deeply impatient -of abstractions in political reasoning, so -passionately is he devoted to what is practicable, -and fit for wise men to do. To know such a man -is to experience all the warmer forces of the mind, -to feel the generous and cheering heat of character; -and all noble natures will love such a man, because -of kinship of quality. All noble natures that came -close to Burke did love him and cherish their -knowledge of him. They loaned him money without -stint, and then forgave him the loans, as if it -were a privilege to help him, and no way unnatural -that he should never return what he received, finding -his spirit made for fraternal, not for commercial -relations.</p> - -<p>It is pleasing, as it is also a little touching, to -see how his companions thus freely accorded to -Burke the immunities and prerogatives of a prince -amongst them. No one failed to perceive how -large and imperial he was, alike in natural gifts -and in the wonderful range of his varied acquirements. -Sir James Mackintosh, though he very -earnestly combated some of Burke’s views, intensely -admired his greatness. He declared that -Gibbon “might have been taken from a corner of -Burke’s mind without ever being missed.” “A wit<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">130</span> -said, of Gibbon’s ‘Autobiography’ that he did not -know the difference between himself and the Roman -Empire. He has narrated his ‘progressions from -London to Buriton and from Buriton to London’ -in the same monotonous, majestic periods that he -recorded the fall of states and empires.” And -we certainly feel a sense of incongruity: the two -subjects, we perceive, are hardly commensurable. -Perhaps in Burke’s case we should have felt differently,—we -<em>do</em> feel differently. In that extraordinary -“Letter to a Noble Lord,” in which he defends -his pension so proudly against the animadversions -of the Duke of Bedford, how magnificently he speaks -of his services to the country; how proud and majestic -a piece of autobiography it is! How insignificant -does the ancient house of Bedford seem, -with all its long generations, as compared with this -single and now lonely man, without distinguished -ancestry or hope of posterity! He speaks grandly -about himself, as about everything; and yet I see -no disparity between the subject and the manner!</p> - -<p>Outside the small circle of those who knew and -loved him, his generation did not wholly perceive -this. There seemed a touch of pretension in this -proud tone taken by a man who had never held -high office or exercised great power. He had made -great speeches, indeed, no one denied that; he had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">131</span> -written great party pamphlets,—that everybody -knew; his had been the intellectual force within -the group of Whigs that followed Lord Rockingham,—that, -too, the world in general perceived -and acknowledged; and when he died, England -knew the man who had gone to be a great man. -But, for all that, his tone must, in his generation, -have seemed disproportioned to the part he had -played. His great authority is over us rather than -over the men of his own day.</p> - -<p>Burke had the thoughts of a great statesman, -and uttered them with unapproachable nobility; -but he never wielded the power of a great statesman. -He was kept always in the background in -active politics, in minor posts, and employed upon -subordinate functions. This would be a singular -circumstance, if there were any novelty in it; but -the practice of keeping men of insignificant birth -out of the great offices was a practice which had -“broadened down from precedent to precedent” -until it had become too strong for even Burke to -breast or stem. Perhaps, too, there were faults of -temper which rendered Burke unfit to exercise -authority in directing the details, and determining -the practical measures, of public policy:—but we -shall look into that presently.</p> - -<p>In July, 1765, the Marquis of Rockingham<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">132</span> -became prime minister of England, and Burke -became his private secretary. He owed his introduction -to Lord Rockingham, as usual, to the good -offices of William Burke, who seems to have found -means of knowing everybody it was to the interest -of “the Burkes” to know. A more fortunate connection -could hardly have been made. Lord Rockingham, -though not a man of original powers, was -a man of the greatest simplicity and nobleness of -character, and, like most upright men, knew how -to trust other men. He gave Burke immediate -proof of his manly qualities. The scheming old -Duke of Newcastle, who ought to have been a -connoisseur in low men, mistook Burke for one. -Shocked that this obscurely born and unknown fellow -should be accorded confidential relations by -Lord Rockingham, he hurried to his lordship with -an assortment of hastily selected slanders against -Burke. His real name, he reported, was O’Bourke; -he was an Irish adventurer without character, and -a rank Papist to boot; it would ruin the administration -to have such a man connected with the -First Lord of the Treasury. Rockingham, with -great good sense and frankness, took the whole -matter at once to Burke; was entirely satisfied by -Burke’s denials; and admitted him immediately -to intimate relations of warm personal friendship<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">133</span> -which only death broke off. William Burke obtained -for himself an Undersecretaryship of State -and arranged with Lord Verney, at that time his -partner in East India speculations, that two of his -lordship’s parliamentary boroughs should be put -at his and Edmund’s disposal. Edmund Burke, -accordingly, entered Parliament for the borough -of Wendover on the 14th of January, 1766, at -the age of thirty-seven, and in the first vigor of -his powers.</p> - -<p>“Now we who know Burke,” announced Dr. -Johnson, “know that he will be one of the first -men in the country.” Burke promptly fulfilled -the prediction. He made a speech before he had -been in the House two weeks; a speech that made -him at once a marked man. His health was now -firmly established; he had a commanding physique; -his figure was tall and muscular, and his bearing -full of a dignity which had a touch almost of haughtiness -in it. Although his action was angular and -awkward, his extraordinary richness and fluency of -utterance drew the attention away from what he -was doing to what he was saying. His voice was -harsh, and did not harmonize with the melodious -measures in which his words poured forth; but it -was of unusual compass, and carried in it a sense -of confidence and power. His utterance was too<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">134</span> -rapid, his thought bore him too impulsively forward, -but the pregnant matter he spoke “filled the -town with wonder.” The House was excited by -new sensations. Members were astonished to recognize -a broad philosophy of politics running -through this ardent man’s speeches. They felt the -refreshment of the wide outlook he gave them, and -were conscious of catching glimpses of excellent -matter for reflection at every turn of his hurrying -thought. They wearied of it, indeed, after a while: -the pace was too hard for most of his hearers, and -they finally gave over following him when the -novelty and first excitement of the exercise had -worn off. He too easily lost sight of his audience -in his search for principles, and they resented his -neglect of them, his indifference to their tastes. -They felt his lofty style of reasoning as a sort of -rebuke, and deemed his discursive wisdom out of -place amidst their own thoughts of imperative personal -and party interest. He had, before very -long, to accustom himself, therefore, to speak to an -empty House and subsequent generations. His -opponents never, indeed, managed to feel quite -easy under his attacks: his arrows sought out their -weak places to the quick, and they winced even -when they coughed or seemed indifferent; but they -comforted themselves with the thought that the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">135</span> -orator was also tedious and irritating to his own -friends, teasing them too with keen rebukes and -vexatious admonitions. The high and wise sort of -speaking must always cause uneasiness in a political -assembly. The more equal and balanced it is, the -more must both parties be threatened with reproof.</p> - -<p>I would not be understood as saying that Burke’s -speeches were impartial. They were not. He had -preferences which amounted to prejudices. He -was always an intense party man. But then he -was a party man with a difference. He believed -that the interests of England were bound up with -the fortunes of the Rockingham Wings; but he -did not separate the interests of his party and the -interests of his country. He cherished party connections -because he conceived them to be absolutely -necessary for effective public service. “Where -men are not acquainted with each other’s principles,” -he said, “nor experienced in each other’s -talents, nor at all practiced in their mutual habitudes -or dispositions by joint efforts in business; -no personal confidence, no friendship, no common -interest, subsisting among them; it is evidently -impossible that they can act a public part with -uniformity, perseverance, or efficacy. In a connection, -the most inconsiderable man, by adding to -the weight of the whole, has his value, and his use;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">136</span> -out of it, the greatest talents are wholly unserviceable -to the public.” “When bad men combine, -the good must associate.” “It is not enough in a -situation of trust in the commonwealth, that a man -means well to his country; it is not enough that in -his single person he never did an evil act, but -always voted according to his conscience, and even -harangued against every design which he apprehended -to be prejudicial to the interests of his -country.... Duty demands and requires, that -what is right should not only be made known, but -made prevalent; that what is evil should not only -be detected, but defeated. When the public man -omits to put himself in a situation of doing his -duty with effect, it is an omission that frustrates -the purposes of his trust almost as much as if he -had formally betrayed it.” Burke believed the -Rockingham Whigs to be a combination of good -men, and he felt that he ought to sacrifice something -to keep himself in their connection. He -regarded them as men who “believed private honor -to be the foundation of public trust; that friendship -was no mean step towards patriotism; that he -who, in the common intercourse of life, showed he -regarded somebody besides himself, when he came -to act in a public situation, might probably consult -some other interest than his own.” He admitted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">137</span> -that such confederacies had often “a narrow, bigoted, -and prescriptive spirit;” “but, where duty -renders a critical situation a necessary one,” he -said, “it is our business to keep free from the evils -attendant upon it; and not to fly from the situation -itself. If a fortress is seated in an unwholesome -air, an officer of the garrison is obliged to be -attentive to his health, but he must not desert his -station.” “A party,” he declared, “is a body of -men united for promoting by their joint endeavors -the national interest upon some particular principle -in which they are all agreed.” “Men thinking -freely, will,” he very well knew, “in particular instances, -think differently. But still as the greater -part of the measures which arise in the course of -public business are related to, or dependent on, -some great, <em>leading, general principles in government</em>, -a man must be peculiarly unfortunate in the -choice of his political company, if he does not agree -with them at least nine times in ten. If he does -not concur in these general principles upon which -the party is founded, and which necessarily draw -on a concurrence in their application, he ought -from the beginning to have chosen some other, -more conformable to his opinions. When the -question is in its nature doubtful, or not very -material, the modesty which becomes an individual,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">138</span> -and that partiality which becomes a well-chosen -friendship, will frequently bring on an acquiescence -in the general sentiment. Thus the disagreement -will naturally be rare; it will be only enough to -indulge freedom, without violating concord, or disturbing -arrangement.”</p> - -<p>Certainly there were no party prizes for Burke. -During much the greater part of his career the -party to which he adhered was in opposition; and -even when in office it had only small favors for -him. Even his best friends advised against his -appointment to any of the great offices of state, -deeming him too intemperate and unpractical. -And yet the intensity of his devotion to his party -never abated a jot. Assuredly there was never a -less selfish allegiance. His devotion was for the -principles of his party, as he conceived and constructed -them. It was a moral and intellectual -devotion. He had embarked all his spirit’s fortunes -in the enterprise. Faults he unquestionably -had, which seemed very grave. He was passionate -sometimes beyond all bounds: he seriously frightened -cautious and practical men by his haste and -vehemence in pressing his views for acceptance. -He was capable of falling, upon occasion, into a -very frenzy of excitement in the midst of debate, -when he would often shock moderate men by the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">139</span> -ungoverned license of his language. But his friends -were as much to blame for these outbreaks as he -was. They cut him to the quick by the way in -which they criticised and misunderstood him. His -heart was maddened by the pain of their neglect -of his just claims to their confidence. They seemed -often to use him without trusting him, and their -slights were intolerable to his proud spirit. Practically, -and upon a narrow scale of expediency, -they may have been right: perhaps he was <em>not</em> circumspect -enough to be made a responsible head of -administration. Unquestionably, too, they loved -him and meant him no unkindness. But it was -none the less tragical to treat such a man in such -a fashion. They may possibly have temporarily -served their country by denying to Burke full public -acknowledgment of his great services; but they -cruelly wounded a great spirit, and they hardly -served mankind.</p> - -<p>They did Burke an injustice, moreover. They -greatly underrated his practical powers. In such -offices as he was permitted to hold he showed in -actual administration the same extraordinary mastery -of masses of detail which was the foundation -of his unapproachable mastery of general principles -in his thinking. His thought was always immersed -in matter, and concrete detail did not confuse him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">140</span> -when he touched it any more than it did when he -meditated upon it. Immediate contact with affairs -always steadied his judgment. He was habitually -temperate in the conduct of business. It was only -in speech and when debating matters that stirred -the depths of his nature that he gave way to uncalculating -fervor. He was intemperate in his emotions, -but seldom in his actions. He could, and -did, write calm state papers in the very midst and -heat of parliamentary affairs that subjected him to -the fiercest excitements. He was eminently capable -of counsel as well as of invective.</p> - -<p>He served his party in no servile fashion, for all -he adhered to it with such devotion. He sacrificed -his intellectual independence as little as his personality -in taking intimate part in its counsels. He -gave it principles, indeed, quite as often as he -accepted principles from it. In the final efforts of -his life, when he engaged every faculty of his mind -in the contest that he waged with such magnificent -wrath against the French revolutionary spirit, he -gave tone to all English thought, and direction to -many of the graver issues of international policy. -Rejected oftentimes by his party, he has at length -been accepted by the world.</p> - -<p>His habitual identification with opposition rather -than with the government gave him a certain advantage.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">141</span> -It relaxed party discipline and indulged -his independence. It gave leave, too, to the better -efforts of his genius: for in opposition it is principles -that tell, and Burke was first and last a master -of principles. Government is a matter of practical -detail, as well as of general measures; but the -criticism of government very naturally becomes a -matter of the application of general principles, as -standards rather than as practical means of policy.</p> - -<p>Four questions absorbed the energies of Burke’s -life and must always be associated with his fame. -These were, the American war for independence; -administrative reform in the English home government; -reform in the government of India; and the -profound political agitations which attended the -French Revolution. Other questions he studied, -deeply pondered, and greatly illuminated, but upon -these four he expended the full strength of his -magnificent powers. There is in his treatment of -these subjects a singular consistency, a very admirable -simplicity of standard. It has been said, and -it is true, that Burke had no system of political -philosophy. He was afraid of abstract system in -political thought, for he perceived that questions -of government are moral questions, and that questions -of morals cannot always be squared with the -rules of logic, but run through as many ranges of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">142</span> -variety as the circumstances of life itself. “Man -acts from adequate motives relative to his interest,” -he said, “and not on metaphysical speculations. -Aristotle, the great master of reasoning, cautions -us, and with great weight and propriety, against -this species of delusive geometrical accuracy in -moral arguments, as the most fallacious of all -sophistry.” And yet Burke unquestionably had a -very definite and determinable system of thought, -which was none the less a system for being based -upon concrete, and not upon abstract premises. -It is said by some writers (even by so eminent a -writer as Buckle) that in his later years Burke’s -mind lost its balance and that he reasoned as if he -were insane; and the proof assigned is, that he, a -man who loved liberty, violently condemned, not -the terrors only,—that of course,—but the very -principles of the French Revolution. But to reason -thus is to convict one’s self of an utter lack of comprehension -of Burke’s mind and motives: as a very -brief examination of his course upon the four great -questions I have mentioned will show.</p> - -<p>From first to last Burke’s thought is conservative. -Let his attitude with regard to America -serve as an example. He took his stand, as everybody -knows, with the colonies, against the mother -country; but his object was not revolutionary.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">143</span> -He did not deny the legal right of England to tax -the colonies (<em>we</em> no longer deny it ourselves), but -he wished to preserve the empire, and he saw that -to insist upon the right of taxation would be irrevocably -to break up the empire, when dealing with -such a people as the Americans. He pointed out -the strong and increasing numbers of the colonists, -their high spirit in enterprise, their jealous love of -liberty, and the indulgence England had hitherto -accorded them in the matter of self-government, -permitting them in effect to become an independent -people in respect of all their internal affairs; -and he declared the result matter for just pride. -“Whilst we follow them among the tumbling -mountains of ice, and behold them penetrating into -the deepest frozen recesses of Hudson’s Bay and -Davis’s Straits,” he exclaimed, in a famous passage -of his incomparable speech on Conciliation with -America, “whilst we are looking for them beneath -the arctic circle, we hear that they have pierced -into the opposite region of polar cold, that they are -at the antipodes, and engaged under the frozen -serpent of the South. Falkland Island, which -seemed too remote and romantic an object for the -grasp of national ambition, is but a stage and resting -place in the progress of their victorious industry. -Nor is the equinoctial heat more discouraging to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">144</span> -them than the accumulated winter of both the poles. -We know that whilst some of them draw the line -and strike the harpoon on the coast of Africa, -others run the longitude, and pursue their gigantic -game along the coast of Brazil. No sea but what -is vexed by their fisheries. No climate that is not -witness to their toils. Neither the perseverance of -Holland, nor the activity of France, nor the dexterous -and firm sagacity of English enterprise, -ever carried this most perilous mode of hardy -industry to the extent to which it has been pushed -by this recent people,—a people who are still, as -it were, but in the gristle, and not yet hardened -into the bone of manhood. When I contemplate -these things,—when I know that the colonies in -general owe little or nothing to any care of ours, -and that they are not squeezed into this happy -form by the constraints of watchful and suspicious -government, but that, through a wise and salutary -neglect, a generous nature has been suffered to -take her own way to perfection,—when I reflect -upon these effects, when I see how profitable they -have been to us, I feel all the pride of power sink, -and all the presumption in the wisdom of human -contrivances melt and die away within me,—my -rigor relents,—I pardon something to the spirit -of liberty.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">145</span></p> - -<p>“I think it necessary,” he insisted, “to consider -distinctly the true nature and the peculiar circumstances -of the object we have before us: because, -after all our struggle, whether we will or not, we -must govern America according to that nature and -those circumstances, and not according to our own -imaginations, not according to abstract ideas of -right, by no means according to mere general -theories of government, the resort to which appears -to me, in our present situation, no better than -arrant trifling.” To attempt to force such a people -would be a course of idle folly. Force, he declared, -would not only be an odious “but a feeble instrument, -for preserving a people so numerous, so -active, so growing, so spirited as this, in a profitable -and subordinate connection with” England.</p> - -<p>“First, Sir,” he cried, “permit me to observe, -that the use of force alone is but <em>temporary</em>. It -may subdue for a moment; but it does not remove -the necessity of subduing again: and a nation is -not governed which is perpetually to be conquered.</p> - -<p>“My next objection is its <em>uncertainty</em>. Terror -is not always the effect of force, and an armament -is not a victory. If you do not succeed, you are -without resource: for, conciliation failing, force -remains; but, force failing, no further hope of -reconciliation is left. Power and authority are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">146</span> -sometimes bought by kindness; but they can never -be begged as alms by an impoverished and defeated -violence.</p> - -<p>“A further objection to force is, that you <em>impair -the object</em> by your very endeavors to preserve it. -The thing you fought for is not the thing you -recover, but depreciated, sunk, wasted, and consumed -in the contest. Nothing less will content -me than <em>whole America</em>. I do not choose to consume -its strength along with our own; for in all -parts it is the British strength I consume.... -Let me add, that I do not choose wholly to break -the American spirit; because it is the spirit that -has made the country.</p> - -<p>“Lastly, we have no sort of <em>experience</em> in favor -of force as an instrument in the rule of our colonies. -Their growth and their utility has been owing to -methods altogether different. Our ancient indulgence -has been said to be pursued to a fault. It -may be so; but we know, if feeling is evidence, -that our fault was more tolerable than our attempt -to mend it, and our sin far more salutary than our -penitence.”</p> - -<p>“Obedience is what makes government,” “freedom, -and not servitude, is the cure of anarchy,” -and you cannot insist upon one rule of obedience -for Englishmen in America while you jealously<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">147</span> -maintain another for Englishmen in England. -“For, in order to prove that the Americans have -no right to their liberties, we are every day endeavoring -to subvert the maxims which preserve -the whole spirit of our own. To prove that the -Americans ought not to be free, we are obliged to -depreciate the value of freedom itself; and we -never seem to gain a paltry advantage over them -in debate, without attacking some of those principles, -or deriding some of those feelings, for which -our ancestors have shed their blood.” “The question -with me is, not whether you have a right to -render your people miserable, but whether it is not -your interest to make them happy. It is not what -a lawyer tells me I <em>may</em> do, but what humanity, -reason, and justice tell me I <em>ought</em> to do.... -Such is steadfastly my opinion of the absolute -necessity of keeping up the concord of this empire -by a unity of spirit, though in a diversity of operations, -that, if I were sure that the colonists had, at -their leaving this country, sealed a regular compact -of servitude, that they had solemnly abjured -all the rights of citizens, that they had made a vow -to renounce all ideas of liberty for them and their -posterity to all generations, yet I should hold myself -obliged to conform to the temper I found universally -prevalent in my own day, and to govern<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">148</span> -two million of men, impatient of servitude, on the -principles of freedom. I am not determining a -point of law; I am restoring tranquillity: and the -general character and situation of a people must -determine what sort of government is fitted for -them. That point nothing else can or ought to -determine.” “All government, indeed every human -benefit and enjoyment, every virtue and every -prudent act, is founded on compromise and barter. -We balance inconveniences; we give and take; -we remit some rights, that we may enjoy others; -and we choose rather to be happy citizens than -subtle disputants.” “Magnanimity in politics is -not seldom the truest wisdom; and a great empire -and little minds go ill together.”</p> - -<p>Here you have the whole spirit of the man, and -in part a view of his eminently practical system of -thought. The view is completed when you advance -with him to other subjects of policy. He pressed -with all his energy for radical reforms in administration, -but he earnestly opposed every change that -might touch the structure of the constitution itself. -He sought to secure the integrity of Parliament, -not by changing the system of representation, but -by cutting out all roots of corruption. He pressed -forward with the most ardent in all plans of just -reform, but he held back with the most conservative<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">149</span> -from all propositions of radical change. “To -innovate is not to reform,” he declared, and there -is “a marked distinction between change and reformation. -The former alters the substance of the -objects themselves, and gets rid of all their essential -good as well as of all the accidental evil annexed -to them. Change is novelty; and whether it is to -operate any one of the effects of reformation at all, -or whether it may not contradict the very principle -upon which reformation is desired, cannot certainly -be known beforehand. Reform is not a -change in the substance or in the primary modification -of the object, but a direct application of a -remedy to the grievance complained of. So far as -that is removed, all is sure. It stops there; and -if it fails, the substance which underwent the operation, -at the very worst, is but where it was.” This -is the governing motive of his immense labors to -accomplish radical economical reform in the administration -of the government. He was not seeking -economy merely; to husband the resources of -the country was no more than a means to an end, -and that end was, to preserve the constitution in its -purity. He believed that Parliament was not truly -representative of the people because so many place-men -found seats in it, and because so many members -who might have been independent were bought<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">150</span> -by the too abundant favors of the Court. Cleanse -Parliament of this corruption, and it would be restored -to something like its pristine excellence as -an instrument of liberty.</p> - -<p>He dreaded to see the franchise extended and -the House of Commons radically made over in its -constitution. It had never been intended to be -merely the people’s House. It had been intended -to hold all the elements of the state that were not -to be found in the House of Lords or the Court. -He conceived it to be the essential object of the -constitution to establish a balanced and just intercourse -between the several forces of an ancient -society, and it was well that that balance should be -preserved even in the House of Commons, rather -than give perilous sweep to a single set of interests. -“These opposed and conflicting interests,” he said -to his French correspondent, “which you considered -as so great a blemish in your old and in our present -Constitution, interpose a salutary check to all -precipitate resolutions. They render deliberation -a matter, not of choice, but of necessity; they -make all change a subject of <em>compromise</em>, which -naturally begets moderation; they produce <em>temperaments</em>, -preventing the sore evil of harsh, crude, -unqualified reformations, and rendering all the -headlong exertions of arbitrary power, in the few<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">151</span> -or in the many, forever impracticable. Through -that diversity of members and interests, general -liberty had as many securities as there are separate -views in the several orders; whilst by pressing -down the whole by the weight of a real monarchy, -the separate parts would have been prevented from -warping and starting from their allotted places.” -“<em>We</em> wish,” he said, “to derive all we possess <em>as -an inheritance from our forefathers</em>. Upon that -body and stock of experience we have taken care -not to inoculate any scion alien to the nature of the -original plant.” “This idea of a liberal descent -inspires us with a sense of habitual native dignity, -which prevents that upstart insolence almost inevitably -adhering to and disgracing those who are -the first acquirers of any distinction. By this -means our liberty becomes a noble freedom. It -carries an imposing and majestic aspect. It has a -pedigree and illustrating ancestors. It has its -bearings and its ensigns armorial. It has its gallery -of portraits, its monumental inscriptions, its -records, evidences, and titles. We procure reverence -to our civil institutions on the principle upon -which Nature teaches us to revere individual men: -on account of their age, and on account of those -from whom they are descended.”</p> - -<p>“When the useful parts of an old establishment<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">152</span> -are kept, and what is superadded is to be fitted to -what is retained, a vigorous mind, steady, persevering -attention, various powers of comparison -and combination, and the resources of an understanding -fruitful in expedients are to be exercised; -they are to be exercised in a continued conflict -with the combined force of opposite vices, with the -obstinacy that rejects all improvement, and the -levity that is fatigued and disgusted with everything -of which it is in possession.... Political -arrangement, as it is a work for social ends, is to -be only wrought by social means. There mind -must conspire with mind. Time is required to -produce that union of minds which alone can produce -all the good we aim at. Our patience will -achieve more than our force. If I might venture -to appeal to what is so much out of fashion in -Paris,—I mean to experience,—I should tell you -that in my course I have known, and, according to -my measure, have coöperated with great men; and -I have never yet seen any plan which has not been -mended by the observations of those who were -much inferior in understanding to the person who -took the lead in the business. By a slow, but well -sustained progress, the effect of each step is -watched; the good or ill success of the first gives -light to us in the second; and so, from light to light,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">153</span> -we are conducted with safety, through the whole -series.... We are enabled to unite into a consistent -whole the various anomalies and contending -principles that are found in the minds and affairs -of men. From hence arises, not an excellence in -simplicity, but one far superior, an excellence in -composition. Where the great interests of mankind -are concerned through a long succession of -generations, that succession ought to be admitted -into some share in the counsels which are so deeply -to affect them.”</p> - -<p>It is not possible to escape deep conviction of -the wisdom of these reflections. They penetrate to -the heart of all practicable methods of reform. -Burke was doubtless too timid, and in practical -judgment often mistaken. Measures which in -reality would operate only as salutary and needed -reformations he feared because of the element of -change that was in them. He erred when he supposed -that progress can in all its stages be made -without changes which seem to go even to the substance. -But, right or wrong, his philosophy did -not come to him of a sudden and only at the end -of his life, when he found France desolated and -England threatened with madness for love of revolutionary -principles of change. It is the key to -his thought everywhere, and through all his life.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">154</span></p> - -<p>It is the key (which many of his critics have -never found) to his position with regard to the -revolution in France. He was roused to that -fierce energy of opposition in which so many have -thought that they detected madness, not so much -because of his deep disgust to see brutal and -ignorant men madly despoil an ancient and honorable -monarchy, as because he saw the spirit of -these men cross the Channel and find lodgment -in England, even among statesmen like Fox, who -had been his own close friends and companions in -thought and policy; not so much because he loved -France as because he feared for England. For -England he had Shakespeare’s love:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indentq">“That fortress built by nature for herself</div> - <div class="verse indent0"><em>Against infection and the hand of war</em>;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That happy breed of men, that little world,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That precious stone set in the silver sea,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Which serves it in the office of a wall,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Or as a moat defensive to a house,</div> - <div class="verse indent0"><em>Against the envy of less happier lands</em>;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That blessed plot, that earth, that realm, that England.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">’T was to keep out infection and to preserve such -precious stores of manly tradition as had made that -little world “the envy of less happier lands” that -Burke sounded so effectually that extraordinary -alarm against the revolutionary spirit that was -racking France from throne to cottage. Let us<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">155</span> -admit, if you will, that with reference to France -herself he was mistaken. Let us say that when he -admired the institutions which she was then sweeping -away he was yielding to sentiment, and imagining -France as perfect as the beauty of the sweet -queen he had seen in her radiant youth. Let us -concede that he did not understand the condition -of France, and therefore did not see how inevitable -that terrible revolution was: that in this case, too, -the wages of sin was death. He was not defending -France, if you look to the bottom of it; he -was defending England:—and the things he -hated are truly hateful. He hated the French revolutionary -philosophy and deemed it unfit for -free men. And that philosophy is in fact radically -evil and corrupting. No state can ever be -conducted on its principles. For it holds that -government is a matter of contract and deliberate -arrangement, whereas in fact it is an institute of -habit, bound together by innumerable threads of -association, scarcely one of which has been deliberately -placed. It holds that the object of government -is liberty, whereas the true object of government -is justice; not the advantage of one class, even -though that class constitute the majority, but right -equity in the adjustment of the interests of all -classes. It assumes that government can be made<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">156</span> -over at will, but assumes it without the slightest -historical foundation. For governments have -never been successfully and permanently changed -except by slow modification operating from generation -to generation. It contradicted every principle -that had been so laboriously brought to light in -the slow stages of the growth of liberty in the only -land in which liberty had then grown to great proportions. -The history of England is a continuous -thesis against revolution; and Burke would have -been no true Englishman, had he not roused himself, -even fanatically, if there were need, to keep -such puerile doctrine out.</p> - -<p>If you think his fierceness was madness, look -how he conducted the trial against Warren Hastings -during those same years: with what patience, -with what steadiness in business, with what temper, -with what sane and balanced attention to detail, -with what statesmanlike purpose! Note, likewise, -that his thesis is the same in the one undertaking -as in the other. He was applying the same principles -to the case of France and to the case of India -that he had applied to the case of the colonies. -He meant to save the empire, not by changing its -constitution, as was the method in France, and so -shaking every foundation in order to dislodge an -abuse, but by administering it uprightly and in a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">157</span> -liberal spirit. He was persuaded “that government -was a practical thing, made for the happiness -of mankind, and not to furnish out a spectacle of -uniformity to gratify the schemes of visionary politicians. -Our business,” he said, “was to rule, not -to wrangle; and it would be a poor compensation -that we had triumphed in a dispute, whilst we had -lost an empire.” The monarchy must be saved -and the constitution vindicated by keeping the -empire pure in all parts, even in the remotest -provinces. Hastings must be crushed in order -that the world might know that no English governor -could afford to be unjust. Good government, -like all virtue, he deemed to be a practical -habit of conduct, and not a matter of constitutional -structure. It is a great ideal, a thoroughly English -ideal; and it constitutes the leading thought of all -Burke’s career.</p> - -<p>In short, as I began by saying, this man, an -Irishman, speaks the best English thought upon the -essential questions of politics. He is thoroughly, -characteristically, and to the bottom English in all -his flunking. He is more liberal than Englishmen -in his treatment of Irish questions, of course; for -he understands them, as no Englishman of his -generation did. But for all that he remains the -chief spokesman for England in the utterance of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">158</span> -the fundamental ideals which have governed the -action of Englishmen in politics. “All the ancient, -honest, juridical principles and institutions of England,” -such was his idea, “are so many clogs to -check and retard the headlong course of violence -and oppression. They were invented for this one -good purpose, that what was not <em>just</em> should not be -<em>convenient</em>.” This is fundamental English doctrine. -English liberty has consisted in making it unpleasant -for those who were unjust, and thus getting -them in the habit of being just for the sake of a -<i xml:lang="la" lang="la">modus vivendi</i>. Burke is the apostle of the great -English gospel of Expediency.</p> - -<p>The politics of English-speaking peoples has -never been speculative; it has always been profoundly -practical and utilitarian. Speculative politics -treats men and situations as they are supposed -to be; practical politics treats them (upon no general -plan, but in detail) as they are found to be at -the moment of actual contact. With reference to -America Burke argues: No matter what your legal -right in the case, it is not <em>expedient</em> to treat -America as you propose: a numerous and spirited -people like the colonists will not submit; and your -experiment will cost you your colonies. In the -case of administrative reform, again, it is the -higher sort of expediency he urges: If you wish<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">159</span> -to keep your government from revolution, keep it -from corruption, and by making it pure render it -permanent. To the French he says, It is not <em>expedient</em> -to destroy thus recklessly these ancient parts -of your constitution. How will you replace them? -How will you conduct affairs at all after you shall -have deprived yourselves of all balance and of all -old counsel? It is both better and easier to reform -than to tear down and reconstruct.</p> - -<p>This is unquestionably the message of Englishmen -to the world, and Burke utters it with incomparable -eloquence. A man of sensitive imagination -and elevated moral sense, of a wide knowledge and -capacity for affairs, he stood in the midst of the -English nation speaking its moral judgments upon -affairs, its character in political action, its purposes -of freedom, equity, wide and equal progress. It is -the immortal charm of his speech and manner that -gives permanence to his works. Though his life -was devoted to affairs with a constant and unalterable -passion, the radical features of Burke’s mind -were literary. He was a man of books, without -being under the dominance of what others had -written. He got knowledge out of books and the -abundance of matter his mind craved to work its -constructive and imaginative effects upon. It is -singular how devoid of all direct references to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">160</span> -books his writings are. The materials of his -thought never reappear in the same form in which -he obtained them. They have been smelted and -recoined. They have come under the drill and -inspiration of a great constructive mind, have -caught life and taken structure from it. Burke is -not literary because he takes from books, but because -he makes books, transmuting what he writes -upon into literature. It is this inevitable literary -quality, this sure mastery of style, that mark the -man, as much as his thought itself. He is a master -in the use of the great style. Every sentence, too, -is steeped in the colors of an extraordinary imagination. -The movement takes your breath and -quickens your pulses. The glow and power of the -matter rejuvenate your faculties.</p> - -<p>And yet the thought, too, is quite as imperishable -as its incomparable vehicle.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indentq">“The deepest, plainest, highest, clearest pen;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The voice most echoed by consenting men;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The soul which answered best to all well said</div> - <div class="verse indent0">By others, and which most requital made;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Tuned to the highest key of ancient Rome,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Returning all her music with his own;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In whom, with nature, study claimed a part,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And yet who to himself owed all his art.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_161" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">161</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="VI">VI.<br /> - -<span class="subhead">THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER.</span></h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">“Give</span> us the facts, and nothing but the facts,” -is the sharp injunction of our age to its historians. -Upon the face of it, an eminently reasonable requirement. -To tell the truth simply, openly, without -reservation, is the unimpeachable first principle -of all right dealing; and historians have no license -to be quit of it. Unquestionably they must tell us -the truth, or else get themselves enrolled among a -very undesirable class of persons, not often frankly -named in polite society. But the thing is by no -means so easy as it looks. The truth of history is -a very complex and very occult matter. It consists -of things which are invisible as well as of things -which are visible. It is full of secret motives, and -of a chance interplay of trivial and yet determining -circumstances; it is shot through with transient -passions, and broken athwart here and there by -what seem cruel accidents; it cannot all be reduced -to statistics or newspaper items or official recorded -statements. And so it turns out, when the actual -test of experiment is made, that the historian must<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">162</span> -have something more than a good conscience, must -be something more than a good man. He must -have an eye to see the truth; and nothing but a -very catholic imagination will serve to illuminate -his matter for him: nothing less than keen and -steady insight will make even illumination yield -him the truth of what he looks upon. Even when -he has seen the truth, only half his work is done, -and that not the more difficult half. He must -then make others see it just as he does: only when -he has done that has he told the truth. What an -art of penetrative phrase and just selection must -he have to take others into the light in which he -stands! Their dullness, their ignorance, their prepossessions, -are to be overcome and driven in, like -a routed troop, upon the truth. The thing is infinitely -difficult. The skill and strategy of it cannot -be taught. And so historians take another way, -which is easier: they tell part of the truth,—the -part most to their taste, or most suitable to their -talents,—and obtain readers to their liking among -those of similar tastes and talents to their own.</p> - -<p>We have our individual preferences in history, -as in every other sort of literature. And there are -histories to every taste: histories full of the piquant -details of personal biography, histories that blaze -with the splendors of courts and resound with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">163</span> -drum and trumpet, and histories that run upon the -humbler but greater levels of the life of the people; -colorless histories, so passionless and so lacking in -distinctive mark or motive that they might have -been set up out of a dictionary without the intervention -of an author, and partisan histories, so -warped and violent in every judgment that no -reader not of the historian’s own party can stomach -them; histories of economic development, and histories -that speak only of politics; those that tell -nothing but what it is pleasant and interesting to -know, and those that tell nothing at all that one -cares to remember. One must be of a new and -unheard of taste not to be suited among them all.</p> - -<p>The trouble is, after all, that men do not invariably -find the truth to their taste, and will often -deny it when they hear it; and the historian has to -do much more than keep his own eyes clear: he -has also to catch and hold the eye of his reader. -’Tis a nice art, as much intellectual as moral. -How shall he take the palate of his reader at unawares, -and get the unpalatable facts down his -throat along with the palatable? Is there no way -in which all the truth may be made to hold together -in a narrative so strongly knit and so harmoniously -colored that no reader will have either the wish or -the skill to tear its patterns asunder, and men will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">164</span> -take it all, unmarred and as it stands, rather than -miss the zest of it?</p> - -<p>It is evident the thing cannot be done by the -“dispassionate” annalist. The old chroniclers, -whom we relish, were not dispassionate. We love -some of them for their sweet quaintness, some for -their childlike credulity, some for their delicious -inconsequentiality. But our modern chroniclers -are not so. They are, above all things else, knowing, -thoroughly informed, subtly sophisticated. -They would not for the world contribute any spice -of their own to the narrative; and they are much -too watchful, circumspect, and dutiful in their care -to keep their method pure and untouched by any -thought of theirs to let us catch so much as a -glimpse of the chronicler underneath the chronicle. -Their purpose is to give simply the facts, eschewing -art, and substituting a sort of monumental index -and table of the world’s events.</p> - -<p>The trouble is that men refuse to be made any -wiser by such means. Though they will readily -enough let their eyes linger upon a monument of -art, they will heedlessly pass by a mere monument -of industry. It suggests nothing to them. The -materials may be suitable enough, but the handling -of them leaves them dead and commonplace. An -interesting circumstance thus comes to light. It<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">165</span> -is nothing less than this, that the facts do not of -themselves constitute the truth. The truth is abstract, -not concrete. It is the just idea, the right -revelation of what things mean. It is evoked only -by such arrangements and orderings of facts as -suggest interpretations. The chronological arrangement -of events, for example, may or may not be -the arrangement which most surely brings the -truth of the narrative to light; and the best arrangement -is always that which displays, not the -facts themselves, but the subtle and else invisible -forces that lurk in the events and in the minds of -men,—forces for which events serve only as lasting -and dramatic words of utterance. Take an instance. -How are you to enable men to know the truth -with regard to a period of revolution? Will you -give them simply a calm statement of recorded -events, simply a quiet, unaccentuated narrative of -what actually happened, written in a monotone, -and verified by quotations from authentic documents -of the time? You may save yourself the -trouble. As well make a pencil sketch in outline -of a raging conflagration; write upon one portion -of it “flame,” upon another “smoke;” here “town -hall, where the fire started,” and there “spot where -fireman was killed.” It is a chart, not a picture. -Even if you made a veritable picture of it, you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">166</span> -could give only part of the truth so long as you -confined yourself to black and white. Where -would be all the wild and terrible colors of the -scene: the red and tawny flame; the masses of -smoke, carrying the dull glare of the fire to the -very skies, like a great signal banner thrown to the -winds; the hot and frightened faces of the crowd; -the crimsoned gables down the street, with the -faint light of a lamp here and there gleaming -white from some hastily opened casement? Without -the colors your picture is not true. No inventory -of items will even represent the truth: the -fuller and more minute you make your inventory, -the more will the truth be obscured. The little -details will take up as much space in the statement -as the great totals into which they are summed up; -and, the proportions being false, the whole is false. -Truth, fortunately, takes its own revenge. No one -is deceived. The reader of the chronicle lays it -aside. It lacks verisimilitude. He cannot realize -how any of the things spoken of can have happened. -He goes elsewhere to find, if he may, a -real picture of the time, and perhaps finds one that -is wholly fictitious. No wonder the grave and -monk-like chronicler sighs. He of course wrote to -be read, and not merely for the manual exercise of -it; and when he sees readers turn away his heart<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">167</span> -misgives him for his fellow-men. Is it as it always -was, that they do not wish to know the truth? -Alas! good eremite, men do not seek the truth as -they should; but do you know what the truth is? -It is a thing ideal, displayed by the just proportion -of events, revealed in form and color, dumb till -facts be set in syllables, articulated into words, put -together into sentences, swung with proper tone -and cadence. It is not revolutions only that have -color. Nothing in human life is without it. In a -monochrome you can depict nothing but a single -incident; in a monotone you cannot often carry -truth beyond a single sentence. Only by art in all -its variety can you depict as it is the various face -of life.</p> - -<p>Yes; but what sort of art? There is here a -wide field of choice. Shall we go back to the art -of which Macaulay was so great a master? We -could do worse. It must be a great art that can -make men lay aside the novel and take up the history, -to find there, in very fact, the movement and -drama of life. What Macaulay does well he does -incomparably. Who else can mass the details as -he does, and yet not mar or obscure, but only -heighten, the effect of the picture as a whole? -Who else can bring so amazing a profusion of -knowledge within the strait limits of a simple plan,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">168</span> -nowhere encumbered, everywhere free and obvious -in its movement? How sure the strokes, and how -bold and vivid the result! Yet when we have laid -the book aside, when the charm and the excitement -of the telling narrative have worn off, when we -have lost step with the swinging gait at which the -style goes, when the details have faded from our -recollection, and we sit removed and thoughtful, -with only the greater outlines of the story sharp -upon our minds, a deep misgiving and dissatisfaction -take possession of us. We are no longer -young, and we are chagrined that we should have -been so pleased and taken with the glitter and -color and mere life of the picture. Let boys be -cajoled by rhetoric, we cry; men must look deeper. -What of the judgment of this facile and eloquent -man? Can we agree with him, when he is not -talking and the charm is gone? What shall we -say of his assessment of men and measures? Is -he just? Is he himself in possession of the whole -truth? Does he open the matter to us as it was? -Does he not, rather, ride us like an advocate, and -make himself master of our judgments?</p> - -<p>Then it is that we become aware that there were -two Macaulays: Macaulay the artist, with an exquisite -gift for telling a story, filling his pages with -little vignettes it is impossible to forget, fixing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">169</span> -these with an inimitable art upon the surface of -a narrative that did not need the ornament they -gave it, so strong and large and adequate was it; -and Macaulay the Whig, subtly turning narrative -into argument, and making history the vindication -of a party. The mighty narrative is a great engine -of proof. It is not told for its own sake. It is -evidence summed up in order to justify a judgment. -We detect the tone of the advocate, and -though if we are just we must deem him honest, -we cannot deem him safe. The great story-teller -is discredited; and, willingly or unwillingly, we -reject the guide who takes it upon himself to determine -for us what we shall see. That, we feel -sure, cannot be true which makes of so complex a -history so simple a thesis for the judgment. There -is art here; but it is the art of special pleading, -misleading even to the pleader.</p> - -<p>If not Macaulay, what master shall we follow? -Shall our historian not have his convictions, and -enforce them? Shall he not be our guide, and -speak, if he can, to our spirits as well as to our -understandings? Readers are a poor jury. They -need enlightenment as well as information; the -matter must be interpreted to them as well as related. -There are moral facts as well as material, -and the one sort must be as plainly told as the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">170</span> -other. Of what service is it that the historian -should have insight if we are not to know how the -matter stands in his view? If he refrain from -judgment, he may deceive us as much as he -would were his judgment wrong; for we must -have enlightenment,—that is his function. We -would not set him up merely to tell us tales, but -also to display to us characters, to open to us the -moral and intent of the matter. Were the men -sincere? Was the policy righteous? We have but -just now seen that the “facts” lie deeper than the -mere visible things that took place, that they involve -the moral and motive of the play. Shall -not these, too, be brought to light?</p> - -<p>Unquestionably every sentence of true history -must hold a judgment in solution. All cannot be -told. If it were possible to tell all, it would take -as long to write history as to enact it, and we should -have to postpone the reading of it to the leisure -of the next world. A few facts must be selected -for the narrative, the great majority left unnoted. -But the selection—for what purpose it is to be -made? For the purpose of conveying <em>an impression</em> -of the truth. Where shall you find a more radical -process of judgment? The “essential” facts taken, -the “unessential” left out! Why, you may make -the picture what you will, and in any case it must<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">171</span> -be the express image of the historian’s fundamental -judgments. It is his purpose, or should be, to give -a true impression of his theme as a whole,—to -show it, not lying upon his page in an open and -dispersed analysis, but set close in intimate synthesis, -every line, every stroke, every bulk even, -omitted which does not enter of very necessity into -a single and unified image of the truth.</p> - -<p>It is in this that the writing of history differs, -and differs very radically, from the statement of -the results of original research. The writing of -history must be based upon original research and -authentic record, but it can no more be directly -constructed by the piecing together of bits of -original research than by the mere reprinting together -of state documents. Individual research -furnishes us, as it were, with the private documents -and intimate records without which the public -archives are incomplete and unintelligible. But -by themselves these are wholly out of perspective. -It is the consolation of those who produce them to -make them so. They would lose heart were they -forbidden to regard all facts as of equal importance. -It is facts they are after, and only facts,—facts -for their own sake, and without regard to their -several importance. These are their ore,—very -precious ore,—which they are concerned to get<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">172</span> -out, not to refine. They have no direct concern -with what may afterwards be done at the mint or -in the goldsmith’s shop. They will even boast that -they care not for the beauty of the ore, and are -indifferent how, or in what shape, it may become -an article of commerce. Much of it is thrown -away in the nice processes of manufacture, and you -shall not distinguish the product of the several -mines in the coin, or the cup, or the salver.</p> - -<p>The historian must, indeed, himself be an investigator. -He must know good ore from bad; must -distinguish fineness, quality, genuineness; must stop -to get out of the records for himself what he lacks -for the perfection of his work. But for all that, -he must know and stand ready to do every part of -his task like a master workman, recognizing and -testing every bit of stuff he uses. Standing sure, -a man of science as well as an artist, he must take -and use all of his equipment for the sake of his -art,—not to display his materials, but to subordinate -and transform them in his effort to make, by -every touch and cunning of hand and tool, the perfect -image of what he sees, the very truth of his -seer’s vision of the world. The true historian -works always for the whole impression, the truth -with unmarred proportions, unexaggerated parts, -undistorted visage. He has no favorite parts of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">173</span> -the story which he boasts are bits of his own, but -loves only the whole of it, the full and unspoiled -image of the day of which he writes, the crowded -and yet consistent details which carry, without obtrusion -of themselves, the large features of the -time. Any exaggeration of the parts makes all -the picture false, and the work is to do over. -“Test every bit of material,” runs the artist’s rule, -“and then forget the material;” forget its origin -and the dross from which it has been freed, and -think only and always of the great thing you -would make of it, the pattern and form in which -you would lose and merge it. That is its only -high use.</p> - -<p>’Tis a pity to see how even the greatest minds -will often lack the broad and catholic vision with -which the just historian must look upon men and -affairs. There is Carlyle, with his shrewd and seeing -eye, his unmatched capacity to assess strong -men and set the scenery for tragedy or intrigue, his -breathless ardor for great events, his amazing flashes -of insight, and his unlooked-for steady light of occasional -narrative. The whole matter of what he -writes is too dramatic. Surely history was not all -enacted so hotly, or with so passionate a rush of -men upon the stage. Its quiet scenes must have -been longer, not mere pauses and interludes while<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">174</span> -the tragic parts were being made up. There is not -often ordinary sunlight upon the page. The lights -burn now wan, now lurid. Men are seen disquieted -and turbulent, and may be heard in husky cries or -rude, untimely jests. We do not recognize our -own world, but seem to see another such as ours -might become if peopled by like uneasy Titans. -Incomparable to tell of days of storm and revolution, -speaking like an oracle and familiar of destiny -and fate, searching the hearts of statesmen -and conquerors with an easy insight in every day of -action, this peasant seer cannot give us the note of -piping times of peace, or catch the tone of slow -industry; watches ships come and go at the docks, -hears freight-vans thunder along the iron highways -of the modern world, and loaded trucks lumber -heavily through the crowded city streets, with a -hot disdain of commerce, prices current, the haggling -of the market, the smug ease of material -comfort bred in a trading age. There is here no -broad and catholic vision, no wise tolerance, no -various power to know, to sympathize, to interpret. -The great seeing imagination of the man lacks that -pure radiance in which things are seen steadily and -seen whole.</p> - -<p>It is not easy, to say truth, to find actual examples -when you are constructing the ideal historian,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">175</span> -the man with the vision and the faculty divine -to see affairs justly and tell of them completely. -If you are not satisfied with this passionate and -intolerant seer of Chelsea, whom will you choose? -Shall it be Gibbon, whom all praise, but so few -read? He, at any rate, is passionless, it would -appear. But who could write epochal history -with passion? All hot humors of the mind must, -assuredly, cool when spread at large upon so vast -a surface. One must feel like a sort of minor -providence in traversing that great tract of world -history, and catch in spite of one’s self the gait and -manner of a god. This stately procession of generations -moves on remote from the ordinary levels of -our human sympathy. ’Tis a wide view of nations -and peoples and dynasties, and a world shaken by -the travail of new births. There is here no scale -by which to measure the historian of the sort we -must look to see handle the ordinary matter of -national history. The “Decline and Fall” stands -impersonal, like a monument. We shall reverence -it, but we shall not imitate it.</p> - -<p>If we look away from Gibbon, exclude Carlyle, -and question Macaulay; if we put the investigators -on one side as not yet historians, and the deliberately -picturesque and entertaining <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">raconteurs</i> as -not yet investigators, we naturally turn, I suppose,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">176</span> -to such a man as John Richard Green, at once the -patient scholar,—who shall adequately say how -nobly patient?—and the rare artist, working so -like a master in the difficult stuffs of a long national -history. The very life of the man is as beautiful -as the moving sentences he wrote with so subtle -a music in the cadence. We know whence the -fine moral elevation of tone came that sounds -through all the text of his great narrative. True, -not everybody is satisfied with our <em>doctor angelicus</em>. -Some doubt he is too ornate. Others are troubled -that he should sometimes be inaccurate. Some are -willing to use his history as a manual; while others -cannot deem him satisfactory for didactic uses, -hesitate how they shall characterize him, and quit -the matter vaguely with saying that what he wrote -is “at any rate literature.” Can there be something -lacking in Green, too, notwithstanding he -was impartial, and looked with purged and open -eyes upon the whole unbroken life of his people,—notwithstanding -he saw the truth and had the art -and mastery to make others see it as he did, in all -its breadth and multiplicity?</p> - -<p>Perhaps even this great master of narrative -lacks variety—as who does not? His method, -whatever the topic, is ever the same. His sentences, -his paragraphs, his chapters are pitched<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">177</span> -one and all in the same key. It is a very fine and -moving key. Many an elevated strain and rich -harmony commend it alike to the ear and to the -imagination. It is employed with an easy mastery, -and is made to serve to admiration a wide range -of themes. But it is always the same key, and -some themes it will not serve. An infinite variety -plays through all history. Every scene has its -own air and singularity. Incidents cannot all be -rightly set in the narrative if all be set alike. As -the scene shifts, the tone of the narrative must -change: the narrator’s choice of incident and his -choice of words; the speed and method of his sentence; -his own thought, even, and point of view. -Surely his battle pages must resound with the -tramp of armies and the fearful din and rush of -war. In peace he must catch by turns the hum of -industry, the bustle of the street, the calm of the -country-side, the tone of parliamentary debate, the -fancy, the ardor, the argument of poets and seers -and quiet students. Snatches of song run along -with sober purpose and strenuous endeavor through -every nation’s story. Coarse men and refined, -mobs and ordered assemblies, science and mad impulse, -storm and calm, are all alike ingredients of -the various life. It is not all epic. There is rough -comedy and brutal violence. The drama can scarce<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">178</span> -be given any strict, unbroken harmony of incident, -any close logical sequence of act or nice unity of -scene. To pitch it all in one key, therefore, is to -mistake the significance of the infinite play of -varied circumstance that makes up the yearly -movement of a people’s life.</p> - -<p>It would be less than just to say that Green’s -pages do not reveal the variety of English life the -centuries through. It is his glory, indeed, as all -the world knows, to have broadened and diversified -the whole scale of English history. Nowhere else -within the compass of a single book can one find -so many sides of the great English story displayed -with so deep and just an appreciation of them all, -or of the part of each in making up the whole. -Green is the one man among English historians -who has restored the great fabric of the nation’s -history where its architecture was obscure, and its -details were likely to be lost or forgotten. Once -more, because of him, the vast Gothic structure -stands complete, its majesty and firm grace enhanced -at every point by the fine tracery of its -restored details.</p> - -<p>Where so much is done, it is no doubt unreasonable -to ask for more. But the very architectural -symmetry of this great book imposes a limitation -upon it. It is full of a certain sort of variety; but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">179</span> -it is only the variety of a great plan’s detail, not -the variety of English life. The noble structure -obeys its own laws rather than the laws of a people’s -fortunes. It is a monument conceived and -reared by a consummate artist, and it wears upon -its every line some part of the image it was meant -to bear, of a great, complex, aspiring national existence. -But, though it symbolizes, it does not contain -that life. It has none of the irregularity of -the actual experiences of men and communities. -It explains, but it does not contain, their variety. -The history of every nation has certainly a plan -which the historian must see and reproduce; but -he must reconstruct the people’s life, not merely -expound it. The scope of his method must be as -great as the variety of his subject; it must change -with each change of mood, respond to each varying -impulse in the great process of events. No rigor -of a stately style must be suffered to exclude the -lively touches of humor or the rude sallies of -strength that mark it everywhere. The plan of -the telling must answer to the plan of the fact,—must -be as elastic as the topics are mobile. The -matter should rule the plan, not the plan the matter.</p> - -<p>The ideal is infinitely difficult, if, indeed, it be -possible to any man not Shakespearean; but the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">180</span> -difficulty of attaining it is often unnecessarily enhanced. -Ordinarily the historian’s preparation for -his task is such as to make it unlikely he will -perform it naturally. He goes first, with infinite -and admirable labor, through all the labyrinth of -document and detail that lies up and down his -subject; collects masses of matter great and small, -for substance, verification, illustration; piles his -notes volumes high; reads far and wide upon the -tracks of his matter, and makes page upon page -of references; and then, thoroughly stuffed and -sophisticated, turns back and begins his narrative. -’Tis impossible then that he should begin naturally. -He sees the end from the beginning, and all the intermediate -way from beginning to end; he has made -up his mind about too many things; uses his details -with a too free and familiar mastery, not like one -who tells a story so much as like one who dissects a -cadaver. Having swept his details together beforehand, -like so much scientific material, he discourses -upon them like a demonstrator,—thinks too little -in subjection to them. They no longer make a -fresh impression upon him. They are his tools, -not his objects of vision.</p> - -<p>It is not by such a process that a narrative is -made vital and true. It does not do to lose the -point of view of the first listener to the tale, or to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">181</span> -rearrange the matter too much out of the order of -nature. You must instruct your reader as the -events themselves would have instructed him, had -he been able to note them as they passed. The -historian must not lose his own fresh view of the -scene as it passed and changed more and more -from year to year and from age to age. He must -keep with the generation of which he writes, not -be too quick to be wiser than they were or look -back upon them in his narrative with head over -shoulder. He must write of them always in the -atmosphere they themselves breathed, not hastening -to judge them, but striving only to realize them at -every turn of the story, to make their thoughts -his own, and call their lives back again, rebuilding -the very stage upon which they played their parts. -Bring the end of your story to mind while you set -about telling its beginning, and it seems to have -no parts: beginning, middle, end, are all as one,—are -merely like parts of a pattern which you see as -a single thing stamped upon the stuff under your -hand.</p> - -<p>Try the method with the history of our own land -and people. How will you begin? Will you start -with a modern map and a careful topographical -description of the continent? And then, having -made your nineteenth-century framework for the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">182</span> -narrative, will you ask your reader to turn back -and see the seventeenth century, and those lonely -ships coming in at the capes of the Chesapeake? -He will never see them so long as you compel him -to stand here at the end of the nineteenth century -and look at them as if through a long retrospect. -The attention both of the narrator and of the -reader, if history is to be seen aright, must look -forward, not backward. It must see with a contemporaneous -eye. Let the historian, if he be -wise, know no more of the history as he writes -than might have been known in the age and day -of which he is writing. A trifle too much knowledge -will undo him. It will break the spell for -his imagination. It will spoil the magic by which -he may raise again the image of days that are -gone. He must of course know the large lines of -his story; it must lie as a whole in his mind. His -very art demands that, in order that he may know -and keep its proportions. But the details, the -passing incidents of day and year, must come fresh -into his mind, unreasoned upon as yet, untouched -by theory, with their first look upon them. It is -here that original documents and fresh research -will serve him. He must look far and wide upon -every detail of the time, see it at first hand, and -paint as he looks; selecting, as the artist must, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">183</span> -selecting while the vision is fresh, and not from -old sketches laid away in his notes,—selecting -from the life itself.</p> - -<p>Let him remember that his task is radically -different from the task of the investigator. The -investigator must display his materials, but the -historian must convey his impressions. He must -stand in the presence of life, and reproduce it in -his narrative; must recover a past age; make dead -generations live again and breathe their own air; -show them native and at home upon his page. To -do this, his own impressions must be as fresh as -those of an unlearned reader, his own curiosity as -keen and young at every stage. It may easily be -so as his reading thickens, and the atmosphere of -the age comes stealthily into his thought, if only -he take care to push forward the actual writing of -his narrative at an equal pace with his reading, -painting thus always direct from the image itself. -His knowledge of the great outlines and bulks of -the picture will be his sufficient guide and restraint -the while, will give proportion to the individual -strokes of his work. But it will not check his zest, -or sophisticate his fresh recovery of the life that is -in the crowding colors of the canvas.</p> - -<p>A nineteenth-century plan laid like a standard -and measure upon a seventeenth-century narrative<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">184</span> -will infallibly twist it and make it false. Lay a -modern map before the first settlers at Jamestown -and Plymouth, and then bid them discover and -occupy the continent. With how superior a nineteenth-century -wonder and pity will you see them -grope, and stumble, and falter! How like children -they will seem to you, and how simple their age, -and ignorant! As stalwart men as you they were -in fact; mayhap wiser and braver too; as fit to -occupy a continent as you are to draw it upon -paper. If you would know them, go back to their -age; breed yourself a pioneer and woodsman; look -to find the South Sea up the nearest northwest -branch of the spreading river at your feet; discover -and occupy the wilderness with them; dream what -may be beyond the near hills, and long all day to -see a sail upon the silent sea; go back to them and -see them in their habit as they lived.</p> - -<p>The picturesque writers of history have all along -been right in theory: they have been wrong only -in practice. It is a picture of the past we want—its -express image and feature; but we want the -true picture and not simply the theatrical matter,—the -manner of Rembrandt rather than of Rubens. -All life may be pictured, but not all of life is picturesque. -No great, no true historian would put -false or adventitious colors into his narrative, or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">185</span> -let a glamour rest where in fact it never was. -The writers who select an incident merely because -it is striking or dramatic are shallow fellows. -They see only with the eye’s retina, not with that -deep vision whose images lie where thought and -reason sit. The real drama of life is disclosed -only with the whole picture; and that only the -deep and fervid student will see, whose mind goes -daily fresh to the details, whose narrative runs -always in the authentic colors of nature, whose art -it is to see, and to paint what he sees.</p> - -<p>It is thus and only thus we shall have the truth -of the matter: by art,—by the most difficult of all -arts; by fresh study and first-hand vision; at the -mouths of men who stand in the midst of old letters -and dusty documents and neglected records, -not like antiquarians, but like those who see a distant -country and a far-away people before their -very eyes, as real, as full of life and hope and incident, -as the day in which they themselves live. Let -us have done with humbug and come to plain -speech. The historian needs an imagination quite -as much as he needs scholarship, and consummate -literary art as much as candor and common honesty. -Histories are written in order that the bulk of men -may read and realize; and it is as bad to bungle -the telling of the story as to lie, as fatal to lack a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">186</span> -vocabulary as to lack knowledge. In no case can -you do more than convey an impression, so various -and complex is the matter. If you convey a false -impression, what difference does it make how you -convey it? In the whole process there is a nice -adjustment of means to ends which only the artist -can manage. There is an art of lying;—there is -equally an art,—an infinitely more difficult art,—of -telling the truth.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_187" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">187</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="VII">VII.<br /> - -<span class="subhead">A CALENDAR OF GREAT AMERICANS.</span></h2> -</div> - -<p><span class="firstword">Before</span> a calendar of great Americans can be -made out, a valid canon of Americanism must first -be established. Not every great man born and -bred in America was a great “American.” Some -of the notable men born among us were simply -great Englishmen; others had in all the habits of -their thought and life the strong flavor of a peculiar -region, and were great New Englanders or -great Southerners; others, masters in the fields of -science or of pure thought, showed nothing either -distinctively national or characteristically provincial, -and were simply great men; while a few displayed -odd cross-strains of blood or breeding. The great -Englishmen bred in America, like Hamilton and -Madison; the great provincials, like John Adams -and Calhoun; the authors of such thought as might -have been native to any clime, like Asa Gray and -Emerson; and the men of mixed breed, like Jefferson -and Benton,—must be excluded from our -present list. We must pick out men who have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">188</span> -created or exemplified a distinctively American -standard and type of greatness.</p> - -<p>To make such a selection is not to create an artificial -standard of greatness, or to claim that greatness -is in any case hallowed or exalted merely -because it is American. It is simply to recognize -a peculiar stamp of character, a special make-up of -mind and faculties, as the specific product of our -national life, not displacing or eclipsing talents of -a different kind, but supplementing them, and so -adding to the world’s variety. There is an American -type of man, and those who have exhibited this -type with a certain unmistakable distinction and -perfection have been great “Americans.” It has -required the utmost variety of character and energy -to establish a great nation, with a polity at once -free and firm, upon this continent, and no sound -type of manliness could have been dispensed with -in the effort. We could no more have done without -our great Englishmen, to keep the past steadily -in mind and make every change conservative -of principle, than we could have done without -the men whose whole impulse was forward, whose -whole genius was for origination, natural masters -of the art of subduing a wilderness.</p> - -<p>Certainly one of the greatest figures in our history -is the figure of Alexander Hamilton. American<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">189</span> -historians, though compelled always to admire -him, often in spite of themselves, have been inclined, -like the mass of men in his own day, to look -at him askance. They hint, when they do not -plainly say, that he was not “American.” He rejected, -if he did not despise, democratic principles; -advocated a government as strong, almost, as a -monarchy; and defended the government which -was actually set up, like the skilled advocate he -was, only because it was the strongest that could -be had under the circumstances. He believed in -authority, and he had no faith in the aggregate -wisdom of masses of men. He had, it is true, that -deep and passionate love of liberty, and that steadfast -purpose in the maintenance of it, that mark -the best Englishmen everywhere; but his ideas of -government stuck fast in the old-world politics, and -his statesmanship was of Europe rather than of -America. And yet the genius and the steadfast -spirit of this man were absolutely indispensable to -us. No one less masterful, no one less resolute -than he to drill the minority, if necessary, to have -their way against the majority, could have done the -great work of organization by which he established -the national credit, and with the national credit the -national government itself. A pliant, popular, -optimistic man would have failed utterly in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">190</span> -task. A great radical mind in his place would -have brought disaster upon us: only a great conservative -genius could have succeeded. It is safe -to say that, without men of Hamilton’s cast of -mind, building the past into the future with a deep -passion for order and old wisdom, our national life -would have miscarried at the very first. This tried -English talent for conservation gave to our fibre at -the very outset the stiffness of maturity.</p> - -<p>James Madison, too, we may be said to have inherited. -His invaluable gifts of counsel were of -the sort so happily imparted to us with our English -blood at the first planting of the States which -formed the Union. A grave and prudent man, -and yet brave withal when new counsel was to be -taken, he stands at the beginning of our national -history, even in his young manhood, as he faced -and led the constitutional convention, a type of -the slow and thoughtful English genius for affairs. -He held old and tested convictions of the uses of -liberty; he was competently read in the history -of government; processes of revolution were in his -thought no more than processes of adaptation: exigencies -were to be met by modification, not by -experiment. His reasonable spirit runs through all -the proceedings of the great convention that gave -us the Constitution, and that noble instrument<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">191</span> -seems the product of character like his. For all it -is so American in its content, it is in its method a -thoroughly English production, so full is it of old -principles, so conservative of experience, so carefully -compounded of compromises, of concessions -made and accepted. Such men are of a stock so -fine as to need no titles to make it noble, and yet -so old and so distinguished as actually to bear the -chief titles of English liberty. Madison came of -the long line of English constitutional statesmen.</p> - -<p>There is a type of genius which closely approaches -this in character, but which is, nevertheless, -distinctively American. It is to be seen in -John Marshall and in Daniel Webster. In these -men a new set of ideas find expression, ideas which -all the world has received as American. Webster -was not an English but an American constitutional -statesman. For the English statesman constitutional -issues are issues of policy rather than issues -of law. He constantly handles questions of change: -his constitution is always a-making. He must at -every turn construct, and he is deemed conservative -if only his rule be consistency and continuity with -the past. He will search diligently for precedent, -but he is content if the precedent contain only a -germ of the policy he proposes. His standards are -set him, not by law, but by opinion: his constitution<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">192</span> -is an ideal of cautious and orderly change. -Its fixed element is the conception of political -liberty: a conception which, though steeped in -history, must ever be added to and altered by -social change. The American constitutional statesman, -on the contrary, constructs policies like a -lawyer. The standard with which he must square -his conduct is set him by a document upon whose -definite sentences the whole structure of the government -directly rests. That document, moreover, -is the concrete embodiment of a peculiar theory of -government. That theory is, that definitive laws, -selected by a power outside the government, are -the structural iron of the entire fabric of politics, -and that nothing which cannot be constructed -upon this stiff framework is a safe or legitimate -part of policy. Law is, in his conception, creative -of states, and they live only by such permissions -as they can extract from it. The functions of the -judge and the functions of the man of affairs have, -therefore, been very closely related in our history, -and John Marshall, scarcely less than Daniel -Webster, was a constitutional statesman. With -all Madison’s conservative temper and wide-eyed -prudence in counsel, the subject-matter of thought -for both of these men was not English liberty or -the experience of men everywhere in self-government,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">193</span> -but the meaning stored up in the explicit -sentences of a written fundamental law. They -taught men the new—the American—art of -extracting life out of the letter, not of statutes -merely (that art was not new), but of statute-built -institutions and documented governments: the art -of saturating politics with law without grossly discoloring -law with politics. Other nations have -had written constitutions, but no other nation has -ever filled a written constitution with this singularly -compounded content, of a sound legal conscience -and a strong national purpose. It would have -been easy to deal with our Constitution like subtle -dialecticians; but Webster and Marshall did much -more and much better than that. They viewed -the fundamental law as a great organic product, a -vehicle of life as well as a charter of authority; in -disclosing its life they did not damage its tissue; -and in thus expanding the law without impairing -its structure or authority they made great contributions -alike to statesmanship and to jurisprudence. -Our notable literature of decision and commentary -in the field of constitutional law is America’s -distinctive gift to the history and the science of -law. John Marshall wrought out much of its substance; -Webster diffused its great body of principles -throughout national policy, mediating between<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">194</span> -the law and affairs. The figures of the two men -must hold the eye of the world as the figures of -two great national representatives, as the figures -of two great Americans.</p> - -<p>The representative national greatness and function -of these men appear more clearly still when -they are contrasted with men like John Adams -and John C. Calhoun, whose greatness was not -national. John Adams represented one element of -our national character, and represented it nobly, -with a singular force and greatness. He was an -eminent Puritan statesman, and the Puritan ingredient -has colored all our national life. We have -got strength and persistency and some part of our -steady moral purpose from it. But in the quick -growth and exuberant expansion of the nation it -has been only one element among many. The -Puritan blood has mixed with many another strain. -The stiff Puritan character has been mellowed by -many a transfusion of gentler and more hopeful -elements. So soon as the Adams fashion of man -became more narrow, intense, acidulous, intractable, -according to the tendencies of its nature, in the -person of John Quincy Adams, it lost the sympathy, -lost even the tolerance, of the country, and -the national choice took its reckless leap from a -Puritan President to Andrew Jackson, a man cast<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">195</span> -in the rough original pattern of American life at -the heart of the continent. John Adams had not -himself been a very acceptable President. He had -none of the national optimism, and could not understand -those who did have it. He had none of -the characteristic adaptability of the delocalized -American, and was just a bit ridiculous in his stiffness -at the Court of St. James, for all he was so -honorable and so imposing. His type,—be it said -without disrespect,—was provincial. Unmistakably -a great man, his greatness was of the commonwealth, -not of the empire.</p> - -<p>Calhoun, too, was a great provincial. Although -a giant, he had no heart to use his great strength -for national purposes. In his youth, it is true, he -did catch some of the generous ardor for national -enterprise which filled the air in his day; and all -his life through, with a truly pathetic earnestness, -he retained his affection for his first ideal. But -when the rights and interests of his section were -made to appear incompatible with a liberal and -boldly constructive interpretation of the Constitution, -he fell out of national counsels and devoted -all the strength of his extraordinary mind to holding -the nation’s thought and power back within -the strait limits of a literal construction of the law. -In powers of reasoning his mind deserves to rank<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">196</span> -with Webster’s and Marshall’s: he handled questions -of law like a master, as they did. He had, -moreover, a keen insight into the essential principles -and character of liberty. His thought moved -eloquently along some of the oldest and safest lines -of English thought in the field of government. -He made substantive contributions to the permanent -philosophy of politics. His reasoning has -been discredited, not so much because it was not -theoretically sound within its limits, as because its -practical outcome was a negation which embarrassed -the whole movement of national affairs. -He would have held the nation still, in an old -equipoise, at one time normal enough, but impossible -to maintain. Webster and Marshall gave leave -to the energy of change inherent in all the national -life, making law a rule, but not an interdict; -a living guide, but not a blind and rigid discipline. -Calhoun sought to fix law as a barrier across the -path of policy, commanding the life of the nation -to stand still. The strength displayed in the effort, -the intellectual power and address, abundantly entitle -him to be called great; but his purpose was -not national. It regarded only a section of the -country, and marked him,—again be it said with -all respect,—a great provincial.</p> - -<p>Jefferson was not a thorough American because<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">197</span> -of the strain of French philosophy that permeated -and weakened all his thought. Benton was altogether -American so far as the natural strain of his -blood was concerned, but he had encumbered his -natural parts and inclinations with a mass of undigested -and shapeless learning. Bred in the West, -where everything was new, he had filled his head -with the thought of books (evidently very poor -books) which exhibited the ideals of communities -in which everything was old. He thought of the -Roman Senate when he sat in the Senate of the -United States. He paraded classical figures whenever -he spoke, upon a stage where both their -costume and their action seemed grotesque. A -pedantic frontiersman, he was a living and a -pompous antinomy. Meant by nature to be an -American, he spoiled the plan by applying a most -unsuitable gloss of shallow and irrelevant learning. -Jefferson was of course an almost immeasurably -greater man than Benton, but he was un-American -in somewhat the same way. He brought a foreign -product of thought to a market where no natural -or wholesome demand for it could exist. There -were not two incompatible parts in him, as in Benton’s -case: he was a philosophical radical by nature -as well as by acquirement; his reading and his -temperament went suitably together. The man is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">198</span> -homogeneous throughout. The American shows in -him very plainly, too, notwithstanding the strong -and inherent dash of what was foreign in his -make-up. He was a natural leader and manager -of men, not because he was imperative or masterful, -but because of a native shrewdness, tact, and -sagacity, an inborn art and aptness for combination, -such as no Frenchman ever displayed in the management -of common men. Jefferson had just a -touch of rusticity about him, besides; and it was -not pretense on his part or merely a love of power -that made him democratic. His indiscriminate -hospitality, his almost passionate love for the simple -equality of country life, his steady devotion to -what he deemed to be the cause of the people, all -mark him a genuine democrat, a nature native to -America. It is his speculative philosophy that is -exotic, and that runs like a false and artificial note -through all his thought. It was un-American in -being abstract, sentimental, rationalistic, rather -than practical. That he held it sincerely need not -be doubted; but the more sincerely he accepted it -so much the more thoroughly was he un-American. -His writings lack hard and practical sense. Liberty, -among us, is not a sentiment, but a product -of experience; its derivation is not rationalistic, -but practical. It is a hard-headed spirit of independence,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">199</span> -not the conclusion of a syllogism. The -very aërated quality of Jefferson’s principles gives -them an air of insincerity, which attaches to them -rather because they do not suit the climate of the -country and the practical aspect of affairs than because -they do not suit the character of Jefferson’s -mind and the atmosphere of abstract philosophy. -It is because both they and the philosophical -system of which they form a part do seem suitable -to his mind and character, that we must pronounce -him, though a great man, not a great American.</p> - -<p>It is by the frank consideration of such concrete -cases that we may construct, both negatively and -affirmatively, our canons of Americanism. The -American spirit is something more than the old, -the immemorial Saxon spirit of liberty from which -it sprung. It has been bred by the conditions -attending the great task which we have all the -century been carrying forward: the task, at once -material and ideal, of subduing a wilderness and -covering all the wide stretches of a vast continent -with a single free and stable polity. It is, accordingly, -above all things, a hopeful and confident -spirit. It is progressive, optimistically progressive, -and ambitious of objects of national scope and -advantage. It is unpedantic, unprovincial, unspeculative, -unfastidious; regardful of law, but as using<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">200</span> -it, not as being used by it or dominated by any -formalism whatever; in a sense unrefined, because -full of rude force; but prompted by large and generous -motives, and often as tolerant as it is resolute. -No one man, unless it be Lincoln, has ever -proved big or various enough to embody this active -and full-hearted spirit in all its qualities; and the -men who have been too narrow or too speculative -or too pedantic to represent it have, nevertheless, -added to the strong and stirring variety of our -national life, making it fuller and richer in motive -and energy; but its several aspects are none the -less noteworthy as they separately appear in different -men.</p> - -<p>One of the first men to exhibit this American -spirit with an unmistakable touch of greatness and -distinction was Benjamin Franklin. It was characteristic -of America that this self-made man should -become a philosopher, a founder of philosophical -societies, an authoritative man of science; that his -philosophy of life should be so homely and so practical -in its maxims, and uttered with so shrewd a -wit; that one region should be his birthplace and -another his home; that he should favor effective -political union among the colonies from the first, -and should play a sage and active part in the -establishment of national independence and the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">201</span> -planning of a national organization; and that he -should represent his countrymen in diplomacy -abroad. They could have had no spokesman who -represented more sides of their character. Franklin -was a sort of multiple American. He was versatile -without lacking solidity; he was a practical statesman -without ceasing to be a sagacious philosopher. -He came of the people, and was democratic; but -he had raised himself out of the general mass of -unnamed men, and so stood for the democratic law, -not of equality, but of self-selection in endeavor. -One can feel sure that Franklin would have succeeded -in any part of the national life that it might -have fallen to his lot to take part in. He will -stand the final and characteristic test of Americanism: -he would unquestionably have made a successful -frontiersman, capable at once of wielding the -axe and of administering justice from the fallen -trunk.</p> - -<p>Washington hardly seems an American, as most -of his biographers depict him. He is too colorless, -too cold, too prudent. He seems more like a wise -and dispassionate Mr. Alworthy, advising a nation -as he would a parish, than like a man building -states and marshaling a nation in a wilderness. -But the real Washington was as thoroughly an -American as Jackson or Lincoln. What we take<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">202</span> -for lack of passion in him was but the reserve and -self-mastery natural to a man of his class and -breeding in Virginia. He was no parlor politician, -either. He had seen the frontier, and far beyond -it where the French forts lay. He knew the rough -life of the country as few other men could. His -thoughts did not live at Mount Vernon. He knew -difficulty as intimately and faced it always with as -quiet a mastery as William the Silent. This calm, -straightforward, high-spirited man, making charts -of the western country, noting the natural land -and water routes into the heart of the continent, -marking how the French power lay, conceiving the -policy which should dispossess it, and the engineering -achievements which should make the utmost -resources of the land our own; counseling Braddock -how to enter the forest, but not deserting him -because he would not take advice; planning step -by step, by patient correspondence with influential -men everywhere, the meetings, conferences, common -resolves which were finally to bring the great -constitutional convention together; planning, too, -always for the country as well as for Virginia; and -presiding at last over the establishment and organization -of the government of the Union: he certainly—the -most suitable instrument of the national life -at every moment of crisis—is a great American.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">203</span> -Those noble words which he uttered amidst the -first doubtings of the constitutional convention -might serve as a motto for the best efforts of liberty -wherever free men strive: “Let us raise a -standard to which the wise and honest can repair; -the event is in the hand of God.”</p> - -<p>In Henry Clay we have an American of a most -authentic pattern. There was no man of his -generation who represented more of America than -he did. The singular, almost irresistible attraction -he had for men of every class and every temperament -came, not from the arts of the politician, but -from the instant sympathy established between him -and every fellow-countryman of his. He does not -seem to have exercised the same fascination upon -foreigners. They felt toward him as some New -Englanders did: he seemed to them plausible -merely, too indiscriminately open and cordial to be -sincere,—a bit of a charlatan. No man who really -takes the trouble to understand Henry Clay, or -who has quick enough parts to sympathize with -him, can deem him false. It is the odd combination -of two different elements in him that makes -him seem irregular and inconstant. His nature -was of the West, blown through with quick winds -of ardor and aggression, a bit reckless and defiant; -but his art was of the East, ready with soft and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">204</span> -placating phrases, reminiscent of old and reverenced -ideals, thoughtful of compromise and accommodation. -He had all the address of the trained and -sophisticated politician, bred in an old and sensitive -society; but his purposes ran free of cautious restraints, -and his real ideals were those of the somewhat -bumptious Americanism which was pushing -the frontier forward in the West, which believed -itself capable of doing anything it might put its -hand to, despised conventional restraints, and -followed a vague but resplendent “manifest destiny” -with lusty hurrahs. His purposes were sincere, -even if often crude and uninstructed; it was -only because the subtle arts of politics seemed inconsistent -with the direct dash and bold spirit of -the man that they sat upon him like an insincerity. -He thoroughly, and by mere unconscious sympathy, -represented the double America of his day, -made up of a West which hurried and gave bold -strokes, and of an East which held back, fearing -the pace, thoughtful and mindful of the instructive -past. The one part had to be served without -offending the other: and that was Clay’s mediatorial -function.</p> - -<p>Andrew Jackson was altogether of the West. -Of his sincerity nobody has ever had any real -doubt; and his Americanism is now at any rate<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">205</span> -equally unimpeachable. He was like Clay with -the social imagination of the orator and the art -and sophistication of the Eastern politician left out. -He came into our national politics like a cyclone -from off the Western prairies. Americans of the -present day perceptibly shudder at the very recollection -of Jackson. He seems to them a great -Vandal, playing fast and loose alike with institutions -and with tested and established policy, debauching -politics like a modern spoilsman. But -whether we would accept him as a type of ourselves -or not, the men of his own day accepted him with -enthusiasm. He did not need to be explained to -them. They crowded to his standard like men -free at last, after long and tedious restraint, to -make their own choice, follow their own man. -There can be no mistaking the spontaneity of the -thoroughgoing support he received. His was the -new type of energy and self-confidence bred by -life outside the States that had been colonies. It -was a terrible energy, threatening sheer destruction -to many a carefully wrought arrangement handed -on to us from the past; it was a perilous self-confidence, -founded in sheer strength rather than in -wisdom. The government did not pass through -the throes of that signal awakening of the new -national spirit without serious rack and damage.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">206</span> -But it was no disease. It was only an incautious, -abounding, madcap strength which proved so dangerous -in its readiness for every rash endeavor. It -was necessary that the West should be let into the -play: it was even necessary that she should assert -her right to the leading rôle. It was done without -good taste, but that does not condemn it. We -have no doubt refined and schooled the hoyden -influences of that crude time, and they are vastly -safer now than then, when they first came bounding -in; but they mightily stirred and enriched our -blood from the first. Now that we have thoroughly -suffered this Jackson change and it is over, we are -ready to recognize it as quite as radically American -as anything in all our history.</p> - -<p>Lincoln, nevertheless, rather than Jackson, was -the supreme American of our history. In Clay, -East and West were mixed without being fused or -harmonized: he seems like two men. In Jackson -there was not even a mixture; he was all of a piece, -and altogether unacceptable to some parts of the -country,—a frontier statesman. But in Lincoln -the elements were combined and harmonized. The -most singular thing about the wonderful career of -the man is the way in which he steadily grew into -a national stature. He began an amorphous, unlicked -cub, bred in the rudest of human lairs;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">207</span> -but, as he grew, everything formed, informed, -transformed him. The process was slow but unbroken. -He was not fit to be President until he -actually became President. He was fit then -because, learning everything as he went, he had -found out how much there was to learn, and had -still an infinite capacity for learning. The quiet -voices of sentiment and murmurs of resolution -that went whispering through the land, his ear -always caught, when others could hear nothing but -their own words. He never ceased to be a common -man: that was his source of strength. But he -was a common man with genius, a genius for things -American, for insight into the common thought, -for mastery of the fundamental things of politics -that inhere in human nature and cast hardly more -than their shadows on constitutions; for the practical -niceties of affairs; for judging men and assessing -arguments. Jackson had no social imagination: -no unfamiliar community made any impression on -him. His whole fibre stiffened young, and nothing -afterward could modify or even deeply affect it. -But Lincoln was always a-making; he would have -died unfinished if the terrible storms of the war -had not stung him to learn in those four years -what no other twenty could have taught him. -And, as he stands there in his complete manhood,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">208</span> -at the most perilous helm in Christendom, what a -marvelous composite figure he is! The whole -country is summed up in him: the rude Western -strength, tempered with shrewdness and a broad -and humane wit; the Eastern conservatism, regardful -of law and devoted to fixed standards of duty. -He even understood the South, as no other Northern -man of his generation did. He respected, because -he comprehended, though he could not hold, its -view of the Constitution; he appreciated the inexorable -compulsions of its past in respect of -slavery; he would have secured it once more, and -speedily if possible, in its right to self-government, -when the fight was fought out. To the Eastern -politicians he seemed like an accident; but to history -he must seem like a providence.</p> - -<p>Grant was Lincoln’s suitable instrument, a great -American general, the appropriate product of West -Point. A Western man, he had no thought of -commonwealths politically separate, and was instinctively -for the Union; a man of the common -people, he deemed himself always an instrument, -never a master, and did his work, though ruthlessly, -without malice; a sturdy, hard-willed, taciturn -man, a sort of Lincoln the Silent in thought -and spirit. He does not appeal to the imagination -very deeply; there is a sort of common greatness<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">209</span> -about him, great gifts combined singularly with a -great mediocrity; but such peculiarities seem to -make him all the more American,—national in -spirit, thoroughgoing in method, masterful in -purpose.</p> - -<p>And yet it is no contradiction to say that Robert -E. Lee also was a great American. He fought on -the opposite side, but he fought in the same spirit, -and for a principle which is in a sense scarcely less -American than the principle of Union. He represented -the idea of the inherent—the essential—separateness -of self-government. This was not -the principle of secession: that principle involved -the separate right of the several self-governing -units of the federal system to judge of national -questions independently, and as a check upon the -federal government,—to adjudge the very objects -of the Union. Lee did not believe in secession, -but he did believe in the local rootage of all government. -This is at the bottom, no doubt, an -English idea; but it has had a characteristic American -development. It is the reverse side of the -shield which bears upon its obverse the devices of -the Union, a side too much overlooked and obscured -since the war. It conceives the individual -State a community united by the most intimate -associations, the first home and foster-mother of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">210</span> -every man born into the citizenship of the nation. -Lee considered himself a member of one of these -great families; he could not conceive of the nation -apart from the State: above all, he could not live -in the nation divorced from his neighbors. His -own community should decide his political destiny -and duty.</p> - -<p>This was also the spirit of Patrick Henry and of -Sam Houston,—men much alike in the cardinal -principle of their natures. Patrick Henry resisted -the formation of the Union only because he feared -to disturb the local rootage of self-government, to disperse -power so widely that neighbors could not control -it. It was not a disloyal or a separatist spirit, -but only a jealous spirit of liberty. Sam Houston, -too, deemed the character a community should give -itself so great a matter that the community, once -made, ought itself to judge of the national associations -most conducive to its liberty and progress. -Without liberty of this intensive character there -could have been no vital national liberty; and Sam -Houston, Patrick Henry, and Robert E. Lee are -none the less great Americans because they represented -only one cardinal principle of the national -life. Self-government has its intrinsic antinomies -as well as its harmonies.</p> - -<p>Among men of letters Lowell is doubtless most<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">211</span> -typically American, though Curtis must find an -eligible place in the list. Lowell was self-conscious, -though the truest greatness is not; he was -a trifle too “smart,” besides, and there is no -“smartness” in great literature. But both the -self-consciousness and the smartness must be admitted -to be American; and Lowell was so versatile, -so urbane, of so large a spirit, and so admirable -in the scope of his sympathies, that he must certainly -go on the calendar.</p> - -<p>There need be no fear that we shall be obliged to -stop with Lowell in literature, or with any of the -men who have been named in the field of achievement. -We shall not in the future have to take -one type of Americanism at a time. The frontier -is gone: it has reached the Pacific. The country -grows rapidly homogeneous. With the same pace -it grows various, and multiform in all its life. -The man of the simple or local type cannot any -longer deal in the great manner with any national -problem. The great men of our future must be of -the composite type of greatness: sound-hearted, -hopeful, confident of the validity of liberty, tenacious -of the deeper principles of American institutions, -but with the old rashness schooled and -sobered, and instinct tempered by instruction. -They must be wise with an adult, not with an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">212</span> -adolescent wisdom. Some day we shall be of one -mind, our ideals fixed, our purposes harmonized, -our nationality complete and consentaneous: then -will come our great literature and our greatest -men.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_213" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">213</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="VIII">VIII.<br /> - -<span class="subhead">THE COURSE OF AMERICAN HISTORY.<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor smaller">1</a></span></h2> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="fnanchor">1</a> An address delivered before the New Jersey Historical Society.</p> - -</div> - -<p>In the field of history, learning should be deemed -to stand among the people and in the midst of life. -Its function there is not one of pride merely: to -make complaisant record of deeds honorably done -and plans nobly executed in the past. It has also a -function of guidance: to build high places whereon -to plant the clear and flaming lights of experience, -that they may shine alike upon the roads already -traveled and upon the paths not yet attempted. -The historian is also a sort of prophet. Our -memories direct us. They give us knowledge of -our character, alike in its strength and in its weakness: -and it is so we get our standards for endeavor,—our -warnings and our gleams of hope. It is -thus we learn what manner of nation we are of, -and divine what manner of people we should be.</p> - -<p>And this is not in national records merely. -Local history is the ultimate substance of national -history. There could be no epics were pastorals<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">214</span> -not also true,—no patriotism, were there no homes, -no neighbors, no quiet round of civic duty; and I, -for my part, do not wonder that scholarly men -have been found not a few who, though they might -have shone upon a larger field, where all eyes -would have seen them win their fame, yet chose -to pore all their lives long upon the blurred and -scattered records of a country-side, where there was -nothing but an old church or an ancient village. -The history of a nation is only the history of its -villages written large. I only marvel that these -local historians have not seen more in the stories -they have sought to tell. Surely here, in these old -hamlets that antedate the cities, in these little -communities that stand apart and yet give their -young life to the nation, is to be found the very -authentic stuff of romance for the mere looking. -There is love and courtship and eager life and -high devotion up and down all the lines of every -genealogy. What strength, too, and bold endeavor -in the cutting down of forests to make the clearings; -what breath of hope and discovery in scaling -for the first time the nearest mountains; what -longings ended or begun upon the coming in of -ships into the harbor; what pride of earth in the -rivalries of the village; what thoughts of heaven -in the quiet of the rural church! What forces of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">215</span> -slow and steadfast endeavor there were in the -building of a great city upon the foundations of a -hamlet: and how the plot broadens and thickens -and grows dramatic as communities widen into -states! Here, surely, sunk deep in the very fibre -of the stuff, are the colors of the great story of -men,—the lively touches of reality and the striking -images of life.</p> - -<p>It must be admitted, I know, that local history -can be made deadly dull in the telling. The men -who reconstruct it seem usually to build with kiln-dried -stuff,—as if with a purpose it should last. -But that is not the fault of the subject. National -history may be written almost as ill, if due pains -be taken to dry it out. It is a trifle more difficult: -because merely to speak of national affairs is to -give hint of great forces and of movements blown -upon by all the airs of the wide continent. The -mere largeness of the scale lends to the narrative -a certain dignity and spirit. But some men will -manage to be dull though they should speak of -creation. In writing of local history the thing -is fatally easy. For there is some neighborhood -history that lacks any large significance, which is -without horizon or outlook. There are details in -the history of every community which it concerns -no man to know again when once they are past<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">216</span> -and decently buried in the records: and these are -the very details, no doubt, which it is easiest to -find upon a casual search. It is easier to make -out a list of county clerks than to extract the social -history of the county from the records they have -kept,—though it is not so important: and it is -easier to make a catalogue of anything than to say -what of life and purpose the catalogue stands for. -This is called collecting facts “for the sake of the -facts themselves;” but if I wished to do aught for -the sake of the facts themselves I think I should -serve them better by giving their true biographies -than by merely displaying their faces.</p> - -<p>The right and vital sort of local history is the -sort which may be written with lifted eyes,—the -sort which has an horizon and an outlook upon -the world. Sometimes it may happen, indeed, -that the annals of a neighborhood disclose some -singular adventure which had its beginning and its -ending there: some unwonted bit of fortune which -stands unique and lonely amidst the myriad transactions -of the world of affairs, and deserves to be -told singly and for its own sake. But usually the -significance of local history is, that it is part of a -greater whole. A spot of local history is like an -inn upon a highway: it is a stage upon a far -journey: it is a place the national history has<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">217</span> -passed through. There mankind has stopped and -lodged by the way. Local history is thus less than -national history only as the part is less than the -whole. The whole could not dispense with the -part, would not exist without it, could not be -understood unless the part also were understood. -Local history is subordinate to national only in the -sense in which each leaf of a book is subordinate -to the volume itself. Upon no single page will the -whole theme of the book be found; but each page -holds a part of the theme. Even were the history -of each locality exactly like the history of every -other (which it cannot be), it would deserve to be -written,—if only to corroborate the history of the -rest, and verify it as an authentic part of the -record of the race and nation. The common elements -of a nation’s life are the great elements of -its life, the warp and woof of the fabric. They -cannot be too much or too substantially verified and -explicated. It is so that history is made solid -and fit for use and wear.</p> - -<p>Our national history, of course, has its own great -and spreading pattern, which can be seen in its -full form and completeness only when the stuff of -our national life is laid before us in broad surfaces -and upon an ample scale. But the detail of the -pattern, the individual threads of the great fabric,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">218</span> -are to be found only in local history. There is all -the intricate weaving, all the delicate shading, all -the nice refinement of the pattern,—gold thread -mixed with fustian, fine thread laid upon coarse, -shade combined with shade. Assuredly it is this -that gives to local history its life and importance. -The idea, moreover, furnishes a nice criterion of -interest. The life of some localities is, obviously, -more completely and intimately a part of the -national pattern than the life of other localities, -which are more separate and, as it were, put upon -the border of the fabric. To come at once and -very candidly to examples, the local history of the -Middle States,—New York, New Jersey, and -Pennsylvania,—is much more structurally a part -of the characteristic life of the nation as a whole -than is the history of the New England communities -or of the several States and regions of the South. -I know that such a heresy will sound very rank in -the ears of some: for I am speaking against accepted -doctrine. But acceptance, be it never so -general, does not make a doctrine true.</p> - -<p>Our national history has been written for the -most part by New England men. All honor to -them! Their scholarship and their characters alike -have given them an honorable enrollment amongst -the great names of our literary history; and no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">219</span> -just man would say aught to detract, were it never -so little, from their well-earned fame. They have -written our history, nevertheless, from but a single -point of view. From where they sit, the whole of -the great development looks like an Expansion of -New England. Other elements but play along the -sides of the great process by which the Puritan has -worked out the development of nation and polity. -It is he who has gone out and possessed the land: -the man of destiny, the type and impersonation of -a chosen people. To the Southern writer, too, the -story looks much the same, if it be but followed to -its culmination,—to its final storm and stress and -tragedy in the great war. It is the history of the -Suppression of the South. Spite of all her splendid -contributions to the steadfast accomplishment -of the great task of building the nation; spite of -the long leadership of her statesmen in the national -counsels; spite of her joint achievements in the -conquest and occupation of the West, the South -was at last turned upon on every hand, rebuked, -proscribed, defeated. The history of the United -States, we have learned, was, from the settlement -at Jamestown to the surrender at Appomattox, a -long-drawn contest for mastery between New England -and the South,—and the end of the contest -we know. All along the parallels of latitude ran<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">220</span> -the rivalry, in those heroical days of toil and adventure -during which population crossed the continent, -like an army advancing its encampments. -Up and down the great river of the continent, too, -and beyond, up the slow incline of the vast steppes -that lift themselves toward the crowning towers of -the Rockies,—beyond that, again, in the gold-fields -and upon the green plains of California, the -race for ascendency struggled on,—till at length -there was a final coming face to face, and the masterful -folk who had come from the loins of New -England won their consummate victory.</p> - -<p>It is a very dramatic form for the story. One -almost wishes it were true. How fine a unity it -would give our epic! But perhaps, after all, the -real truth is more interesting. The life of the -nation cannot be reduced to these so simple terms. -These two great forces, of the North and of the -South, unquestionably existed,—were unquestionably -projected in their operation out upon the -great plane of the continent, there to combine or -repel, as circumstances might determine. But the -people that went out from the North were not an -unmixed people; they came from the great Middle -States as well as from New England. Their -transplantation into the West was no more a -reproduction of New England or New York or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">221</span> -Pennsylvania or New Jersey than Massachusetts -was a reproduction of old England, or New Netherland -a reproduction of Holland. The Southern -people, too, whom they met by the western rivers -and upon the open prairies, were transformed, as -they themselves were, by the rough fortunes of the -frontier. A mixture of peoples, a modification of -mind and habit, a new round of experiment and -adjustment amidst the novel life of the baked and -unfilled plain, and the far valleys with the virgin -forests still thick upon them: a new temper, a new -spirit of adventure, a new impatience of restraint, -a new license of life,—these are the characteristic -notes and measures of the time when the nation -spread itself at large upon the continent, and was -transformed from a group of colonies into a family -of States.</p> - -<p>The passes of these eastern mountains were the -arteries of the nation’s life. The real breath of -our growth and manhood came into our nostrils -when first, like Governor Spotswood and that gallant -company of Virginian gentlemen that rode -with him in the far year 1716, the Knights of the -Order of the Golden Horseshoe, our pioneers stood -upon the ridges of the eastern hills and looked -down upon those reaches of the continent where -lay the untrodden paths of the westward migration.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">222</span> -There, upon the courses of the distant rivers that -gleamed before them in the sun, down the farther -slopes of the hills beyond, out upon the broad fields -that lay upon the fertile banks of the “Father of -Waters,” up the long tilt of the continent to the -vast hills that looked out upon the Pacific—there -were the regions in which, joining with people -from every race and clime under the sun, they -were to make the great compounded nation whose -liberty and mighty works of peace were to cause -all the world to stand at gaze. Thither were to -come Frenchmen, Scandinavians, Celts, Dutch, -Slavs,—men of the Latin races and of the races -of the Orient, as well as men, a great host, of the -first stock of the settlements: English, Scots, Scots-Irish,—like -New England men, but touched with -the salt of humor, hard, and yet neighborly too. -For this great process of growth by grafting, of -modification no less than of expansion, the colonies,—the -original thirteen States,—were only preliminary -studies and first experiments. But the -experiments that most resembled the great methods -by which we peopled the continent from side to -side and knit a single polity across all its length -and breadth, were surely the experiments made -from the very first in the Middle States of our -Atlantic seaboard.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">223</span></p> - -<p>Here from the first were mixture of population, -variety of element, combination of type, as if of -the nation itself in small. Here was never a -simple body, a people of but a single blood and -extraction, a polity and a practice brought straight -from one motherland. The life of these States was -from the beginning like the life of the country: -they have always shown the national pattern. In -New England and the South it was very different. -There some of the great elements of the national -life were long in preparation: but separately and -with an individual distinction; without mixture,—for -long almost without movement. That the elements -thus separately prepared were of the greatest -importance, and run everywhere like chief threads -of the pattern through all our subsequent life, who -can doubt? They give color and tone to every -part of the figure. The very fact that they are so -distinct and separately evident throughout, the -very emphasis of individuality they carry with -them, but proves their distinct origin. The other -elements of our life, various though they be, and -of the very fibre, giving toughness and consistency -to the fabric, are merged in its texture, united, -confused, almost indistinguishable, so thoroughly -are they mixed, intertwined, interwoven, like the -essential strands of the stuff itself: but these of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">224</span> -the Puritan and the Southerner, though they run -everywhere with the rest and seem upon a superficial -view themselves the body of the cloth, in fact -modify rather than make it.</p> - -<p>What in fact has been the course of American -history? How is it to be distinguished from European -history? What features has it of its own, -which give it its distinctive plan and movement? -We have suffered, it is to be feared, a very serious -limitation of view until recent years by having all -our history written in the East. It has smacked -strongly of a local flavor. It has concerned itself -too exclusively with the origins and Old-World -derivations of our story. Our historians have -made their march from the sea with their heads -over shoulder, their gaze always backward upon the -landing-places and homes of the first settlers. In -spite of the steady immigration, with its persistent -tide of foreign blood, they have chosen to speak -often and to think always of our people as sprung -after all from a common stock, bearing a family -likeness in every branch, and following all the while -old, familiar, family ways. The view is the more -misleading because it is so large a part of the truth -without being all of it. The common British -stock did first make the country, and has always -set the pace. There were common institutions up<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">225</span> -and down the coast; and these had formed and -hardened for a persistent growth before the great -westward migration began which was to re-shape -and modify every element of our life. The national -government itself was set up and made strong by -success while yet we lingered for the most part -upon the eastern coast and feared a too distant -frontier.</p> - -<p>But, the beginnings once safely made, change -set in apace. Not only so: there had been slow -change from the first. We have no frontier now, -we are told,—except a broken fragment, it may -be, here and there in some barren corner of the -western lands, where some inhospitable mountain -still shoulders us out, or where men are still lacking -to break the baked surface of the plains and occupy -them in the very teeth of hostile nature. But at -first it was all frontier,—a mere strip of settlements -stretched precariously upon the sea-edge of -the wilds: an untouched continent in front of -them, and behind them an unfrequented sea that -almost never showed so much as the momentary -gleam of a sail. Every step in the slow process of -settlement was but a step of the same kind as the -first, an advance to a new frontier like the old. -For long we lacked, it is true, that new breed of -frontiersmen born in after years beyond the mountains.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">226</span> -Those first frontiersmen had still a touch of -the timidity of the Old World in their blood: they -lacked the frontier heart. They were “Pilgrims” -in very fact,—exiled, not at home. Fine courage -they had: and a steadfastness in their bold design -which it does a faint-hearted age good to look back -upon. There was no thought of drawing back. -Steadily, almost calmly, they extended their seats. -They built homes, and deemed it certain their children -would live there after them. But they did not -love the rough, uneasy life for its own sake. How -long did they keep, if they could, within sight of -the sea! The wilderness was their refuge; but -how long before it became their joy and hope! -Here was their destiny cast; but their hearts lingered -and held back. It was only as generations -passed and the work widened about them that their -thought also changed, and a new thrill sped along -their blood. Their life had been new and strange -from their first landing in the wilderness. Their -houses, their food, their clothing, their neighborhood -dealings were all such as only the frontier -brings. Insensibly they were themselves changed. -The strange life became familiar; their adjustment -to it was at length unconscious and without effort; -they had no plans which were not inseparably a part -and a product of it. But, until they had turned<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">227</span> -their backs once for all upon the sea; until they -saw their western borders cleared of the French; -until the mountain passes had grown familiar, and -the lands beyond the central and constant theme -of their hope, the goal and dream of their young -men, they did not become an American people.</p> - -<p>When they did, the great determining movement -of our history began. The very visages of the -people changed. That alert movement of the eye, -that openness to every thought of enterprise or adventure, -that nomadic habit which knows no fixed -home and has plans ready to be carried any whither,—all -the marks of the authentic type of the -“American” as we know him came into our life. -The crack of the whip and the song of the teamster, -the heaving chorus of boatmen poling their -heavy rafts upon the rivers, the laughter of the -camp, the sound of bodies of men in the still forests, -became the characteristic notes in our air. A -roughened race, embrowned in the sun, hardened -in manner by a coarse life of change and danger, -loving the rude woods and the crack of the rifle, -living to begin something new every day, striking -with the broad and open hand, delicate in nothing -but the touch of the trigger, leaving cities in its -track as if by accident rather than design, settling -again to the steady ways of a fixed life only when<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">228</span> -it must: such was the American people whose -achievement it was to be to take possession of their -continent from end to end ere their national government -was a single century old. The picture is a -very singular one! Settled life and wild side by -side: civilization frayed at the edges,—taken forward -in rough and ready fashion, with a song and -a swagger,—not by statesmen, but by woodsmen -and drovers, with axes and whips and rifles in their -hands, clad in buckskin, like huntsmen.</p> - -<p>It has been said that we have here repeated -some of the first processes of history; that the -life and methods of our frontiersmen take us back -to the fortunes and hopes of the men who crossed -Europe when her forests, too, were still thick upon -her. But the difference is really very fundamental, -and much more worthy of remark than the likeness. -Those shadowy masses of men whom we see -moving upon the face of the earth in the far-away, -questionable days when states were forming: -even those stalwart figures we see so well as they -emerge from the deep forests of Germany, to displace -the Roman in all his western provinces and -set up the states we know and marvel upon at this -day, show us men working their new work at their -own level. They do not turn back a long cycle of -years from the old and settled states, the ordered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">229</span> -cities, the tilled fields, and the elaborated governments -of an ancient civilization, to begin as it were -once more at the beginning. They carry alike -their homes and their states with them in the camp -and upon the ordered march of the host. They -are men of the forest, or else men hardened always -to take the sea in open boats. They live no more -roughly in the new lands than in the old. The -world has been frontier for them from the first. -They may go forward with their life in these new -seats from where they left off in the old. How -different the circumstances of our first settlement -and the building of new states on this side the -sea! Englishmen, bred in law and ordered government -ever since the Norman lawyers were followed -a long five hundred years ago across the narrow -seas by those masterful administrators of the strong -Plantagenet race, leave an ancient realm and come -into a wilderness where states have never been; -leave a land of art and letters, which saw but yesterday -“the spacious times of great Elizabeth,” -where Shakespeare still lives in the gracious leisure -of his closing days at Stratford, where cities teem -with trade and men go bravely dight in cloth of -gold, and turn back six centuries,—nay, a thousand -years and more,—to the first work of building -states in a wilderness! They bring the steadied<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">230</span> -habits and sobered thoughts of an ancient realm -into the wild air of an untouched continent. The -weary stretches of a vast sea lie, like a full thousand -years of time, between them and the life in which -till now all their thought was bred. Here they -stand, as it were, with all their tools left behind, -centuries struck out of their reckoning, driven back -upon the long dormant instincts and forgotten craft -of their race, not used this long age. Look how -singular a thing: the work of a primitive race, the -thought of a civilized! Hence the strange, almost -grotesque groupings of thought and affairs in that -first day of our history. Subtle politicians speak -the phrases and practice the arts of intricate diplomacy -from council chambers placed within log huts -within a clearing. Men in ruffs and lace and -polished shoe-buckles thread the lonely glades of -primeval forests. The microscopical distinctions -of the schools, the thin notes of a metaphysical -theology are woven in and out through the labyrinths -of grave sermons that run hours long upon -the still air of the wilderness. Belief in dim refinements -of dogma is made the test for man or woman -who seeks admission to a company of pioneers. -When went there by an age since the great flood -when so singular a thing was seen as this: thousands -of civilized men suddenly rusticated and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">231</span> -bade do the work of primitive peoples,—Europe -<em>frontiered</em>!</p> - -<p>Of course there was a deep change wrought, if -not in these men, at any rate in their children; -and every generation saw the change deepen. It -must seem to every thoughtful man a notable thing -how, while the change was wrought, the simplest -of things complex were revealed in the clear air of -the New World: how all accidentals seemed to -fall away from the structure of government, and -the simple first principles were laid bare that abide -always; how social distinctions were stripped off, -shown to be the mere cloaks and masks they were, -and every man brought once again to a clear realization -of his actual relations to his fellows! It -was as if trained and sophisticated men had been -rid of a sudden of their sophistication and of all -the theory of their life, and left with nothing but -their discipline of faculty, a schooled and sobered -instinct. And the fact that we kept always, for -close upon three hundred years, a like element in -our life, a frontier people always in our van, is, so -far, the central and determining fact of our national -history. “East” and “West,” an ever-changing -line, but an unvarying experience and a constant -leaven of change working always within the body -of our folk. Our political, our economic, our social<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">232</span> -life has felt this potent influence from the wild -border all our history through. The “West” is -the great word of our history. The “Westerner” -has been the type and master of our American life. -Now at length, as I have said, we have lost our -frontier: our front lies almost unbroken along all -the great coast line of the western sea. The Westerner, -in some day soon to come, will pass out of -our life, as he so long ago passed out of the life of -the Old World. Then a new epoch will open for -us. Perhaps it has opened already. Slowly we -shall grow old, compact our people, study the delicate -adjustments of an intricate society, and ponder -the niceties, as we have hitherto pondered the bulks -and structural framework, of government. Have -we not, indeed, already come to these things? But -the past we know. We can “see it steady and -see it whole;” and its central movement and motive -are gross and obvious to the eye.</p> - -<p>Till the first century of the Constitution is -rounded out we stand all the while in the presence -of that stupendous westward movement which has -filled the continent: so vast, so various, at times -so tragical, so swept by passion. Through all the -long time there has been a line of rude settlements -along our front wherein the same tests of power -and of institutions were still being made that were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">233</span> -made first upon the sloping banks of the rivers of -old Virginia and within the long sweep of the Bay -of Massachusetts. The new life of the West has -reacted all the while—who shall say how powerfully?—upon -the older life of the East; and yet -the East has moulded the West as if she sent forward -to it through every decade of the long process -the chosen impulses and suggestions of history. -The West has taken strength, thought, training, -selected aptitudes out of the old treasures of the -East,—as if out of a new Orient; while the East -has itself been kept fresh, vital, alert, originative -by the West, her blood quickened all the while, her -youth through every age renewed. Who can say in -a word, in a sentence, in a volume, what destinies -have been variously wrought, with what new examples -of growth and energy, while, upon this unexampled -scale, community has passed beyond community -across the vast reaches of this great continent!</p> - -<p>The great process is the more significant because -it has been distinctively a national process. Until -the Union was formed and we had consciously set -out upon a separate national career, we moved but -timidly across the nearer hills. Our most remote -settlements lay upon the rivers and in the open -glades of Tennessee and Kentucky. It was in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">234</span> -years that immediately succeeded the war of 1812 -that the movement into the West began to be a -mighty migration. Till then our eyes had been -more often in the East than in the West. Not -only were foreign questions to be settled and our -standing among the nations to be made good, but -we still remained acutely conscious and deliberately -conservative of our Old-World connections. For -all we were so new a people and lived so simple and -separate a life, we had still the sobriety and the -circumspect fashions of action that belong to an old -society. We were, in government and manners, -but a disconnected part of the world beyond the -seas. Its thought and habit still set us our standards -of speech and action. And this, not because -of imitation, but because of actual and long abiding -political and social connection with the mother -country. Our statesmen,—strike but the names -of Samuel Adams and Patrick Henry from the list, -together with all like untutored spirits, who stood -for the new, unreverencing ardor of a young democracy,—our -statesmen were such men as might -have taken their places in the House of Commons -or in the Cabinet at home as naturally and with as -easy an adjustment to their place and task as in -the Continental Congress or in the immortal Constitutional -Convention. Think of the stately ways<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">235</span> -and the grand air and the authoritative social -understandings of the generation that set the new -government afoot,—the generation of Washington -and John Adams. Think, too, of the conservative -tradition that guided all the early history of that -government: that early line of gentlemen Presidents: -that steady “cabinet succession to the Presidency” -which came at length to seem almost like -an oligarchy to the impatient men who were shut -out from it. The line ended, with a sort of chill, -in stiff John Quincy Adams, too cold a man to be -a people’s prince after the old order of Presidents; -and the year 1829, which saw Jackson come in, -saw the old order go out.</p> - -<p>The date is significant. Since the war of 1812, -undertaken as if to set us free to move westward, -seven States had been admitted to the Union: and -the whole number of States was advanced to -twenty-four. Eleven new States had come into -partnership with the old thirteen. The voice of -the West rang through all our counsels; and, in -Jackson, the new partners took possession of the -Government. It is worth while to remember how -men stood amazed at the change: how startled, -chagrined, dismayed the conservative States of the -East were at the revolution they saw effected, the -riot of change they saw set in; and no man who<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">236</span> -has once read the singular story can forget how -the eight years Jackson reigned saw the Government, -and politics themselves, transformed. For -long,—the story being written in the regions -where the shock and surprise of the change was -greatest,—the period of this momentous revolution -was spoken of amongst us as a period of -degeneration, the birth-time of a deep and permanent -demoralization in our politics. But we see it -differently now. Whether we have any taste or -stomach for that rough age or not, however much -we may wish that the old order might have stood, -the generation of Madison and Adams have been -prolonged, and the good tradition of the early days -handed on unbroken and unsullied, we now know -that what the nation underwent in that day of -change was not degeneration, great and perilous as -were the errors of the time, but regeneration. -The old order was changed, once and for all. A -new nation stepped, with a touch of swagger, upon -the stage,—a nation which had broken alike with -the traditions and with the wisely wrought experience -of the Old World, and which, with all the -haste and rashness of youth, was minded to work -out a separate policy and destiny of its own. It -was a day of hazards, but there was nothing sinister -at the heart of the new plan. It was a wasteful<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">237</span> -experiment, to fling out, without wise guides, upon -untried ways; but an abounding continent afforded -enough and to spare even for the wasteful. It was -sure to be so with a nation that came out of the -secluded vales of a virgin continent. It was the -bold frontier voice of the West sounding in affairs. -The timid shivered, but the robust waxed strong -and rejoiced, in the tonic air of the new day.</p> - -<p>It was then we swung out into the main paths -of our history. The new voices that called us were -first silvery, like the voice of Henry Clay, and -spoke old familiar words of eloquence. The first -spokesmen of the West even tried to con the classics, -and spoke incongruously in the phrases of -politics long dead and gone to dust, as Benton did. -But presently the tone changed, and it was the -truculent and masterful accents of the real frontiersman -that rang dominant above the rest, harsh, -impatient, and with an evident dash of temper. -The East slowly accustomed itself to the change; -caught the movement, though it grumbled and -even trembled at the pace; and managed most of -the time to keep in the running. But it was -always henceforth to be the West that set the -pace. There is no mistaking the questions that -have ruled our spirits as a nation during the present -century. The public land question, the tariff<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">238</span> -question, and the question of slavery,—these dominate -from first to last. It was the West that -made each one of these the question that it was. -Without the free lands to which every man who -chose might go, there would not have been that -easy prosperity of life and that high standard of -abundance which seemed to render it necessary -that, if we were to have manufactures and a diversified -industry at all, we should foster new undertakings -by a system of protection which would -make the profits of the factory as certain and as -abundant as the profits of the farm. It was the -constant movement of the population, the constant -march of wagon trains into the West, that made it -so cardinal a matter of policy whether the great -national domain should <em>be</em> free land or not: and -that was the land question. It was the settlement -of the West that transformed slavery from an -accepted institution into passionate matter of controversy.</p> - -<p>Slavery within the States of the Union stood -sufficiently protected by every solemn sanction the -Constitution could afford. No man could touch it -there, think, or hope, or purpose what he might. -But where new States were to be made it was not -so. There at every step choice must be made: -slavery or no slavery?—a new choice for every<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">239</span> -new State: a fresh act of origination to go with -every fresh act of organization. Had there been -no Territories, there could have been no slavery -question, except by revolution and contempt of -fundamental law. But with a continent to be peopled, -the choice thrust itself insistently forward at -every step and upon every hand. This was the -slavery question: not what should be done to reverse -the past, but what should be done to redeem -the future. It was so men of that day saw it,—and -so also must historians see it. We must not -mistake the programme of the Anti-Slavery Society -for the platform of the Republican party, -or forget that the very war itself was begun ere -any purpose of abolition took shape amongst those -who were statesmen and in authority. It was a -question, not of freeing men, but of preserving a -Free Soil. Kansas showed us what the problem -was, not South Carolina: and it was the Supreme -Court, not the slave-owners, who formulated the -matter for our thought and purpose.</p> - -<p>And so, upon every hand and throughout every -national question, was the commerce between East -and West made up: that commerce and exchange -of ideas, inclinations, purposes, and principles which -has constituted the moving force of our life as a -nation. Men illustrate the operation of these singular<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">240</span> -forces better than questions can: and no -man illustrates it better than Abraham Lincoln.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indentq">“Great captains with their guns and drums</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Disturb our judgment for the hour;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">But at last silence comes:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">These all are gone, and, standing like a tower,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Our children shall behold his fame,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Sagacious, patient, dreading praise not blame,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">New birth of our new soil, the first American.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">It is a poet’s verdict; but it rings in the authentic -tone of the seer. It must be also the verdict of -history. He would be a rash man who should say -he understood Abraham Lincoln. No doubt natures -deep as his, and various almost to the point -of self-contradiction, can be sounded only by the -judgment of men of a like sort,—if any such there -be. But some things we all may see and judge -concerning him. You have in him the type and -flower of our growth. It is as if Nature had made -a typical American, and then had added with liberal -hand the royal quality of genius, to show us -what the type could be. Lincoln owed nothing to -his birth, everything to his growth: had no training -save what he gave himself; no nurture, but only a -wild and native strength. His life was his schooling, -and every day of it gave to his character a -new touch of development. His manhood not only,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">241</span> -but his perception also, expanded with his life. -His eyes, as they looked more and more abroad, -beheld the national life, and comprehended it: and -the lad who had been so rough-cut a provincial -became, when grown to manhood, the one leader in -all the nation who held the whole people singly in -his heart:—held even the Southern people there, -and would have won them back. And so we have -in him what we must call the perfect development -of native strength, the rounding out and nationalization -of the provincial. Andrew Jackson was a -type, not of the nation, but of the West. For all -the tenderness there was in the stormy heart of -the masterful man, and staunch and simple loyalty -to all who loved him, he learned nothing in the -East; kept always the flavor of the rough school in -which he had been bred; was never more than a -frontier soldier and gentleman. Lincoln differed -from Jackson by all the length of his unmatched -capacity to learn. Jackson could understand only -men of his own kind; Lincoln could understand -men of all sorts and from every region of the land: -seemed himself, indeed, to be all men by turns, as -mood succeeded mood in his strange nature. He -never ceased to stand, in his bony angles, the -express image of the ungainly frontiersman. His -mind never lost the vein of coarseness that had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">242</span> -marked him grossly when a youth. And yet how -he grew and strengthened in the real stuff of dignity -and greatness: how nobly he could bear himself -without the aid of grace! He kept always the -shrewd and seeing eye of the woodsman and the -hunter, and the flavor of wild life never left him: -and yet how easily his view widened to great -affairs; how surely he perceived the value and the -significance of whatever touched him and made -him neighbor to itself!</p> - -<p>Lincoln’s marvelous capacity to extend his comprehension -to the measure of what he had in hand -is the one distinguishing mark of the man: and to -study the development of that capacity in him is -little less than to study, where it is as it were perfectly -registered, the national life itself. This boy -lived his youth in Illinois when it was a frontier -State. The youth of the State was coincident with -his own: and man and State kept equal pace in -their striding advance to maturity. The frontier -population was an intensely political population. -It felt to the quick the throb of the nation’s life,—for -the nation’s life ran through it, going its -eager way to the westward. The West was not -separate from the East. Its communities were -every day receiving fresh members from the East, -and the fresh impulse of direct suggestion. Their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">243</span> -blood flowed to them straight from the warmest -veins of the older communities. More than that, -elements which were separated in the East were -mingled in the West: which displayed to the eye -as it were a sort of epitome of the most active and -permanent forces of the national life. In such -communities as these Lincoln mixed daily from the -first with men of every sort and from every quarter -of the country. With them he discussed neighborhood -politics, the politics of the State, the politics -of the nation,—and his mind became traveled as -he talked. How plainly amongst such neighbors, -there in Illinois, must it have become evident that -national questions were centring more and more in -the West as the years went by: coming as it were -to meet them. Lincoln went twice down the -Mississippi, upon the slow rafts that carried wares -to its mouth, and saw with his own eyes, so used -to look directly and point-blank upon men and -affairs, characteristic regions of the South. He -worked his way slowly and sagaciously, with that -larger sort of sagacity which so marked him all his -life, into the active business of state politics; sat -twice in the state legislature, and then for a term -in Congress,—his sensitive and seeing mind open -all the while to every turn of fortune and every -touch of nature in the moving affairs he looked<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">244</span> -upon. All the while, too, he continued to canvass, -piece by piece, every item of politics, as of old, -with his neighbors, familiarly around the stove, or -upon the corners of the street, or more formally -upon the stump; and kept always in direct contact -with the ordinary views of ordinary men. Meanwhile -he read, as nobody else around him read, -and sought to gain a complete mastery over speech, -with the conscious purpose to prevail in its use; -derived zest from the curious study of mathematical -proof, and amusement as well as strength from -the practice of clean and naked statements of -truth. It was all irregularly done, but strenuously, -with the same instinct throughout, and with -a steady access of facility and power. There was -no sudden leap for this man, any more than for -other men, from crudeness to finished power, from -an understanding of the people of Illinois to an -understanding of the people of the United States. -And thus he came at last, with infinite pains and a -wonder of endurance, to his great national task -with a self-trained capacity which no man could -match, and made upon a scale as liberal as the life -of the people. You could not then set this athlete -a pace in learning or in perceiving that was too -hard for him. He knew the people and their life -as no other man did or could: and now stands in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">245</span> -his place singular in all the annals of mankind, the -“brave, sagacious, foreseeing, patient man” of the -people, “new birth of our new soil, the first -American.”</p> - -<p>We have here a national man presiding over -sectional men. Lincoln understood the East better -than the East understood him or the people from -whom he sprung: and this is every way a very -noteworthy circumstance. For my part, I read a -lesson in the singular career of this great man. Is -it possible the East remains sectional while the -West broadens to a wider view?</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indentq">“Be strong-backed, brown-handed, upright as your pines;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">By the scale of a hemisphere shape your designs,”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">is an inspiring programme for the woodsman and -the pioneer; but how are you to be brown-handed -in a city office? What if you never see the upright -pines? How are you to have so big a purpose on -so small a part of the hemisphere? As it has -grown old, unquestionably, the East has grown -sectional. There is no suggestion of the prairie in -its city streets, or of the embrowned ranchman and -farmer in its well-dressed men. Its ports teem with -shipping from Europe and the Indies. Its newspapers -run upon the themes of an Old World. It -hears of the great plains of the continent as of foreign -parts, which it may never think to see except<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">246</span> -from a car window. Its life is self-centred and -selfish. The West, save where special interests -centre (as in those pockets of silver where men’s -eyes catch as it were an eager gleam from the very -ore itself): the West is in less danger of sectionalization. -Who shall say in that wide country where -one region ends and another begins, or, in that free -and changing society, where one class ends and -another begins?</p> - -<p>This, surely, is the moral of our history. The -East has spent and been spent for the West: has -given forth her energy, her young men and her substance, -for the new regions that have been a-making -all the century through. But has she learned as -much as she has taught, or taken as much as she -has given? Look what it is that has now at last -taken place. The westward march has stopped, -upon the final slopes of the Pacific; and now the -plot thickens. Populations turn upon their old -paths; fill in the spaces they passed by neglected -in their first journey in search of a land of promise; -settle to a life such as the East knows as well as -the West,—nay, much better. With the change, -the pause, the settlement, our people draw into -closer groups, stand face to face, to know each other -and be known: and the time has come for the East -to learn in her turn; to broaden her understanding<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">247</span> -of political and economic conditions to the scale of -a hemisphere, as her own poet bade. Let us be -sure that we get the national temperament; send -our minds abroad upon the continent, become -neighbors to all the people that live upon it, and -lovers of them all, as Lincoln was.</p> - -<p>Read but your history aright, and you shall not -find the task too hard. Your own local history, -look but deep enough, tells the tale you must take -to heart. Here upon our own seaboard, as truly as -ever in the West, was once a national frontier, with -an elder East beyond the seas. Here, too, various -peoples combined, and elements separated elsewhere -effected a tolerant and wholesome mixture. Here, -too, the national stream flowed full and strong, bearing -a thousand things upon its currents. Let us -resume and keep the vision of that time; know -ourselves, our neighbors, our destiny, with lifted -and open eyes; see our history truly, in its great -proportions; be ourselves liberal as the great principles -we profess; and so be the people who might -have again the heroic adventures and do again the -heroic work of the past. ’Tis thus we shall renew -our youth and secure our age against decay.</p> - -<div class="chapter"><div class="transnote"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_Notes">Transcriber’s Notes</h2> - -<p>Simple typographical errors were corrected.</p> - -<p>Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made -consistent when a predominant preference was found -in the original book; otherwise they were not changed.</p> -</div></div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MERE LITERATURE AND OTHER ESSAYS ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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